tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57942623479756000732024-03-14T06:19:08.741-07:00Lifestyles of the Poor and UnknownThe random and complete observations of a twenty-something girl living in a very peculiar situation. Can she survive? We shall see . . .M.E. Bellamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07260642160571764359noreply@blogger.comBlogger78125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794262347975600073.post-25256982612594392382013-08-30T20:40:00.000-07:002013-08-30T20:40:13.069-07:00What the devil is pancetta . . . ?I think I've mentioned before that I can cook. Not like Iron Chef, no, but I know my way around a kitchen and can cook for my family. I'm from a family of 5 kids, and my mom always cooked homemade meals for us every day. I had a great upbringing that way, so when I got married and moved out on my own, while I didn't know how to cook EVERYTHING, I knew enough to wing it and make things work without eating out every meal. One of my proudest moments was making a delicious ham sandwich using leftovers of an amazing ham roast I had cooked the previous night without even having to call my mom for instructions (no really, it was a FANTASTIC sandwich).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Jt9WtkcWaYfNqAXNYjtVr4U1_JbP6UZ0oziXiU17jl1NA01HkMrM4xN55ztgaGo7NmBxsJPJ8uq9dypREZJPLBErgeuSnAugEHKG2YHIly1fCdNWMOZYjubjU2CBefg6tWdYNlqcXT9J/s1600/IMG_2194.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Jt9WtkcWaYfNqAXNYjtVr4U1_JbP6UZ0oziXiU17jl1NA01HkMrM4xN55ztgaGo7NmBxsJPJ8uq9dypREZJPLBErgeuSnAugEHKG2YHIly1fCdNWMOZYjubjU2CBefg6tWdYNlqcXT9J/s400/IMG_2194.JPG" /></a><br />
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It's been seven years now since I first got married, and for the past several years I've been living with my husband's family, and for the past two years, I've been cooking for us all five nights a week. So I'm confident in saying that I'm now a capable cook. I've collected tons of recipes over the years, learned a lot of my mom's cooking secrets and tricks, and I'm comfortable with my abilities.<br />
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I am not, however, a fancy cook. I wrote a post awhile back about how I nearly went into paroxysms when I found out I could substitute the long shelf life evaporated milk for perishable half and half or heavy cream! It changed my life! I see things in recipes like fresh herbs and not commonly used produce and immediately start figuring out in my head what the measurement of dried herbs would be and what I can substitute for shallots. (Onions, btw. Substitute onions.)<br />
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So, when I came upon <a href="http://www.cravebyrandomhouse.ca/2012/10/30/winter-minestrone-garlic-bruschetta/">this</a> delicious-looking recipe on Pinterest for Winter Minestrone Soup (I've been craving soup this pregnancy), you can imagine the internal monologue I had going on as I read through it. Just for kicks and giggles, let's go through it and I'll tell you what I thought. Because this could just be me being all narcissistic, but I thought it was pretty darn funny. My thoughts are in the parentheses.<br />
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Winter Minestrone & Garlic Bruschetta<br />
Serves 6 to 8<br />
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Good olive oil (I don't know about "good", but that we have.)<br />
4 ounces pancetta, 1/2 -inch-diced (Pancetta . . . what the devil is pancetta?)<br />
1 1/2 cups chopped yellow onions (Dehydrated onions = 3/4 c)<br />
2 cups (1/2-inch) diced carrots (3 carrots)<br />
2 cups (1/2-inch) diced celery (3 stalks)<br />
2 1/2 cups (1/2-inch) diced peeled butternut squash (Ha. I've attacked a squash before. Also blogged about it. That's not likely to happen again.)<br />
1 1/2 tablespoons minced garlic (4 cloves) (Score for the bottle of minced garlic in the fridge!)<br />
2 teaspoons chopped fresh thyme leaves (Dried thyme = 1/2 tsp-ish)<br />
26 ounces canned or boxed chopped tomatoes, such as Pomi (How big are those normal size cans? 14 ounces? Eh, I can just do two of those.)<br />
6 to 8 cups chicken stock, preferably homemade (page 62) (Chicken base and water, that counts as homemade since I have to dirty a dish.)<br />
1 bay leaf Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper (Bay leaf, table salt, and normal ground pepper, check)<br />
1 (15-ounce) can cannellini beans, drained and rinsed (White beans in sauce work, right? I don't really like beans anyway. Maybe we don't need those.)<br />
2 cups cooked small pasta, such as tubetti (see note) (So . . . elbow macaroni it is!)<br />
8 to 10 ounces fresh baby spinach leaves (I still have that frozen package of spinach in the back of the freezer, woot!)<br />
1/2 cup good dry white wine (Make extra chicken broth, we don't have wine.)<br />
2 tablespoons store-bought pesto (Pesto is just basil in some kind of oil or liquid, right? Yeah. 1 1/2 tsps of dried basil it is. Wonder if I should add an extra trickle of olive oil or something.)<br />
Garlic Bruschetta (recipe follows) (White bread and butter on the table when dinner is served, check.)<br />
Freshly grated Parmesan cheese, for serving (Freshly opened grated Parmesan in the plastic bottle. Because everyone loves a garnish.)<br />
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( . . . we never did figure out what pancetta was . . . *Googles* . . . Oh! Fancy bacon! I like bacon! We have breakfast bacon!)<br />
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So . . . yeah. That's pretty much exactly the thought process I had with this. I didn't even read the directions, but I know I'd have some sacrilegious thoughts about those as well. At the end of this recipe, I'd have a Minestrone-similar soup, definitely, but there are no promises that it would in any way be the SAME as this recipe. Would it be edible? Yes. Would it taste good? You bet your britches. Would it look like a passable imitation of the picture? Yep. But Julia Child I am not, folks. I never met a recipe I couldn't simplify, and never met a corner I didn't try to cut. Because that's how I roll. How about you? Do you put fancy chefs and cooks to shame, or is condensed cream of chicken soup your best friend? Do you have desserts or dishes that are constantly requested at parties and functions, or was mastering the can opener the greatest advance to your culinary career to date?<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc0Bs6E32WhTRk8T18w46eY4Vck9SgPKntS-jEz82BCMU_A4y-I7MnetOZEI0_tqDiK-wkY1Iicxv6YzgHaPmhaDSUxZOM1jjIqj03oF33utJnlUonFdE-KaFMGtuVFZwCO_ekOMpfL-FT/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc0Bs6E32WhTRk8T18w46eY4Vck9SgPKntS-jEz82BCMU_A4y-I7MnetOZEI0_tqDiK-wkY1Iicxv6YzgHaPmhaDSUxZOM1jjIqj03oF33utJnlUonFdE-KaFMGtuVFZwCO_ekOMpfL-FT/s400/download.jpg" /></a>M.E. Bellamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07260642160571764359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794262347975600073.post-84637344685362545412013-08-27T19:48:00.000-07:002013-08-27T19:48:55.611-07:00This Hormonal Train I'm RidingOh, my darlings. It has happened. I'm pregnant. Now, I'm sure that those sentences came across with a positive vibe with them, a happy tone to the words. Sadly, nothing could be further than the truth. Oh, don't get me wrong, I'm way excited to be expecting and that come St. Patrick's Day I'll have a little leprechaun on my hands! We've been trying for another baby for a few years now, so this is very much a happy thing! There is just one problem . . . and that is PREGNANCY. *Dun dun duuuun!*<br />
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I was sooo not prepared for the onslaught that has occurred these past two months. Like, whoa. With my first pregnancy, I was one of those women that every other pregnant woman in the world hated: I had a perfect, easy pregnancy. My morning sickness was like 15 minutes of vague nausea every other week or so. That's it. My aches and pains were limited to my pelvic bone disliking it when I first got up in the morning, a charley horse I got one night, and a brief struggle with prenatal vitamins because they are of the devil. (Don't worry, I won the struggle . . . but I still had to take the pills. So maybe that's half a win.) My whole pregnancy was this bubble of happiness, because I got to ENJOY it, unlike a lot of women who pretty much suffer from day one. And lemme tell ya, first time pregnant women have it so easy. Because NOTHING is expected of a first time pregnant lady. "You can't lift that! Do you need a nap? Oh, come sit down, you must be so tired! Are you sure I can't help you with that?" All day, every day, it was awesome. No, I did not take advantage of this in any mean ways, because I was in a pregnant bubble and had no bad symptoms and nothing could hurt me but it was still nice to have zero expectations on me!<br />
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Second pregnancy? Psh, the bubble is over. I am so not this woman. Even if I wasn't suffering every bad side effect and symptom IN THE FRIGGING BOOK, second pregnancies are so not the zero-expectation cakewalk the first one is. Number one reason? Because if you are pregnant a second time, know what that means? You've already been pregnant. And you now have a little rugrat running around that sooo does not care that you are going to throw up if you have to sit up and put Barbie's shoes on one more time. And once you have kids, it's like the magic goes away and people assume that psh, so you're pregnant, whatever, you've already got a half-grown kid that can help you. Except, well, five year olds can't exactly haul the 50 pound bag of dog food out to the car, now can they? Nope. They are really good at holding the cart still while you try and shimmy said bag onto the bottom of the cart in an extremely ungainly way, though.<br />
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So yeah, second pregnancy, and I presume following pregnancies, just don't have that magical glow that the first one does. It's so unfortunate. Because I could totally use a zero-expectations cakewalk this time around. My first pregnancy, I worked the whole time! Yeah, it was just part time, but still! I could totally have handled full time! This time around, I'm lucky if I manage to get all the laundry through both machines in one day, and I'm even luckier if I get it folded before I need to do it all over again. One day last week I felt really good and not only got it all washed, but folded and put away in one day! I felt like Super Woman! Which is extremely, really sad because that's just a typical Monday for me when I'm not experiencing the joys of being "in the family way".<br />
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Maybe it's because my body remembers this pregnant thing, remembers where it's going to end up at the end of this. And it's surrendering early. My lower back is under the impression that I'm already massively pregnant, because every time I do something that aggravates it, it sits up and complains right off the bat. I'm not even going to discuss my boobs, but let's just say they're acting very immature. I've got this tiny little fetus in me that isn't even the size of a lime at this point, but my pelvic muscles are putting up this huge fit like I have a bowling ball strapped down there! But the worst part is the nausea. Holy balls, it is insane. Morning sickness, ha. ALL THE TIME SICKNESS. Morning, noon, night, and every hour in between. I am sick when I eat, I am sick when I don't, I'm sick when I'm full, and I'm sick when I'm hungry. I cannot win! My best friend right now is my bottle of Tums, and I've had more Tums in the last month than I've ever had in my entire life, times ten!<br />
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Thankfully, I have one saving grace and that is my amazing control over my gag reflex. I do not throw up unless I give myself permission. Not even kidding. I was once playing in a concert in high school (clarinet), had to throw up since I was sick, and not only did I walk out of the gym entirely, but I walked AROUND to the OTHER SIDE of the commons to throw up in the women's bathroom. I also locked my stall door behind me before I gingerly knelt on the floor and made my offering at the porcelain altar. So, when I say I don't throw up unless I want to, I sincerely mean it. I've only thrown up once while pregnant this time around, and I only did because I figured it would calm my stomach faster. Which it did. So at at least I'm not throwing up all over the place all the time, which I'm very grateful for. I really, really hate throwing up. I'd take almost any ailment over throwing up.<br />
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I think the part about this morning sickness that sucks so much, is that there's nothing I can do to get rid of it or settle my stomach except lay down. Not sit down. Not lay back and lounge. But full-on LAY DOWN. And lemme tell ya, there is not exactly a lot of stuff that you can do while laying down, except for sleep and stare at the wall. I got so bored that I figured out a couple contortions that still kept me lying down while I got on my laptop, but when you're laying down for half the day, even having the entire internet at your disposal is not enough. You still get bored. Extremely bored. "I'm gonna go whine on my blog because I've already annoyed everyone on Facebook" bored.<br />
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Yeeeeah . . . <br />
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Pregnancy. The miracle of life. The misery of enduring it. Now, don't misunderstand, I wouldn't change my mind about having this baby, and there's no way I'd trade him or her for feeling normal again (and we did have a close call). But I am very desperately looking forward to the day when I am able to feel normal again. I'm counting down the days to my second trimester when the morning sickness SHOULD ease up or go away entirely. And if it ends up not happening . . . I will cry. Big, fat, pity party tears.<br />
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*Sniff*<br />
M.E. Bellamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07260642160571764359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794262347975600073.post-46320121087646654182013-08-15T01:05:00.001-07:002013-08-15T01:05:58.527-07:00Books and Reading, A-ZMy friend Caitlin just posted this on her <a href="http://authorcaitlinjacobs.com/2013/08/12/a-to-z-survey/">blog</a>, and since I actually ADORE doing these kinds of surveys, guess what I'm making you put up with? Oh yeah, you guessed it . . . And this is long, kids, so brace yourselves.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaQE5LcG_JUqk-u4owZKdqU_yQabXiFqSbNrdOtl5qOw72KNof8EZHKLHRG0BCEmB8nqrkHUjMaZbE1F1IHsIHpnEYi06T3R_d81czIUu6Ri06nquu9-inRuHOLgrK4qcb-d3lL0_jiTrE/s1600/Library-Books.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaQE5LcG_JUqk-u4owZKdqU_yQabXiFqSbNrdOtl5qOw72KNof8EZHKLHRG0BCEmB8nqrkHUjMaZbE1F1IHsIHpnEYi06T3R_d81czIUu6Ri06nquu9-inRuHOLgrK4qcb-d3lL0_jiTrE/s320/Library-Books.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<b>A</b>uthor you've read the most books from: I had to count, but Julia Quinn is the winner by a few. She's a romance author, BTW, and my very favorite romance author. She always has those moments in her book that make me laugh out loud, which is a trait I much value in my reading. In case you're interested, second place goes to JR Ward, my guilty pleasure of the reading world.<br />
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<b>B</b>est Sequel Ever: And thus starts the Harry Potter devotion. No book or series, in my opinion, has come close to how amazing and consistently awesome those books are. No one else can touch that.<br />
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<b>C</b>urrently Reading: Speaking of Julia Quinn, I just started reading her again. I'm on her first book, Splendid. I finally finished the Harry Potter series while I was camping a couple weeks ago.<br />
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<b>D</b>rink of Choice While Reading: Water is my drink of choice 90% of the time, so that's usually what is on hand.<br />
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<b>E</b>-reader or Physical Book: I am a die-hard physical book girl. I don't have a Kindle or Nook, but I do have the Kindle app on my phone and the program on my computer, so it's not like I haven't used e-readers at all. I find them handy, to be sure. But there is a magic to a real book, the feel of the pages and the smell of the paper and the way you can take a moment to close the book and cry or laugh if you need to. Also, it's hard to read ahead on an e-reader. (Oh yeah, I'm THAT person.)<br />
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<b>F</b>ictional Character You Probably Would Have Actually Dated In High School: *Takes a moment to consider this* Okay, this is a hard one. First of all, I have many friends who are writers, I myself am a writer, and I am emotionally attached to a whole lot of characters that don't even exist in a published forum. I actually fictionally dated a version of Orlando Bloom for quite a while in junior high and high school, courtesy of a dear writer friend that indulged my Lord of the Rings inspired fantasies (I've mentioned this before, there were vampires and Michael Jackson involved). So, if we are only counting characters that have been published, and we're not limiting this to books I had only read by high school, I would say that the character I would have dated in high school would be . . . one of the Weasley twins from Harry Potter. They were hilarious, unruly, had a family as bonkers as mine, I think I would have done very well with one of them. If we're counting unpublished literature as well, I do have a few characters of my own and a few creations of other friend writers that I would have dated without a second thought.<br />
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<b>G</b>lad you Gave This Book a Chance: Julia Quinn pops up again. I had never read a romance novel until my honeymoon (don't worry, the irony is not lost on me), and it had not occurred to me to take anything to entertain myself on said honeymoon. I figured we'd be busy watching movies and lounging around when we weren't, erm, pursuing other activities. Well, by the end of day 2, we were starting to get bored. So I bought a movie magazine that featured a lot of Pirates of the Caribbean material, and a book I picked at random from that aisle of the grocery store. I figured if I picked a pretty safe-looking cover and didn't stumble across anything scandalous during my brief skim through it, I'd be fine (I was leery about romance novels, since I'd never read one). Well, everything checked out, so I unknowingly bought my first romance novel. And I LOVED it! Opened up a whole new genre of books that I absolutely adore! Regency romance (Regency era of England, about 1815 and the years surrounding) is my favorite, and I've written quite a bit in this era as well, but all romance novels have appealed to me thus far. I love the characters, the plots, and I'm such a sucker for romance anyway. Throw me a hero that is professing his love to the heroine using the most flowery or simple words, it doesn't matter which, I love it.<br />
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<b>H</b>idden Gem Book: Greek mythology. Not any specific book, not really, because there are probably dozens if not hundreds of books about Greek mythology, but there is just something about reading those stories, from whatever book I find them in, that I love. Gods and goddesses and heroes, beasts and monsters, tricksters and mortals, this convoluted web of interconnected characters and stories that are so very epic in every kind of way! With no end of tragedy, to be sure, but still, I love them. I love reading these myths, they are my favorite in all of mythology.<br />
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<i>I</i>mportant Moment in Your Reading Life: I don't remember it, but it was probably the moment I really discovered a library. I mean, come on. A voracious reader like me, just a kid, going from the bookshelves at home to a LIBRARY? Shut up! Libraries became frequent visitations for me after that, and still are. I take my daughter to story time at the library I worked at for two years, and she loves it there. We always go home with a huge bag of books, and even some movies, and she always has a favorite. Libraries are such a big thing for me, I discovered some of my greatest reading loves from the library, and I still do. If you don't have a library card, go get one immediately, and use it weekly. I promise it will be worth your while.<br />
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<b>K</b>inds of Books You Won't Read: Stephen King. Don't get me wrong, I think the guy is amazing, and no way he has as many books and movies as he does without being an amazing writer. But horror, thriller, disturbing, all that is just not my thing. Which also cancels out Mary Higgins Clark and other writers in that genre. I'm also not all that fond of mysteries either. I live for fantasy, love, and comedy.<br />
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<b>L</b>ongest Book You've Read: Probably the fifth Harry Potter book, Order of the Phoenix. That's 870 pages.<br />
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<b>M</b>ajor Book Hangover Because Of: Yes, this is going to keep cropping up. Harry Potter, definitely. Although, I'll definitely give second place to the Black Dagger Brotherhood series by JR Ward. I finish those books (several hundred pages) as fast as possible, and have to wait a whole YEAR for the next one. Thankfully, I only had to wait for the last few of Potter since I was later to the game on that one. But I do fantasize about JK Rowling doing another Hogwarts series, featuring either the Four Founders, or the Marauders, or the Progeny of the Harry/Ron/Hermione generation. <br />
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<b>N</b>umber of Book Cases You Own: Actual cases? I have three 6-shelf bookcases with doors, and three 3-shelf open cases. One of them doesn't actually contain books because I moved them to shelves on the wall in my room, but there you go. Six book cases of varying sizes.<br />
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<b>O</b>ne Book You Have Read Multiple Times: Homeless Bird by Gloria Whelan. I don't know why, but I adore this book. I have read it over and over, and it's the book I never get sick of. It's the story of a teenage girl in India dealing with an arranged marriage, being widowed, and starting over her life from nothing, and I love it so much. Probably because it has a happy ending.<br />
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<b>P</b>referred Place to Read: Someplace quiet. I'm a peace and quiet nut, and I can't write or read when there's lots of noise and activity going on. I don't even listen to music when I read and write, I like silence. <br />
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<b>Q</b>uote That Inspires You: Oh, there are so many. No, really, I'm a quote collector. I have journals, Pinterest boards, and Word documents full of them, and I love them all. But this one pertains to all of life, and it brings reading into it in a special way. "Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us dragons can be beaten." - G.K. Chesterton. This is on my closet door, which is kind of my shrine to, well, happiness and beauty and things that inspire me.<br />
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<b>R</b>eading Regret: That I do not have or do not make enough time to read as voraciously as I have before in my life. I have a daughter, and another baby on the way, so being mommy takes up a lot of time, and just being an adult takes up even more. And I have my computer and internet, where I waste far more time than I should, and there's also my own writing. So reading time, just reading, is precious and rare, which I hate. But I will never, never cease this fierce, abiding love for books and reading. I just have to treasure those moments I have for it.<br />
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<b>S</b>eries You Started and Need To Finish: I have a few, actually. The Tennis Shoes series by Chris Heimerdinger (intensely interesting, historical, exciting, and fascinating look into biblical times mixed with the modern world). the 13th Reality series by James Dashner (it reminded me a little of the feel of Harry Potter and I already know I love this author from reading his Jimmy Fincher series). I know I have more, but I'd have to go peek at the rest of my books to find out which ones I'm still working on.<br />
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<b>T</b>hree of Your All Time Favorite Books: Uh oh. This is so problematic. Alright, first off, I am going to give my three favorite authors, because I literally CANNOT choose favorites from them. They are JK Rowling, JR Ward, and Julia Quinn. If we are looking outside those three authors, my three favorite books after those (that I am listing off the top of my head to save time) would be Homeless Bird by Gloria Whelan, Falling Up by Shel Silverstein, and The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis. Yes, they are all young adult or children's books. I'm a kid at heart.<br />
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<b>U</b>napologetic Fangirl For: Harry Potter. There, I said it. Potterhead to the end, I will go down with this fandom. Always. I beg you, Ms. Rowling, give us more!<br />
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<b>V</b>ery Excited For This Release Over All The Others: Since this is the series I've been hooked into most recently and it is the most emotionally wracking, laughter-inducing, tension-cranking series I've ever read (not even exaggerating), the most anticipated book I am looking forward to is JR Ward's new Black Dagger book, The King. It comes out in March. Over half a year away. I go through this every year with her. <br />
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<b>W</b>orst Bookish Habit: How long it takes me to finish them. Soooo not kidding. Last year at a camping family reunion, I took the 5th and 6th Harry Potter books with me, both to color the pictures (yes, I do that) and to finish 5 and start on 6. This year at the reunion, just a couple weeks ago, I finally finished 7 and read Tales of Beedle the Bard. I know. I know. Don't even go there. Also, I dog-ear pages if I don't have a bookmark right there. So guilty.<br />
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<b>X</b> Marks the Spot: One of my earlier memories of my childhood involves my mom and dad reading to me and my little brother and sister when I was probably no more than five or six years old. We were reading Little House in the Big Woods, the first book of the enormously popular series by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I have a very clear memory of being together in the bedroom us kids shared, sprawling around while my mom and dad took turns reading chapters to us. That boxed set of books was the first book series I ever owned, as a gift from my mom. I've read them over and over, all of them, all nine books. We were bookworms as kids, and we certainly had plenty of books to choose from. Shelves and shelves of Disney books and Little Golden Books and The Tales of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter and Berenstain Bears, Clifford the Big Red Dog, Little Critter, I could go on and on. Our house always had books, all kinds of books, everything from Baby Mickey board books to little chapter books to the Shannara series by Terry Brooks for my dad and scores of LDS authors for my mom. I grew up on all of them, all kinds and genres and lengths of books, and I still have that widely varied base guiding my reading today. I will be as happy reading picture books as I would reading adult nonfiction, because from a very early age, I was encouraged to read. I was the kid that read James and the Giant Peach during recess at a new school before I had friends, and I was okay with that. It has been a lifelong treasure and gift, that was started from the time when I couldn't even read yet. I will always appreciate that.<br />
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<b>Y</b>our Latest Book Purchase: Ah, book fairs. At my daughter's school, I went on the sale day of the book fair and got three books. A Clifford the Big Red Dog 6-book collection (for her), a book about the life of Darth Maul from Star Wars (my husband and I), and a book about 100 Most Amazing Animals (mostly for me, but it's COOL!), I think is what the title was. I love books, I love buying them, I love having them. I also loves sales and the clearance section of Barnes and Noble. <br />
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<b>Z</b>zz-Snatcher Book (Last Book that Kept You Up Late): It was while we were camping, I was up late separate times reading the three books I read while up there, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, The Tales of Beedle the Bard, and Splendid by Julia Quinn. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtFQ6bbd68tQtaceQ7rZUvlMtCw5Uq9PvJlJQ3uRXwf-IMC42WhXv5IvcCCigT2dOJ-B0SuOYMA9lpkJdEJuPjTanoCrdVcI_oj2Ko8_CODx1auy1GM98PjTkM2dE1daA_qFErnuPI2ZfG/s1600/tumblr_static_magic-book-wallpaper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtFQ6bbd68tQtaceQ7rZUvlMtCw5Uq9PvJlJQ3uRXwf-IMC42WhXv5IvcCCigT2dOJ-B0SuOYMA9lpkJdEJuPjTanoCrdVcI_oj2Ko8_CODx1auy1GM98PjTkM2dE1daA_qFErnuPI2ZfG/s640/tumblr_static_magic-book-wallpaper.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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That was actually a ball to write! I told you I love these surveys! I love thinking about books I've read and loved, revisiting memories that they hold. It's the same feelings I get when I write. And I didn't even touch of most of the books I've read that I adore, and believe me, that list is long and ridiculous. So, anyway, please do this survey if it interests you, I loved it! Also, feel free to comment about anything and everything that comes to mind, I also love comments.M.E. Bellamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07260642160571764359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794262347975600073.post-14116315362515311162013-05-15T22:23:00.001-07:002013-05-15T22:23:48.357-07:00Mother's Day and a Tribute to Mothers, Part 2Part two belongs to the other half of the mom coin for those who are married. It's the mother-in-law. Now, this title brings terror to many people who did not have the good fortune of marrying into a family that, well, liked them. Thankfully, I don't have that problem. We did have a rough start, my in-laws and me, since I'm kind of an acquired taste, I think, but now we get along like family (which means sometimes we all can't stand each other, but we love each other like crazy).<br />
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My mother-in-law, Rita, is a lot of the reason for that. Imagine, if you will, a very short woman with the most Mrs. Santa Claus face you can imagine, and give her short black hair and the most hilarious, recognizable laugh in the world. That's Rita! She has even, honestly, been compared to Mrs. Santa Claus before, and you can't help but see the resemblance. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM6CT4oAz2AX1jd4oZJs3P9dJJQ9PVwe3fmMsnG5Uj49kIO3R848ryqPC3OM01BVgtD8m8eR-rKp-0Az7pyUPpUkJk98kle3fkmdMSi5FYyPrch21mKYt6yhsa28ILkUeg6oIUeABtj2qH/s1600/Mrs+Claus+v2.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM6CT4oAz2AX1jd4oZJs3P9dJJQ9PVwe3fmMsnG5Uj49kIO3R848ryqPC3OM01BVgtD8m8eR-rKp-0Az7pyUPpUkJk98kle3fkmdMSi5FYyPrch21mKYt6yhsa28ILkUeg6oIUeABtj2qH/s320/Mrs+Claus+v2.jpg" /></a><br />
It is nearly impossible to not like this woman (I know of one person who doesn't, and she is a whack job). Rita is sparklies and smiles and a twinkle in the eye rolled up into a little ball of shortness, put on this world solely to prove that the best things come in small packages (she's only barely five feet tall). She's also somewhat age-defying. When I first met her and my future sister-in-law, I could not tell which was the mother and which was the sister. Not because my sister in law looks old, but because Rita look so YOUNG! She's barely sprouting silver hairs, and she's past 50, it's disgusting. (They were both wearing bandanas when I first met them, so hair wasn't a distinguishing feature.<br />
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The first time I saw Rita, I was technically spying. I had been cleaning an older lady's house, and I hadn't known that a guy I was crushing on lived right across the street. And I wouldn't have known, except when my mom came to pick me up, down the street came walking that guy, Peter, and a short lady that had to be his mom. They were both wearing those tape thingies they put on you after you give blood, and when they got to the house, Pete opened the door for his mom and they went inside.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0tPFWLaAY93i-doTwR2Gb_aqgU_rtoBlmGJMsxb9R_BRrVfCT24ZDU-iqVVelQ4PRxGkGeseNBpwkaPZkPsAae4rQKbUaIL6hE6dtO5JerDRXwX6q6KpUmX7w5Xqg_KF6c3Z884C6pZQ5/s1600/giving+blood+banadages.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0tPFWLaAY93i-doTwR2Gb_aqgU_rtoBlmGJMsxb9R_BRrVfCT24ZDU-iqVVelQ4PRxGkGeseNBpwkaPZkPsAae4rQKbUaIL6hE6dtO5JerDRXwX6q6KpUmX7w5Xqg_KF6c3Z884C6pZQ5/s320/giving+blood+banadages.jpg" /></a><br />
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Um, cute. Not only was this guy totally okay with being seen with his mom, but he had gone with her to give blood, and was obviously polite and well-taught enough to know to open the door for her. I was all twitterpated, my mom was gushing with approval, and just over two years later, I married that guy.<br />
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Rita was always miraculously tolerant of me while Pete and I were dating. My father-in-law and I butted heads on a frequent basis, since we're both similarly strong-willed, just slightly off-kilter from one another. But Rita and I usually got along very well. She has an unparalleled enthusiasm for the little things in life, like anything sparkly or glittery, flowers in spring, the miracle of air conditioning, and finding a pair of slippers that is just right. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlZo3D2KE1JCaUkdZ9HOuGhjD4Ie5P4iLzwtV3zToFDDsYtrkvnkcLi7Taos3QbFLv59VmmCzEEsNfTtt88EYkdTiqFQlCbawV03i_TPKMShiYW_wZ54kGe7tNjkGBMr1nZyR-wJtKw4h5/s1600/81d+DbhB9KL._SL1500_.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlZo3D2KE1JCaUkdZ9HOuGhjD4Ie5P4iLzwtV3zToFDDsYtrkvnkcLi7Taos3QbFLv59VmmCzEEsNfTtt88EYkdTiqFQlCbawV03i_TPKMShiYW_wZ54kGe7tNjkGBMr1nZyR-wJtKw4h5/s320/81d+DbhB9KL._SL1500_.jpg" /></a><br />
She finds these moments, the little ones scattered liberally through life, and she celebrates every single one of them. Things that no one else thinks about or notices, Rita sees it. She is of the opinion that God must be awfully fond of sparklies, because he put them everywhere. Yes, I live with this woman, and it is a riot.<br />
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She also tells the best joke in the world, about a bell ringer. And the joke, really, is not THAT funny. You know what is funny? The way she tells it! She gets so into telling this joke, and she starts laughing halfway through, and we are all beside ourselves because she is just so FUNNY! <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0FihDC-8mll4iwThxPwC8me6lP0XwnSj8nV3hWqp3bHmksovsGSoAR9wC25QCxn3Zo_jJGeTJoDkAMYtNkg0Hq8UjAbNbQMi9WtJN1vGBtqRwyDL2sh2KARnfJamDAlMrexom4g9s2dKB/s1600/4452084163_782ac3999e_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0FihDC-8mll4iwThxPwC8me6lP0XwnSj8nV3hWqp3bHmksovsGSoAR9wC25QCxn3Zo_jJGeTJoDkAMYtNkg0Hq8UjAbNbQMi9WtJN1vGBtqRwyDL2sh2KARnfJamDAlMrexom4g9s2dKB/s320/4452084163_782ac3999e_z.jpg" /></a><br />
And it doesn't get old, having her tell it. It gets funnier every time! I had her tell it on my wedding day, when we were standing in my backyard after the ceremony, and we have a video of me standing there, holding my bouquet and twirling my dress around my legs because it's so hot, while Rita tells this joke off-screen. She's wonderful at humoring me.<br />
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Another thing she's wonderful at is being a mom. She turned out three kids that, while they are quirky enough to pull neck and neck with my family's particular brand of weirdness, they're all awesome. Awesome people don't just <i>happen</i>, they take a lot of work to make sure they don't end up screwed up somewhere.<br />
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And then I jumped into her lovely work and set about messing things up as quickly as possible, but I think she likes me anyway.<br />
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I don't think anyone could ask for a better mother-in-law. She accepted me into her family, and treats me like I've always been here (I live in the same house, so she definitely has plenty of opportunity to make my life miserable if she wants). She is unfailingly supportive of the people in her life, no matter what kinds of successes or failures or whatever come to pass. She's a perfect grandma to my daughter, who is growing up in the most loving environment anyone could come up with, surrounded by people who adore her more than words can say.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxoID1NIFH-eDBNF_0Ue5x-MFXANtnEPaxSA3Xte9kD6Jb3bmsYXpaCD2O2jpfZRBm7pSgETMDay0zJ14gfZirEDNLiuqoAlCBd0LYtS0yc4RNXx-p_w53YVq5ouc1n2fRDn5DHG3Gzozd/s1600/moms_the_glue_top_t_shirt-r2b1f2119254c4e43a85afba114633fd1_8nhmm_216.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxoID1NIFH-eDBNF_0Ue5x-MFXANtnEPaxSA3Xte9kD6Jb3bmsYXpaCD2O2jpfZRBm7pSgETMDay0zJ14gfZirEDNLiuqoAlCBd0LYtS0yc4RNXx-p_w53YVq5ouc1n2fRDn5DHG3Gzozd/s320/moms_the_glue_top_t_shirt-r2b1f2119254c4e43a85afba114633fd1_8nhmm_216.jpg" /></a><br />
Rita is right in the middle of that, being the good-humored, easy-going, loving glue that keeps it all together and functioning properly. Heading off arguments before they get going, dishing out gratitude and praise when it's deserved and even sometimes <br />
when it's not, doing her best to keep our home a peaceful, welcoming place for those who live here or just come to visit. Despite the dog hair she utterly loathes, balling up on the hall floor.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH02Y9UGuzub1rK5gXq_Th773CkP42iP-qwUUEoJ5-Gh6W_7gLxyZNmACgt6T-xp5kHBk0b1Hc1Yxrve16bUwDhQvpIPNGl0_9ZKzO20X_UU6xN7_p8wjmz4AtlKsUWfgBkV8luJwyIbI8/s1600/vacuum-cleaners-for-pet-on-floor-300x188.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH02Y9UGuzub1rK5gXq_Th773CkP42iP-qwUUEoJ5-Gh6W_7gLxyZNmACgt6T-xp5kHBk0b1Hc1Yxrve16bUwDhQvpIPNGl0_9ZKzO20X_UU6xN7_p8wjmz4AtlKsUWfgBkV8luJwyIbI8/s320/vacuum-cleaners-for-pet-on-floor-300x188.jpg" /></a><br />
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So this is a tribute to Rita, and everything she has done and still does in the name of Mother, even to kids like me that aren't her own, that she isn't required to love. The unconditional love she shares with the people around her is something they remember her by, that and her singular, unique laugh that you can recognize even across a huge, crowded room. She's just a woman that makes you smile, even if the last thing you feel like doing is smiling. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1QHYrECWATSwKnW_u3BFGz-2m2W1q6aJ4xzOlM28wpcmIs-xr7FTrozEfehUuTnQer9ErObfemGb6NXpjZ9zt-mzUiJA0D8rYpcrATw1NijZW0SSIdsWeViRsTgsz_MJlNgCNOkUpb65E/s1600/big_smile.png" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1QHYrECWATSwKnW_u3BFGz-2m2W1q6aJ4xzOlM28wpcmIs-xr7FTrozEfehUuTnQer9ErObfemGb6NXpjZ9zt-mzUiJA0D8rYpcrATw1NijZW0SSIdsWeViRsTgsz_MJlNgCNOkUpb65E/s320/big_smile.png" /></a><br />
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Happy Mother's Day, Rita. And thank you for letting me be one of your kids.M.E. Bellamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07260642160571764359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794262347975600073.post-35451236363493355072013-05-15T20:48:00.000-07:002014-01-16T01:42:49.351-08:00Mother's Day and a Tribute to Mothers, Part 1Seeing as how Mother's Day was this past Sunday, and true to my typical self, I'm going to take this opportunity to write a late post about said holiday. (Don't look at me like that. You know me and punctuality really only exist in public with actual, live people around witnessing it.) I am blessed to have both an amazing and awesome mom and mother-in-law, so I'm going to entertain us all with (hopefully) amusing anecdotes that either directly or indirectly have to do with both women, and then one of my own. And since I tend to, erm, ramble a bit (a lot) I'm splitting it up into three posts for you convenience. You can slip me a $20 on your way out as thanks. *Smiles brightly*<br />
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First up, is my mom. That's her with my little girl and my youngest sister. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje6ZXShFigfAXy1srI4oH6R7m8dBk52agab2tftSF1Qg0piwolg0fti-rFQF5TG_liqcgdpwJYxNlL7lAaSq80uvWc5xiLY9zm1Z2VIJBj4Gt2ZJpT9F3MvoYJ4Lrcs6I3Wr_wFQM9pbJt/s1600/%5B003332%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje6ZXShFigfAXy1srI4oH6R7m8dBk52agab2tftSF1Qg0piwolg0fti-rFQF5TG_liqcgdpwJYxNlL7lAaSq80uvWc5xiLY9zm1Z2VIJBj4Gt2ZJpT9F3MvoYJ4Lrcs6I3Wr_wFQM9pbJt/s320/%5B003332%5D.jpg" /></a><br />
Don't tell her I posted a picture of her, she'll freak. She hates pictures of her. I don't know why, I've always thought my mom was pretty, and I look just like her. She, myself, and my younger sister are all strikingly similar, and I'm glad for it. <br />
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Now, I may have mentioned before that my mom is the SuperMom of moms in a lot of ways. Not that perfectly primped soccer mom wearing Nordstroms sweaters and perfectly manicured nails with impeccably behaved kids, no. Because that mom is not real. She's an alien, or she is a celebrity with a whole platoon of nannies, stylists, trainers, and chefs behind her. No, the real supermoms are the moms that you see sitting on the porch, sipping a soda while she talks with a fellow supermom, and the kids are playing in the yard, and somehow dinner is in the oven, and despite a hairstyle that looks like it was done, oh, yesterday, and pants that were probably supposed to be in the load of laundry going right now, this mom is in complete control. She may look like crap some days, but you know what, she's got things handled. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmHBVLlljkmwtAGIgj1-YALGTGaHqin9R5px9453xvDZAEj_-jbVqoLG0B20JGqVtD-83Wyj50P3yome8Z7Jfr-iUmttVPU-sEYgEAgn3cd8QEQ9pCW8hh3Xq8S62QLWlH-h3Vcjghpk5O/s1600/bruise_first_aid.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmHBVLlljkmwtAGIgj1-YALGTGaHqin9R5px9453xvDZAEj_-jbVqoLG0B20JGqVtD-83Wyj50P3yome8Z7Jfr-iUmttVPU-sEYgEAgn3cd8QEQ9pCW8hh3Xq8S62QLWlH-h3Vcjghpk5O/s320/bruise_first_aid.jpg" /></a>You scraped your knee trying to jump your bike off a ramp? Supermom not only has bandaids, neosporin, gauze, first aid tape, three different kinds of pain relievers, an actual first aid kit, and an x-ray machine stuffed in that hall closet, but she's also got a bag of popsicles to hand out to your friends while they wait for you to get patched up. Oh, and she's also got that magical kiss for your owie that somehow makes everything all better. Mom magic, that's what it is.<br />
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Have you had the hairiest day in middle school known to man and it's not even lunchtime yet? Supermom knows. And she will either A) Have you pulled out of class for a "doctor's appointment" that turns into a day of playing hooky with your mom, or B) Have chocolate chip cookies and milk ready for you when you hit the door. She's like a best friend. She just knows. Again, mom magic.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNlCHZeqDzmgsu_wCNRRq-QoH4Uvd8O3ilfLkTTB9fWTwdWwBpy7bhA28a-YI4e-EhuhFVtwlQGAEjcdJ2GNZCODIVjV9NnWHnUqO26ylf_AvlBE2urmRsuFWsZRIcMTQHPfN2d3GsLB8K/s1600/2102_cr_ultimate_chocolate_chip_cookies-medium_00.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNlCHZeqDzmgsu_wCNRRq-QoH4Uvd8O3ilfLkTTB9fWTwdWwBpy7bhA28a-YI4e-EhuhFVtwlQGAEjcdJ2GNZCODIVjV9NnWHnUqO26ylf_AvlBE2urmRsuFWsZRIcMTQHPfN2d3GsLB8K/s320/2102_cr_ultimate_chocolate_chip_cookies-medium_00.jpg" /></a><br />
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You just mouthed off to someone you shouldn't have, or vandalized property, or looked at Supermom right in the eye and told her, "No"? Well, hold onto your britches, baby, 'cause you're getting spanked. And grounded. You will be apologizing if you offended anyone, you will be making restitution, and you will be feeling the heavy cloak of shame on your shoulders when Supermom tells you that she is disappointed in you. Because that's how Supermom proves that she loves you. She doesn't let you get away with crap, and therefore makes you a better, more responsible human being.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgksci0X1iKwmXaVkjo5VH3abelMxZ7NNUKmq8pdQKoaDLNJDr1p82WPwVpCMOsaTW3ia9Qe4ZAZuut4j6dNm5BBEcoBQ6uceLHGl8iRI1qZ4tko_sV-dg68JQct3YU2um3Yt0NUxCtwpFy/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgksci0X1iKwmXaVkjo5VH3abelMxZ7NNUKmq8pdQKoaDLNJDr1p82WPwVpCMOsaTW3ia9Qe4ZAZuut4j6dNm5BBEcoBQ6uceLHGl8iRI1qZ4tko_sV-dg68JQct3YU2um3Yt0NUxCtwpFy/s320/download.jpg" /></a>And if, maybe, after this nightmare of backpedaling and apologizing and swearing to yourself that you will NEVER incur Supermom's wrath like that again (although you will), you maybe break down and cry? Supermom will be there. Hugging you. And making you feel better. Because even if you did something bad that made her angry, she still loves you. And you will never understand, until you are a parent, just how super that particular power is.<br />
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This was my mom. The mom that would whop me with a wooden spoon when I seriously stepped out of line, gave me my freedom to become the person I am today, very sneakily taught me skills that I'd be a useless human being without, kissed my owies, pulled me out of school to play hooky, and still hugs me with that mom magic that somehow makes everything okay, just for a second. Because nothing can hurt you when your mom is holding you.<br />
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My mom was the one sitting on the back porch, in a lawn chair, chatting with our next door neighbor while we ran around in our front yard in our bare feet with the neighbor kids, playing our hearts out, and knowing not to do anything stupid. Because even though mom appeared to be focusing solely on the Coke in her hand and the friend at her side, she would catch you if you were an idiot. Every time. "Young lady, knock that off right now!"<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvfMTS2jCEZAch861dmYPRTstM-U5bpJz0OUMVHZwBqscTfT8aAv163WZeKr25wv_YRXhnvE95f5uMD-2oad3FxFjvd4d9oMTVz2VNPa-aH1XphMPcRetCNvK2-_j9zxxxMz-Ymer3CudG/s1600/Moriarty_Sheila-Two_Friends_Talking1.bmp" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvfMTS2jCEZAch861dmYPRTstM-U5bpJz0OUMVHZwBqscTfT8aAv163WZeKr25wv_YRXhnvE95f5uMD-2oad3FxFjvd4d9oMTVz2VNPa-aH1XphMPcRetCNvK2-_j9zxxxMz-Ymer3CudG/s320/Moriarty_Sheila-Two_Friends_Talking1.bmp" /></a>The difference between now and then? Now, I get to be that friend sitting next to her, keeping one eye on my own daughter and one eye on my mom, Dr. Pepper in hand, sitting on a lawn chair out on the back porch while Sammy and my youngest sister, closely followed by two dogs, go running helter-skelter around the yard, hair all a mess, having the time of their lives. And my ponytail is as close to ungroomed as you can get when you actually brushed your hair that day, my jeans should have been washed last week, and there are undoubtedly a million other things I should be doing. But they can wait. Because what I experience in those moments is more important than having all the laundry done in one day and having every dish sparkling clean and put away before bedtime.<br />
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My mom taught me . . . everything. And even if she didn't teach it to me, she taught me how to be teachable. To observe. To take things into my own hands and learn how to do it myself. I would not be able to cook today if I hadn't grown up my whole life eating home-cooked breakfasts and dinners every day, made by her. Half of my recipe collection right now is straight from my mom. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG2XDxjJveI0XlkTwFXD9x0GAhzcOhuSlciUwyinb7YjPks6KzskhHnLC9ooWWBsB4jydGYHLJbe_8geMwNzRTtb0r9PwfVlaT2ZATTc_VKC53dM5Bx2oDUoAmk0WQXkY0-3Y4KXC1joNY/s1600/no-bake-cheesecake.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG2XDxjJveI0XlkTwFXD9x0GAhzcOhuSlciUwyinb7YjPks6KzskhHnLC9ooWWBsB4jydGYHLJbe_8geMwNzRTtb0r9PwfVlaT2ZATTc_VKC53dM5Bx2oDUoAmk0WQXkY0-3Y4KXC1joNY/s320/no-bake-cheesecake.jpg" /></a>Tonight, I made a cheesecake, just like my mom makes (because I actually had 2 packages of cream cheese AND a pie crust in the house at the same time, heck yes!). I'm not talking a fancy-shmancy baked New York style cheesecake, I'm talking a creamy, cold, delectable concoction of cream cheese, sweetened condensed milk, lemon juice, and vanilla smoothed into store-bought graham cracker crust. It's my favorite cheesecake, and the only thing bad about it is that it takes about 2-3 hours to chill in the fridge before I can proceed to eat the entire thing in one sitting.<br />
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I think of my mom every time I make one of her recipes. Even if it isn't technically her recipe, it's one of the dozens she's collected over the years from all kinds of places. I still think of her. Of how lost people would be without their moms. Especially moms themselves. You are not truly a mom until you call your own mother, who you of course have on speed dial for just such an occasion, and practically cry to her over the phone. Because you messed up the spaghetti sauce and can't figure out what you did wrong. Because your baby has a fever and you don't know how much medicine to give her. Because your favorite pants just ripped and your sewing machine isn't working and you just can't handle it! (Also, my mom taught me to implement sewing in my life. Sure, technically home ec taught me HOW to sew, but my mom taught me how to use the skill. I can't count how many items of clothing hang in my or my daughter's closet that are made by my mom or me.)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHblndvB_P_mrN8W0f-aRrNYGJKJZkxxxqBUJCmSJQ2-Z30hs-tKQHVvO5x4cer_J7sNPx8U8tr6NyTovkTIaixjpeMYu7Htp0J8DzYR3AamoOLFdmR7yMyyj7D0jxGRfV8DWVTXvxOl9t/s1600/sewing+machine.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHblndvB_P_mrN8W0f-aRrNYGJKJZkxxxqBUJCmSJQ2-Z30hs-tKQHVvO5x4cer_J7sNPx8U8tr6NyTovkTIaixjpeMYu7Htp0J8DzYR3AamoOLFdmR7yMyyj7D0jxGRfV8DWVTXvxOl9t/s320/sewing+machine.jpg" /></a><br />
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And Supermom listens, she agrees with your frustrations, is sympathetic to your pains, says many a comforting and calming word, and then offers you a solution. Whether it be how to fix the spaghetti sauce, how much medicine you can give a 4 month old, why your machine isn't working, or to simply throw out the sauce, pack up baby, grab your pants, and come to mom's house. And mom will feed you, because that's what mom does. Mom will cuddle her grandbaby to her chest that you fell asleep on countless times, and rock and sing to her until the baby-sized dose of medicine kicks in and allows baby to sleep, because that's what mom does. And then, mom will get you both a chocolate chip cookie (either store bought or homemade, neither of you are picky), and mom will get out her sewing machine and fix your pants for you while you sit and talk and laugh uproariously about every little thing. Because that's what supermom does.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq20F_g4ZS7aM_1zGtLXCK96MGehwwNkzp95RTYueM65JbJG-xqGhCSwwDwcwaKkE8aAlzUOrmDFrzODIm4TfTp7fp323LU3JP48q-iiCxEtjcAHzk1ogEf_PGcww2j-QbK9K6k8JGIG1B/s1600/leftovers-ck-0505-article-l.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq20F_g4ZS7aM_1zGtLXCK96MGehwwNkzp95RTYueM65JbJG-xqGhCSwwDwcwaKkE8aAlzUOrmDFrzODIm4TfTp7fp323LU3JP48q-iiCxEtjcAHzk1ogEf_PGcww2j-QbK9K6k8JGIG1B/s320/leftovers-ck-0505-article-l.jpg" /></a>You'll get home later that night, baby asleep in her car seat, a tupperware container of food in the passenger seat, and your pants folded up neatly next to it, all fixed. Baby is even holding a brand new stuffed animal in her little hand, because grandma cannot help herself. She spoils you both rotten. Somehow, in just a few hours, Supermom just fixed everything.<br />
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That is my mom. My perfectly imperfect mom who has loved and tolerated and humored and amused and taught all these years. I was a beastly child, especially in my pre-teen years, but somehow my poor mom not only managed to get through it, but she got me through it as well. My teen years, too, although I was a completely different kind of beastly then. Problem child vs. Supermom, and Supermom definitely won. Because I turned out well, thanks to her. I screwed up and made all kinds of mistakes, every color of wrong and stupid, but here I am. On the other side of that. With my own little girl, my own family, my own life, and although it's so not perfect that it skims downright dreadful some days, I still love it. I wouldn't trade any of it for anything.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOn5ocfXdSKb2EVehqDQKoI2QCz2LNLgGftD8Qe_JxCsIPLU1RNKJ6_03ibc7CullL6NtlJZgCFQd9Qq3UiLGLqU4ud-uJVdZYAT_4uHXyPKpwpZ_ZbFtR8wQJjNW6DtCNXojDFxk8bVG7/s1600/folded_clothes2.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOn5ocfXdSKb2EVehqDQKoI2QCz2LNLgGftD8Qe_JxCsIPLU1RNKJ6_03ibc7CullL6NtlJZgCFQd9Qq3UiLGLqU4ud-uJVdZYAT_4uHXyPKpwpZ_ZbFtR8wQJjNW6DtCNXojDFxk8bVG7/s320/folded_clothes2.jpg" /></a>My bed is covered with folded laundry that I have to stuff into my drawers, but they are clean and folded because my mom taught me by example. I have a cheesecake chilling in the fridge, and the dishes drying in the drainer, because my mom taught me how. I have a stack of clothing items to mend on my desk, but I can fix them instead of throwing them away, because my mom taught me how. I am looking at a free night, with no little eyes peering through a crack in the door telling me she needs another drink of water, because my mom is watching her so I can work on some projects. There is no teaching for that one. Because no one has to be taught how to love my mom. Even my friends loved my mom best.<br />
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So, this Mother's Day, I'm not lacking in needing a woman to look up to and respect and love for being the astounding woman she is. She has always been that way. Even when I was a snotrag little 11 year old that hated my life and everything in it, I knew my mom was amazing.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIZz3SocmXeRLJeo5uVauaygRKPKL-xNyGu9Q2fbihf-OfJKTX9Kn6RtseFt4yGq68sj0mA7YoUCRuVW51kppEvcEqD3aqfvKcFXBQtD3bTnDW-r9yJjekanen15-IwQeYsM0-LZVsOp1j/s1600/PENTAX+Image_45.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIZz3SocmXeRLJeo5uVauaygRKPKL-xNyGu9Q2fbihf-OfJKTX9Kn6RtseFt4yGq68sj0mA7YoUCRuVW51kppEvcEqD3aqfvKcFXBQtD3bTnDW-r9yJjekanen15-IwQeYsM0-LZVsOp1j/s320/PENTAX+Image_45.jpg" /></a><br />
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Happy Mother's Day, Supermom. I can count my life a success if I am ever the kind of mom to my daughter that you were, and still are, to me.<br />
M.E. Bellamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07260642160571764359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794262347975600073.post-18358940693423219352013-04-10T18:13:00.000-07:002013-08-15T01:16:46.229-07:00Superheroes: The Way to Get a ComplimentI just realized the funniest thing. Over the past couple weeks, I've worn a couple of the superhero shirts that I have. And I have a nice selection. Iron Man, Avengers, Batman, the Flash, and I have plans to make at least another two or three. Probably more. Why is this important, you ask? Well, it's not. I just love my superhero shirts.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjclReiaAV-9kLPWY8Uo9yyP8wQh4L495eCy-El0XW4Qd87ZHmCRrRHvo_84QxRe6plYyhTbAzzD7LULK4QrkdXqUXIKsfndAXt9ebwZBMPPcdyl8HmSA1o-jasjMyGMz0Qmzvcpye5Noj_/s1600/superherologos.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjclReiaAV-9kLPWY8Uo9yyP8wQh4L495eCy-El0XW4Qd87ZHmCRrRHvo_84QxRe6plYyhTbAzzD7LULK4QrkdXqUXIKsfndAXt9ebwZBMPPcdyl8HmSA1o-jasjMyGMz0Qmzvcpye5Noj_/s320/superherologos.jpg" /></a><br />
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Anyway, to the point of this superhero shirt thing (yes, there is a point). I'm not typically the kind of girl that gets lavish compliments about my wardrobe. Or any comments at all. Why? Because I wear jeans and t-shirts, with very few exceptions. That's it. The most daring and creative things I do to my outfit could easily be outstripped by a slightly fashion-conscious ten year old boy. My selection of cool, printed, colorful shoelaces are kind of the highlight of my footwear on a normal day. Therefore, really not all that much to swoon about.<br />
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And yet, twice in these past weeks, I had two men comment on my wardrobe choices. Yes, men. The last time a man commented on my outfit in a positive way, other than my husband asking me if I had shoes on, I was a teenager. And, come to think of it, it was my husband that made those comments as well, only he was my boyfriend or fiance in those scenarios. So having two complete strangers give me positive responses on my outfits was a pretty bizarre thing!<br />
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What was I wearing? First time, the Flash. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG9CWUNr6-x99BJAVmwW6wJ4bRQWogyo8KPRYk7Cs2Ij_2GD5VJLIKLbhAl7oU2IIoZG-AznSA_EGWMEHQOfjJrgkashR9YJY_HUuwbR5LfsEZUx-2ajzBp2yFa86mqGXoiygx4GqsKEUo/s1600/Flash-logo-dc-comics-251206_1024_768.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG9CWUNr6-x99BJAVmwW6wJ4bRQWogyo8KPRYk7Cs2Ij_2GD5VJLIKLbhAl7oU2IIoZG-AznSA_EGWMEHQOfjJrgkashR9YJY_HUuwbR5LfsEZUx-2ajzBp2yFa86mqGXoiygx4GqsKEUo/s320/Flash-logo-dc-comics-251206_1024_768.jpg" /></a><br />
It's the comfiest shirt I own, I'm serious. Second time, Batman. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHVtSktXGXpfGKHNsCVY1D5qo-X0d-3IYcMdPpB9p3oVGgNxJd5B0RcLGYjjBj541XKxAmUL36kdKy9bxhGgX10N4J6eSWzkGjHS9lCOTmieUzisDGuLUaQFV-pkHRdmRugtcrenGwDkQU/s1600/AAAACwN70kMAAAAAAUJFmA.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHVtSktXGXpfGKHNsCVY1D5qo-X0d-3IYcMdPpB9p3oVGgNxJd5B0RcLGYjjBj541XKxAmUL36kdKy9bxhGgX10N4J6eSWzkGjHS9lCOTmieUzisDGuLUaQFV-pkHRdmRugtcrenGwDkQU/s320/AAAACwN70kMAAAAAAUJFmA.jpg" /></a><br />
And what did I say to these men that smiled and commented on my awesome shirts? <br />
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"Thanks!"<br />
<br />
I am soooo creative.<br />
<br />
Of all the times to throw out an excellent, clever, or witty response . . . and I flubbed it. The taglines I could have used. The whole wide world of superhero material, and I said "thanks". *Facepalm* At least, when the first guy mentioned my Flash shirt, I think I also said, "Of course!" (Like, who <i>wouldn't</i> wear the Flash?)<br />
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At least, on the bright side, we know that superhero shirts are a definite go. And what can I say? It's a superhero world out there. Even if I've never read the comic books (which I'm sure purists will say doesn't mean I'm a true fan), I'm still a superhero fan. Marvel and DC alike. I have my favorites, I know trivia, and I'm waiting with bated breath for the new movies that are set to come out in the next couple years (23 DAYS UNTIL IRON MAN 3 OMG!!!!!).<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7WB5XO29O0X9OKsHG0cXDlhoqPqoF96bjkIG6TIuwQEFpspsaTanjbR8MuRO_jrC7GiAMAxLXUayV4-WewQsar5y1zSsw_71FL9KDGPiCvhkSfpqLhQUvgLovlCfMkc6A8rptJSObCGz9/s1600/iron-man-3-2013-download-hd.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7WB5XO29O0X9OKsHG0cXDlhoqPqoF96bjkIG6TIuwQEFpspsaTanjbR8MuRO_jrC7GiAMAxLXUayV4-WewQsar5y1zSsw_71FL9KDGPiCvhkSfpqLhQUvgLovlCfMkc6A8rptJSObCGz9/s320/iron-man-3-2013-download-hd.jpg" /></a><br />
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I love you, superheroes. You rock my world. Keep being awesome so I can wear your shirts.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxj-HZ-Sn_XufkmvUmvJrIGgTbbb23UPr0Ur0EMUtBX5hslELby7xvzMHBBHyFvsL06HrygFUT7RLwDRxOsi9Ca21AGv7R0YA2IbTZ58lTI8nU3kGQH1LyL4oKm5eUkmOmjWsnBTFapkKq/s1600/il_340x270.380086777_pi5w.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxj-HZ-Sn_XufkmvUmvJrIGgTbbb23UPr0Ur0EMUtBX5hslELby7xvzMHBBHyFvsL06HrygFUT7RLwDRxOsi9Ca21AGv7R0YA2IbTZ58lTI8nU3kGQH1LyL4oKm5eUkmOmjWsnBTFapkKq/s320/il_340x270.380086777_pi5w.jpg" /></a>M.E. Bellamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07260642160571764359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794262347975600073.post-85860243503685494872013-03-23T15:44:00.000-07:002013-03-23T16:10:48.048-07:00How the Idea Became the Vivid Reality - The QuadrilogyAlright, kids, this is the story of how four mischievous characters snuck under my skin, took over my life, and have also brought me some of the most joy and grief a writer can suffer. They collectively have added up to well over 300 single-spaced pages of material, spanning the hysterical to the dramatic to the sexy. And that's nowhere near what the finished product will yield. This set of muses has been my baby for a long time, always lurking in my mind waiting for new material to spring on and take home with it. Those characters are always lazing about up there, poking their noses in at the least opportune times, urging me to write some more.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt2HC_wGCsBeInUvYuIkdkBRkzEBlsAcPMf8uxQVXlSFEL6dSHb5rINWjHOqket80RpmV-HK-FHOObc8f8-ynS3ZWFdpEcEoxuYRKZy7VCs0zzMRo_NewLexcuwzNXpNzW7SUrdtgJAtbV/s1600/fun-copy-for-me-copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt2HC_wGCsBeInUvYuIkdkBRkzEBlsAcPMf8uxQVXlSFEL6dSHb5rINWjHOqket80RpmV-HK-FHOObc8f8-ynS3ZWFdpEcEoxuYRKZy7VCs0zzMRo_NewLexcuwzNXpNzW7SUrdtgJAtbV/s320/fun-copy-for-me-copy.jpg" /></a><br />
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First I'll tell you how this all came about, these particular characters. In junior high, I became friends with a girl who was simultaneously the weirdest and most intriguing person I'd ever met, for a variety of reasons. She was obsessed with the vampire characters written by Ann Rice, as well as Michael Jackson, she had an absolutely fearless personality, and I'd never seen anyone so quirky and confident about it. She could go on for a solid 15 minutes on a topic that I would have absolutely no knowledge of, or in normal circumstances, interest in, but somehow she would still keep me entertained just by listening to this endless stream of oddness coming out of her mouth.<br />
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Anyway, one of the things that intrigued me about her was that she was a writer, and a freaking good one. She has improved greatly over the years, but she was still brilliant even as a teenager in eighth and ninth grade. And one day at lunch, I can't quite remember how, she just suddenly started a doodle, basically, of a story of me living in a mansion with four vampires. Lestat and Louis from the Ann Rice vampire series, Michael Jackson, and Orlando Bloom, whom I had a massive crush on at the time thanks to Lord of the Rings and Pirates of the Caribbean.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLF5qDVXLTajiaGB9-JdhSoKKiJ1cfPSzT8n-WmPX-N0Io8NpVLurfLiny9CQjtL2EQ-h_Q-qdRAqpGq_yqFjHqqmDplinx3B0NuS2PYbFBeNpi1deelgYg5MUyBB55Lf3_QGfGfnKXIxS/s1600/legolas22.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLF5qDVXLTajiaGB9-JdhSoKKiJ1cfPSzT8n-WmPX-N0Io8NpVLurfLiny9CQjtL2EQ-h_Q-qdRAqpGq_yqFjHqqmDplinx3B0NuS2PYbFBeNpi1deelgYg5MUyBB55Lf3_QGfGfnKXIxS/s320/legolas22.jpg" /></a><br />
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And this spiraled out into this whole, chapters-long story about how an older me met and moved into a mansion with these four vampires, and then fell in love with Orlando Bloom. I can tell you this, the fictional version of Orlando Bloom is very sweet and charming, and of course the much more witty and cute version of me fell for him immediately. However, the movie and book versions of Lestat and Louis were very much changed to suit our purposes and my friend's vision of them. They're awesome.<br />
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Well, in high school, this story morphed, retaining the same characters except for Michael Jackson who got replaced by a selection of other characters. In this version, all the characters were in high school, except I was Lestat's cousin and I had decided to move in with him and go to his school, of course taking on all his friends and dating the SBO, Orlando Bloom!<br />
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I had a great time. Both in the stories and out, reading about all these adventures I got to have. Those stories kept me entertained all through junior high and part of high school. Fast forward several years, and that's where things started to morph again, just in this last year or so. I had decided that I wanted to create my own spinoff of the high school story my friend had invented, maintaining all my favorite parts of the characters (save myself, which got replaced by someone far more entertaining, in my opinion) and the circumstances, just making them my own and going from that original idea of cousins going to school together and snowballing from there.<br />
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And then, I can't remember exactly how this happened, or even if this happened before or after I'd started my spinoff, I had another brainwave. I was writing a scene about an actor playing a part in a stage production in the musical Cats (which I had just fallen deeply in love with). For a long time, that character and that scene just sat in my muse folder, on it's own, when that same friend that had started this whole thing in the first place (the brilliant writer), saw Cats herself. And she immediately agreed with my assessment that our versions of the Lestat and Louis characters perfectly matched the characters Rum Tum Tugger and Mr. Mistoffelees! So I let my friend read that lonely Cats inspired muse, and our Lestat got the part, with Louis starring as well.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYOErNVi_DYfRywQdAPchNArqMVqhzY0rhr_ATBsKkGu-xkjoi9EnaeeAs9nyjDEtcwg0vmoSsl6im7CG0846Kmy6v8b6Wu74hkV3XgTkQ6H21vzrzAWLuT36vubLqFPQ1BOpWXsiOhG1e/s1600/cap195.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYOErNVi_DYfRywQdAPchNArqMVqhzY0rhr_ATBsKkGu-xkjoi9EnaeeAs9nyjDEtcwg0vmoSsl6im7CG0846Kmy6v8b6Wu74hkV3XgTkQ6H21vzrzAWLuT36vubLqFPQ1BOpWXsiOhG1e/s320/cap195.jpg" /></a><br />
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Which takes us back to my spinoff. (I know, we're jumping around like kangaroos, bear with me.) After joint-writing more with that Cats scene with my friend, it still just sat there for another long time. And then I had an idea . . . what if my Lestat (his name is Aidan in my universe) got to have his own story? What if there was more to my spinoff than what I had originally planned?<br />
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Thus, this monster was born. And it is amazing. After Aidan got his own story, and Savannah (the replacement character for me, the cousin) already had her story in high school, what about Ryan/Louis? He had to have a story! Those three were my main characters, my little beloved trio, but I also had squeezed in there a fourth character, Josh, the friend. At first he was much more of just a supporting character, more there for the entertainment that his cheeky, inappropriate, incorrigible self lent to the story, but as I kept thinking about him and his role in Savannah's story, I figured that he deserved a story too. <br />
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So we went from three to four. Savannah got her story with the very changed Orlando character that I named Chase in high school. Josh got his story in the first few years of college. Ryan got his after college in his mid-twenties, and Aidan, true to his somewhat commitment-phobic and womanizing ways, didn't find his match until his late twenties, and she burst in on his life like a firecracker!<br />
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To sum up . . . I just spent forever telling you backstory on a set of muses that you probably won't ever read. Why? Well, because I love telling the story, that's why. And I love the characters. Don't get me wrong, I love all my characters. Like right now, I'm working on a muse about an ex-spy who is dragged back into the spy life and hijinks ensue! Yes, I said spy, don't judge me. She's awesome, and I have learned more about guns, spy training, and espresso than I ever wanted to know, thanks to her. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxgi4a8AcBZiE9e4jbalc8jEQWk0JnsUr6PxOa8npEltvjEoP1DzJBIhP-GL5yVXG1mEZGFosE7xIAh1jsBkRr2JqArxtJzerlOdJqxJfJ41QBmIeJ3Wu0H8UHABB5DgMqWUA0FCYQtpUh/s1600/tumblr_m7cupuu4Ao1rss4yeo1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxgi4a8AcBZiE9e4jbalc8jEQWk0JnsUr6PxOa8npEltvjEoP1DzJBIhP-GL5yVXG1mEZGFosE7xIAh1jsBkRr2JqArxtJzerlOdJqxJfJ41QBmIeJ3Wu0H8UHABB5DgMqWUA0FCYQtpUh/s320/tumblr_m7cupuu4Ao1rss4yeo1_500.jpg" /></a><br />
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But my quadrilogy characters have a special place in my heart. They hold a lot of memories, the original four and all those that have come from them, spanning into a group of many, all of whom are wonderful. So, I just wanted to share the story of how it all came to be, this beast. This life-overtaking monstrosity. It has consumed me. And I wouldn't change a bit of it.M.E. Bellamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07260642160571764359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794262347975600073.post-43739434251500759172013-03-23T14:30:00.001-07:002013-03-23T15:54:33.899-07:00How I Became a WriterFor some reason, I am suddenly inspired today to tell a story. Kind of a long story, and I'm sure you have better things to be doing, but that's okay. I'm telling it anyway. This is the story of how I became a writer.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRDztDoCjRsaYo7sketOhKOmQjyaBr2R5GV_b_bWoFBKP0WyrMDL3FslpENzgchfRCbjp9MxsTxbR3O9J6bJJjIHsH2SrGAb0r9XtrMD81CnPYRcTZzLF7BQbkBGik4hWt8_cOKkBm2gYt/s1600/definition-technical-writing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="267" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRDztDoCjRsaYo7sketOhKOmQjyaBr2R5GV_b_bWoFBKP0WyrMDL3FslpENzgchfRCbjp9MxsTxbR3O9J6bJJjIHsH2SrGAb0r9XtrMD81CnPYRcTZzLF7BQbkBGik4hWt8_cOKkBm2gYt/s400/definition-technical-writing.jpg" /></a></div><br />
The very first time I ever actually sat myself down and started to write a story, I was 10 or so. I remember sitting in my bedroom I shared with my sister in the apartment we lived in, in Morgan, Utah. And this story was about a deer. I don't actually remember now what the story involved, but I knew it was a female deer, and at the beginning of the book, I was describing her walking through some trees, rustling the leaves as she passed them. I was absolutely enchanted then, as I still am now, at the glorious way that words translated images so beautifully. <br />
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Words have always been easy for me. Ever since I was a kid that could barely read, I have sucked up words with a passion that is unending. I was the kid at recess who sat under a tree and read James and the Giant Peach in second grade because I didn't have friends, and I was okay with that. If I could have, I would have lived in the library. I loved to see those shelves crammed full of every kind of book, those mysterious, entertaining, colorful covers of books that had the most intoxicating mysteries and adventures inside. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZwJyZCJFXwgqDB5altqN-Ls6lelTvPFiG2HmGxIhcZA2pU6FECtRcS-jD2S8exmutBIPjLuhPU4QFir8YWeqvWyriUkMXL1i57zi01yVx2Sk_XSbwfaLCanL4oC2KsrLFaNkTKdgmfypV/s1600/Books-06.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZwJyZCJFXwgqDB5altqN-Ls6lelTvPFiG2HmGxIhcZA2pU6FECtRcS-jD2S8exmutBIPjLuhPU4QFir8YWeqvWyriUkMXL1i57zi01yVx2Sk_XSbwfaLCanL4oC2KsrLFaNkTKdgmfypV/s320/Books-06.jpg" /></a><br />
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So it's really no surprise that writing was something that has come naturally to me. Being such an incurable bookworm as a kid and teenager fueled that fire, and still does. Reading is a unique solace that a person can retreat to, somewhere sheltering and yet unreal that one can go to escape the unbearable things of life and for a short time, have the freedom to be somewhere else. With other people. In another world. That's how it has always been for me. The characters and places in books have always had a pull on me that I've never wanted to resist. And I feel for those characters as if they were real people, sometimes I want to reach through those pages and just hug them, or laugh with them, or cry with them. And sometimes I do, even if it is something as cheesy as hugging that book.<br />
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When I was in junior high, 8th grade to be specific, I was sitting in my US History class behind a guy that I had a crush on. And when we weren't passing notes (boy, did my tweeny-bopper self get a rush out of that), I was often bored. This particular teacher had a way of making the American Revolution sound as exciting as reading a legal dictionary. He had this voice, this monotone voice that might occasionally go up or down in volume, but it was one of the easiest sounds in the world to just tune out.<br />
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So naturally I found other things to keep myself from falling asleep and drooling attractively on my desk. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD2XXmKpu3CNdH5JuK8tsFGpHID68kaIv-4tFQe6vE2v4K7y8ntg1IDsuSuNlF-nHROvwogISt2K5eLznp7AFxjevWRmGW1vSyy7cEyEe1Yrr6K_kSHCJJKqUgGtQ2UlUSk-IVg7ezLIkt/s1600/friendshipbracelets.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD2XXmKpu3CNdH5JuK8tsFGpHID68kaIv-4tFQe6vE2v4K7y8ntg1IDsuSuNlF-nHROvwogISt2K5eLznp7AFxjevWRmGW1vSyy7cEyEe1Yrr6K_kSHCJJKqUgGtQ2UlUSk-IVg7ezLIkt/s320/friendshipbracelets.jpg" /></a><br />
I wove a few (see also, dozens of) friendship bracelets out of embroidery floss, I doodled on my notebook, and then one day, just for fun, I started writing down made-up names that popped into my head. And the first one I came up with was Laika.<br />
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It came to my attention several years later that I was not the first person to come up with this name, there was actually a Russian dog that was the first animal put up into space with the same name, and this devastated me. It was not solely my name. But I got over it. This is not the only name that I made up only to find that it had been made up by someone else too. I always feel a surge of righteous anger and indignation when this happens.<br />
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But anyway, I had this name. I liked this name a lot. It was somehow foreign and familiar and poetic and realistic all at the same time, and while I kept on jotting down names that were a mix of sounds and syllables that I was putting together in my head, my imagination kind of . . . exploded.<br />
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A royal family, a quaint village, magical Elves (we're not talking Santa Claus here, we're talking Terry Brook's Shannara and JRR Tolkein's Lord of the Rings), mythical creatures, a grand quest, and certainly danger along the way. This picture of this gorgeous tree? This is what one fraction of my world looked like in this story. A new printer of my dad's printed this picture off as a test, and I totally swiped and kept it in my writing binder.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0sAYaltdbdczeqFuBEF8ISlCkniIDCNKu9BrwKD9paeWChiA81cSsUvU09AUjVV2_1kykPnBFD4U9oi8zQABLJ9OqB_XGFl1_JdcYz_Toj4VrcK0gLMCzd3WmWpX4q0UMUjAP4kH7xgrS/s1600/190066046744130417_6XmVziiO_f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0sAYaltdbdczeqFuBEF8ISlCkniIDCNKu9BrwKD9paeWChiA81cSsUvU09AUjVV2_1kykPnBFD4U9oi8zQABLJ9OqB_XGFl1_JdcYz_Toj4VrcK0gLMCzd3WmWpX4q0UMUjAP4kH7xgrS/s400/190066046744130417_6XmVziiO_f.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Now, let me be both indulgent and critical for a moment. This idea was GENIUS. I still think so. However, when I wrote this story, which quickly spun from just an idea to over 1,000 handwritten pages (not an exaggeration) of TWO books, I was a dramatic, emotional, hormonal teenager who had many enthusiastic friends who I was delighted to have contribute ideas, characters, and even pages of writing to this project.<br />
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It was a disaster! So much of those books were random and delightful pieces of fluff that had absolutely NOTHING to do with the story and everything to do with the interactions and lives of me and my friends. I had well over 50 characters in those books, and almost all of them were me and my friends, come to literary life in a world that was manipulate-able in so many ways. You would not believe how many 9th grade girls got their dream boy in writing that year, it was insane. And I was the orchestrator of most of it, I'm happy to say.<br />
<br />
Anyway, so this idea was great, the writing was . . . shite. The story was there, to be sure, but it was positively buried in the outrageous and hysterical mound of fluff and nonsense of me and my fabulous friends.<br />
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Two pivotal things happened when I was in high school that ended this era. The first one was finishing the second book. Two separate, distinct adventures and plot lines that were in two separate binders. I had a idea where I wanted to go next with this, but at the time it involved my main character, Laika (told you I liked the name) growing up and having grown up daughters. And I just didn't know if I could do that, emotionally or realistically. I wasn't 20 or 30 years old and married, I wasn't 40 or 50 with grown kids, I didn't know how to write that. I was a teenager, that's what I wrote. And I also didn't know if I could basically take my heroine off her pedestal as the star of my show and have someone else take her place. It was like Ariel from Little Mermaid having a daughter, it was cool but just felt . . . so wrong! Look how old that ridiculous hairstyle makes Ariel look!<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheWjasg_NM283dpfloM-agYSjzagNYYlG8jAegzKlIyoN2TM9ZhMwpGOV7CucUdkwBqgue6YI1zgVaq4dzZBqMh0KyEThtHUEA_ttfVQ2dQaxpdAme2L_ESbL8ba9M22xuRqWVR3nPCAQg/s1600/Ariel-and-Melody-little-mermaid-ariels-beginning-1602832-320-196.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheWjasg_NM283dpfloM-agYSjzagNYYlG8jAegzKlIyoN2TM9ZhMwpGOV7CucUdkwBqgue6YI1zgVaq4dzZBqMh0KyEThtHUEA_ttfVQ2dQaxpdAme2L_ESbL8ba9M22xuRqWVR3nPCAQg/s320/Ariel-and-Melody-little-mermaid-ariels-beginning-1602832-320-196.jpg" /></a><br />
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The second thing that happened, that just took the heart and soul right out of me, was that a few large chunks of my books got lost. I was devastated. I had lent parts of the book to friends to read, and either they were returned missing pages or damaged beyond use, or in one case, the binder my pages had been kept in was stolen. I have since discovered that one of the first rules of writing is to ALWAYS have a copy. An updated copy that, in the event that you lose part of the original, you have a backup. I didn't have a backup. Sure, most of the story was in my head, and I could probably faithfully reproduce what I'd written, but still . . . the thought of having to rewrite so much both exhausted me and broke my heart.<br />
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I didn't write again for a long time. Not because I didn't want to, a part of me did. And I did write a page here and there, little moments that came to me. But nothing serious or of any length. I was still too heartbroken. It probably sounds pathetic, but it truly broke my heart. To have something that was such a part of me, such an integral element in my life, to have it be fractured and broken like that . . . it hurt. I didn't blame anyone for it, I knew that it didn't mean to them what it did to me. And I know in at least one case, one friend was so frantic about having lost what I'd lent him that he even had a reward out for the binder that had been stolen that had my pages in it.<br />
<br />
So anyway, I took a long sabbatical away from writing. It wasn't until much later, after I was married and I think after I had my daughter, did I finally go back into the world of writing. My reading had never stopped, and when I made my way back to my muse, what I was reading at the time was Julia Quinn. She is a Regency Era romance author, and she is one of my top three favorite authors. I loved her books, every one of them, for their characters and their humor and the richness of the writing. So it's not surprise that my first story I wrote coming back to writing was a Regency Era romance. And, looking back, this time it was more the plot that has issues while the writing had greatly improved. I guess that's what time and experience does to you.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgurMwsyY6HxRbhyphenhyphenEbTbgdWCx4wriqVBHfRvoGxQhOEYhvPxhhMManoKhUjxhqxsMQ9JhM2nLeqhW68pqZl0osW4z67UZo9EpPAsth2UXSMdgVHhYVauSyop2A370wIJ9MnWGl5WXmLg1QE/s1600/technical_writer_main.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="266" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgurMwsyY6HxRbhyphenhyphenEbTbgdWCx4wriqVBHfRvoGxQhOEYhvPxhhMManoKhUjxhqxsMQ9JhM2nLeqhW68pqZl0osW4z67UZo9EpPAsth2UXSMdgVHhYVauSyop2A370wIJ9MnWGl5WXmLg1QE/s400/technical_writer_main.jpg" /></a></div><br />
It was a bit of a slow start, but from there on, writing was back in my life, and over the years since then (it's been four or so) I am confident that I have written in excess of thousands of pages of single spaced typing. I finally got myself a laptop when I got married, an easier and faster way to write, and boy have I made use of that system. At this very moment, in my muse folder, I have 152 items, including 9 folders that have multiple other documents in them. And this is not counting any co-writing I have done with my dear friend, that's another . . . 6, I think. That gives me easily another few hundred pages. I promise I am not bragging, I am just stating how far I have come in his new era of my writing. I've been busy. And I have loved it.<br />
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If I were to pick out the flaw in my writing that bothers me the most, it might be consistency. The reason I have 152 separate items in my muse folder right now is because I have over 180+ separate stories going on. And I have only ever finished (I use that term loosely) maybe 5 of them. That is pitiful. It's not that I don't want to finish, in fact I would dearly love to finish. To read those stories and laugh and cry with my creations. It's just that the muse is flighty and picky with me, and unfortunately never stays with the same muse for long. It rests comfortably in that muse for a few days, maybe a few weeks, on the rare occasion even a month or so, and then takes off again, flitting to another one or going off to take a vacation, leaving me in a slight stupor from writing and a little bit anxious about when my muse will return. And my poor characters, in my poor story, sit untouched for who knows how long. It makes me feel so neglectful!<br />
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I visit them. I read over what I've written and I <i>wish</i> I could write more. I wish I could finish those stories. But when the muse isn't smiling, I can't write like those characters deserve. But I visit them, and still love them, and whisper promises that someday, they will have their ending. Someday. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpiD4Ynw4hWgiNchgEYq2jPCopr9p9tP67bw07znUeim7LwH6GsFfmCqNWSvGKAKTNgRlphyxYVgJ82tyYL90Yw82x-Zc3v0AFSizB6LI2s7FmUV0Nrvxuf85Zflf6JDWZOEsWbHypthao/s1600/13634252-someday-green-road-sign-with-dramatic-clouds-sun-rays-and-sky.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpiD4Ynw4hWgiNchgEYq2jPCopr9p9tP67bw07znUeim7LwH6GsFfmCqNWSvGKAKTNgRlphyxYVgJ82tyYL90Yw82x-Zc3v0AFSizB6LI2s7FmUV0Nrvxuf85Zflf6JDWZOEsWbHypthao/s320/13634252-someday-green-road-sign-with-dramatic-clouds-sun-rays-and-sky.jpg" /></a><br />
I am always promising a someday, and I swear that someday will come. Hint hint, muse. Stop flitting. Come back. And settle already!<br />
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Wanna know what my most recent two victims are? An unstable workaholic father who falls in love with the nanny taking care of his son, and a female cross of Jason Bourne and every awesome action flick chick you've ever seen. They are amazing. A lot of my writing is inspired by things in my life, what movies I've seen, what songs I'm listening to, what actors or actresses I'm obsessing over, etc., and these two are no surprise. Well, actually, my super secret agent/spy girl was kind of a surprise, she snuck up on me, but I have had her niggling around in my brain for awhile now. In the time I have been writing these two muses, I've written something like 90+ pages between the two of them, and not even made a dent in how long their stories will eventually be. I have pivotal moments, or nonsense moments that pop into my head, a string of events that I organize into chronological order and hope beyond hope that someday I will be able to knit all these pieces together into a complete and understandable story. (I hate that part, by the way. The knitting.)<br />
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I wish I had the focus and the inspiration to be able to just work on one story at a time. I really do. But it seems, that whenever I have the muse smiling at one muse, the muse tends to smile and give me ideas for several all at one time. So, really, focusing on one is really just unreasonable. If I have an idea for a muse, be it a sentence, a picture in my head, a phrase, an emotion, anything, I HAVE to write it down. And if I postpone, if I just make myself a note to do it later, I lose the magic of the moment. And it's quite terrible, and it makes me feel horrible, so I get stuck between four or five different muses at the same time, trying to do them all justice with completely separate emotions happening in each one, and it's truly exhausting. <br />
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I sound like a deeply disturbed person, don't I? Well, that's because I am. Disturbed and annoyed and pestered and gifted by having these amazing, wonderful, absolutely hysterical characters in my head. I can't even claim this brilliance for myself, I have imaginary friends in my head telling me to write brilliant things. And I do hope they never stop.<br />
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Truly, words have changed my life. Reading them, hearing them, writing them, words have become a ruling part of my life, a majority of who I am. And even if no one in the world ever reads my words, it is enough for me to have written them. To have them out of my head and in a physical form is something beyond spectacular. To someday have someone read them, and maybe love them even a fraction as much as me, maybe that would be too much to hope for. But it could happen. As much as critique and criticism scares me, I would be willing to let my words be read anyway, just in case one person finds something worthwhile in them.<br />
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Maybe that's just what all this is about, this lonely little post floating out there in the abyss of the internet. Maybe someone will catch it in their net as they surf along one day, and maybe they will want to read more. Maybe they will read what I have written, and they will smile. Maybe. And out of the words I treasure beyond my ability to say, I will have created something . . . beautiful.<br />
M.E. Bellamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07260642160571764359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794262347975600073.post-19213883300034033442013-03-23T14:15:00.000-07:002013-08-15T01:18:41.405-07:00The Sneaky Nature of FandomsI was pondering last night on the natures of fandoms (I use the word in a loose context, BTW, I mean anything you can be a fan of, not just nerd things). In particular, I was thinking about how the love of something can be either immediate, or come up out of the blue and over time. Or how you can be a fan of something for a long time, and never really understand exactly what it is you're a fan of. I have a few examples.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvm2wAUP2eMtov3yrGdpcqfLACVSqq2vyhz6Vrf-HJXRnTbPZCdNdu6pNf5YI6axUu4A3Pkpq9JltkF1LIUxfGMy3E5_73iWbRZAPqrbYTW1ccdRlBJGLlHIcaHWws1khpe3ARFP39PcvJ/s1600/pirates.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvm2wAUP2eMtov3yrGdpcqfLACVSqq2vyhz6Vrf-HJXRnTbPZCdNdu6pNf5YI6axUu4A3Pkpq9JltkF1LIUxfGMy3E5_73iWbRZAPqrbYTW1ccdRlBJGLlHIcaHWws1khpe3ARFP39PcvJ/s320/pirates.jpg" /></a><br />
My fandom I have been indulging this week is Pirates of the Caribbean. Yeah, y'all know what I'm talking about. There are not enough flattering words for those movies. This was a fandom that was immediate, it took no time at all, sitting in the movie theater that first time, to just fall in love with everything about it. I loved the story, I loved the costumes and sets, and more than anything, I LOVED the characters. Captain Jack Sparrow in particular. Like a lot of people, in the wake of Lord of the Rings, I had gone to the movie primarily interested in seeing Orlando Bloom, since he'd pulled off the whole hot Elf thing so well. <br />
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And I left that theater with a raging crush on Johnny Depp.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3X56xLtqrf3Op1q6KsZU3zmA6G0iayN8sZhzv8n3C61JiwVCPWd55FSMHAZe4RzSUeZBtgNpSDWTtCAdkRCdwjpniAF6yxGofTcXPWsc5ZaG1BYUCl-_QWq17qqtTAvF0claSChQkXaN4/s1600/captain-jack-sparrow.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3X56xLtqrf3Op1q6KsZU3zmA6G0iayN8sZhzv8n3C61JiwVCPWd55FSMHAZe4RzSUeZBtgNpSDWTtCAdkRCdwjpniAF6yxGofTcXPWsc5ZaG1BYUCl-_QWq17qqtTAvF0claSChQkXaN4/s320/captain-jack-sparrow.jpg" /></a><br />
Who can blame me? Most everyone else did the same thing. This was the movie that skyrocketed Johnny Depp to superstardom, and for good reason. He is my favorite actor, and he deserves it. There is not a role that this man cannot play. Trust me, I've seen a lot of his work. He is brilliant.<br />
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So, anyway, there's my example of a fandom that was immediate. An instant love of the Pirates world and everything in it. My next example, the sneaky fandom that pops up out of the blue, is another Hollywood alum.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOIhRd6aMflZK6uqFDU6RgVans8uPMcoXgeWebwRTLBNR-fCfdcGe5PuEtNCJMKEZjhElagxB3VY1wvcQHc_h3tu_b931OxxtdUL5ja4eDDBw1F4Mw07Gk3EHLCUUiixPENYo13SWL-AQq/s1600/robert-downey-jr.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOIhRd6aMflZK6uqFDU6RgVans8uPMcoXgeWebwRTLBNR-fCfdcGe5PuEtNCJMKEZjhElagxB3VY1wvcQHc_h3tu_b931OxxtdUL5ja4eDDBw1F4Mw07Gk3EHLCUUiixPENYo13SWL-AQq/s320/robert-downey-jr.jpg" /></a><br />
Robert Downey Jr. I'm fairly sure I have mentioned once or twice my . . . slight obsession with this man before. And it's an obsession that truly came out of nowhere. I had seen Iron Man before, and I liked it. I had seen other movies with RDJ before, specifically Sherlock Holmes, and while I liked them, it wasn't anywhere near a fandom level. Just a standard, "Oh, this is a good movie, he's a good actor" kind of thing. I think I was watching Jude Law while watching Sherlock Holmes more than I watched Robert Downey Jr. <br />
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But then, one night my husband and I decided to watch Iron Man again, and . . . the fandom was born. I fell in love.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4R56VfKW_bUxDUlu_ZXIPDf2xWbRyp1DfVGf-YToSLyBxgLR4MWaRCS7Wr55oG_oubdwuIoP5CYrI6X-zqxTDoBpxM3rfBMAaxX8Tn_Ydx_UM1IBs-GV8DrlbySin4LVO4tQxGoqA5xSN/s1600/iron-man.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4R56VfKW_bUxDUlu_ZXIPDf2xWbRyp1DfVGf-YToSLyBxgLR4MWaRCS7Wr55oG_oubdwuIoP5CYrI6X-zqxTDoBpxM3rfBMAaxX8Tn_Ydx_UM1IBs-GV8DrlbySin4LVO4tQxGoqA5xSN/s320/iron-man.jpg" /></a><br />
Something about that arrogant, funny, quick-witted character had me glued to the screen in a way I hadn't been the first time I watched it. I was utterly enthralled. And then, I'm not sure exactly what happened next, but either way they happened in quick succession. I watched Sherlock Holmes again. And it was clear that it was not just Tony Stark who had stolen my heart. It was the incredibly gifted actor playing the role. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdhmbFWHDPOLUiS0IrtUYai_oqvIZ8iVEFDWU8dh8zSf3a6UuGD1wxIRpRxMS42TYd7FChEBLhPErxHo2IflQFCdwQo4QhFKfnvzT8oLJRagH12sjcMpniHyKus1VKp7nsL0Nm8WrGHLp1/s1600/2060697981_1356368917.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdhmbFWHDPOLUiS0IrtUYai_oqvIZ8iVEFDWU8dh8zSf3a6UuGD1wxIRpRxMS42TYd7FChEBLhPErxHo2IflQFCdwQo4QhFKfnvzT8oLJRagH12sjcMpniHyKus1VKp7nsL0Nm8WrGHLp1/s320/2060697981_1356368917.jpg" /></a><br />
Don't get me wrong, I adore the character of Tony Stark and Sherlock Holmes as well, but my heart truly belongs to RDJ. And the same time as watching Sherlock Holmes, I also made the big, BIG mistake of looking up clips of Robert Downey Jr on YouTube. <br />
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I was stuck there for days. I kid you not, I do not exaggerate. Days. Yes, breaks were taken for things like eating, mothering, sleeping, etc., but I did not do any other personal time activities other than watch clips of that man for DAYS. Hours upon hours upon hours, and one stint even lasted 8 hours after I put Sammy to bed! I'm not kidding! I voraciously pounced upon every video I could find that had RDJ in it. I saw clips from movies, I saw dozens of interviews, I saw behind the scenes featurettes, I saw everything. I can even tell you which video it was when I absolutely fell in love with him, the man, not the characters. <br />
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I2GGT-qiwkU">This one.</a><br />
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Again, not kidding. I've seen that clip probably 20 times now. I have it memorized. Shut up. I can feel you laughing.<br />
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Anyway, that spawned an outrageous need to watch every movie RDJ had ever been in (he and Johnny Depp are similar in that they can play ANY role), know about his life (that was a party, let me tell you), and I also discovered that he is a musician. A d*mn good one. I hadn't even known it, but he had even released an album. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoM6rwVX2oT7lUQa3pIfpz0V0MD7Vfv8PlSGHijx9i6XexB7HRhrwqbihgg5ZePtmUjXCSoSiSFWiBVlFnxvZfRwbJ8pjhog8Ak5E2Qlvm0rW_KYNpape6G20dF_KIRx9FMNPH-nF1FCOV/s1600/15TheFuturist_.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoM6rwVX2oT7lUQa3pIfpz0V0MD7Vfv8PlSGHijx9i6XexB7HRhrwqbihgg5ZePtmUjXCSoSiSFWiBVlFnxvZfRwbJ8pjhog8Ak5E2Qlvm0rW_KYNpape6G20dF_KIRx9FMNPH-nF1FCOV/s320/15TheFuturist_.jpg" /></a><br />
Which I downloaded. And listen to frequently. And sing along, because I have all those memorized too. (Side note: I kind of melted a little bit when I heard his voice. Like, into a puddle of gelatinous goo on the floor because it had been awhile since I had heard something so seductive and sexy as that husky, gorgeous voice.) Here's a link to one of my favorites songs of his, if you wanna give it a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0I5AvHylAyI">listen</a>.<br />
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Now, I want to make sure we're clear that I'm not stalking the man, or that I'm a creeper. I've purposely kept myself from going THAT far. (I don't live in Hollywood anyway, so it's not feasible.) I know what year he was born, but not what day, and I know about his family, but not intimate details. And I think that Robert and his wife, Susan, are the most adorable couple in the world. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif0jgsbxTVmpakbwcXmcbiSKmhVNTuA2O7gDKzDtQLRm9eBNx9wyfuvCUigztgBspj5fnT_hAe6m_12zancVfqjzG_xeTYePvZQSTSKykRsJ32X9dUbmEuAM0Lxh2fiuz2_Pb4_jqF0ENg/s1600/wenn2710616.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif0jgsbxTVmpakbwcXmcbiSKmhVNTuA2O7gDKzDtQLRm9eBNx9wyfuvCUigztgBspj5fnT_hAe6m_12zancVfqjzG_xeTYePvZQSTSKykRsJ32X9dUbmEuAM0Lxh2fiuz2_Pb4_jqF0ENg/s320/wenn2710616.jpg" /></a><br />
Their love story is just ridiculously cute. (Yes, I watched that interview. And that one. And that one . . . )<br />
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So, yeah. Fandom that inexplicably became a fandom despite having been exposed to it before. And, I'll have you know, this is the fandom I am currently most known for. If my friends have a RDJ related question, guess who they ask . . . And I usually know the answer.<br />
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This next one is the fandom where I was a fan for years, and didn't even know it. And this one goes to the King of Rock and Roll.<br />
<br />
Elvis. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh55vO994q6IYwixJ6Md3R8we3-StdmsyNh32Sy_6zxTfx6XYY996h24fCYt4Yc0V-7x4bA_V2_4rg2zqCziZ3de0ZV56CvD5jr9dOCoLhp_oigWZz3xlyeJ9uPCfonjM99Pb-ce7Xn44-s/s1600/Elvis_Show.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh55vO994q6IYwixJ6Md3R8we3-StdmsyNh32Sy_6zxTfx6XYY996h24fCYt4Yc0V-7x4bA_V2_4rg2zqCziZ3de0ZV56CvD5jr9dOCoLhp_oigWZz3xlyeJ9uPCfonjM99Pb-ce7Xn44-s/s320/Elvis_Show.jpg" /></a><br />
Look at that face. Who doesn't love that face?<br />
<br />
Anyway, this fandom came about in an interesting way. See, I have inherited most of my music tastes from my parents. When I was little, I was exposed to a big variety of music, since my parents have different tastes. My mom loves country, my dad loves . . . well, he loves a lot of stuff that played when he was growing up. So whenever we were at home or in the car, there was always music going. Country with my mom, an alternative rock station for my dad when he wasn't listening to KSL (news, talking, I hated it), and for four solid years there, we were parked on an oldies station that played music from the 50's through the 70's. Carpenters, Air Supply, the Beach Boys, Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons, the Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel. All of the goodies. Even if I didn't know the words, I knew the tune, and boy, do I have memories associated with all those tunes.<br />
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Anyway, while we were in this oldies phase, I heard and loved so many songs, but being a kid, I never bothered to really find out who sang what. I knew the Carpenters by sound, since it was so distinct, but I knew very few others. (For the record, I could also pick out Reba McEntire in a lineup. My mom was very proud.) So I heard Devil in Disguise, Return to Sender, Suspicious Minds, Can't Help Falling in Love, all without knowing that it was Elvis singing those songs. Even Jailhouse Rock didn't tweak in my head that it was Elvis.<br />
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And then, many years later while I worked as a librarian and I was putting CD's away one day, I happened to flip over an Elvis CD to look over his songs and lo, to my surprise, I had been a fan of Elvis all those years and never knew it! <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCtO_fGAez9upLk_UGOg6tx2JtlOolnCvpk_T35S9-WgCGUbOGVY-HLSEfvwi-Xsz4xJGErkWIagZ22Ffygi6pbP-bQ8tuQ9LQ6dfKMUZjOhPA7wR5bFukLByzo4qzuiv86QlWoM7JDWlA/s1600/Golden+Singles+Vol+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCtO_fGAez9upLk_UGOg6tx2JtlOolnCvpk_T35S9-WgCGUbOGVY-HLSEfvwi-Xsz4xJGErkWIagZ22Ffygi6pbP-bQ8tuQ9LQ6dfKMUZjOhPA7wR5bFukLByzo4qzuiv86QlWoM7JDWlA/s320/Golden+Singles+Vol+1.jpg" /></a><br />
Return to Sender and Devil in Disguise were a couple of my favorite songs and I had never known that they were Elvis songs! I gleefully took that CD home, listening with joy to songs that I loved that now had a name to go with a voice. I was pleasantly surprised! No wonder everyone made such a fuss about Elvis, now I knew why!<br />
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So Elvis turned out to be one of those fandoms that I'd been participating in all those years, just without knowing exactly what I was a fan of. I didn't mind finding that out, especially when I looked up pictures of the guy and discovered he was even more smoking hot that I had originally known (I'm talking younger Elvis, not horrible hair, jumpsuit Elvis). <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghjoEBgF4hwI0xxptzJfu7rKBjIamPLkTOFoQFkEmhb8xLCfk0T3ljlcmG4vBjD-s_pF4Ax6dxOU4bGv3inDkkyk9aSy7YhwY59b5azo4Rwt0-KDZE7m7dysxI5sOlqkj_jgU6HhH0YY16/s1600/elvis_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghjoEBgF4hwI0xxptzJfu7rKBjIamPLkTOFoQFkEmhb8xLCfk0T3ljlcmG4vBjD-s_pF4Ax6dxOU4bGv3inDkkyk9aSy7YhwY59b5azo4Rwt0-KDZE7m7dysxI5sOlqkj_jgU6HhH0YY16/s320/elvis_2.jpg" /></a><br />
I even have a poster, it's on my ceiling right now. Next to a poster of Johnny Depp's Mad Hatter from Alice in Wonderland.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiItPeOVgqTy40Y6PEJ-AlbH0cR_iC_WMsQRvonTTYq0hjHOKH_cLky_GWeD4RWij8ON_AR9b4pe5DXSnDWv4sJREf0RY71gRiiUMlUd1_k3Y0ow7CQDAZLoEPR8jCEWKZilTTm2ruZe4TF/s1600/original.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiItPeOVgqTy40Y6PEJ-AlbH0cR_iC_WMsQRvonTTYq0hjHOKH_cLky_GWeD4RWij8ON_AR9b4pe5DXSnDWv4sJREf0RY71gRiiUMlUd1_k3Y0ow7CQDAZLoEPR8jCEWKZilTTm2ruZe4TF/s320/original.jpg" /></a> <br />
Robert Downey Jr. in an Avengers poster is on the back of my door, which is another fandom, BTW.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2YT8TXKiroztqfl1uQvvgulBqqwcnPuJLsivTLCjiBJHtmV22k6o1FlNycT_AloGz3DrzVAeFy6HZXo9rVidn53LzP2fo3wQ9Pu1fD7YIoicOo4cXRdmAnjrqlL0IH_3saS2ev990DgJk/s1600/The-Avengers-650ff76d.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2YT8TXKiroztqfl1uQvvgulBqqwcnPuJLsivTLCjiBJHtmV22k6o1FlNycT_AloGz3DrzVAeFy6HZXo9rVidn53LzP2fo3wQ9Pu1fD7YIoicOo4cXRdmAnjrqlL0IH_3saS2ev990DgJk/s320/The-Avengers-650ff76d.jpg" /></a><br />
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I love fandoms. I love being a fan of things. I love being a nerd in the way that I can have totally unreasonable, irrational love and excitement about something that I find amazing and cool and worth my time. Simon Pegg said it best in this quote, I love it so much;<br />
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"Being a geek is all about being honest about what you enjoy and not being afraid to demonstrate that affection. It means never having to play it cool about how much you like something. It’s basically a license to proudly emote on a somewhat childish level rather than behave like a supposed adult. Being a geek is extremely liberating."<br />
― Simon Pegg<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMqjVM6nBj4huSCqEHPnJc0_8ZXWVD4kuXTyy0yIWP-aXcx6wFwnP4lbbsuPVjqDsjoRabkokyiyMvtsOkydLxMqS1vbr4s_hokj-qZMpAGPLrQ4bc6n9NwOJhbd8yNHDBNhkEJKdgyjQ5/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMqjVM6nBj4huSCqEHPnJc0_8ZXWVD4kuXTyy0yIWP-aXcx6wFwnP4lbbsuPVjqDsjoRabkokyiyMvtsOkydLxMqS1vbr4s_hokj-qZMpAGPLrQ4bc6n9NwOJhbd8yNHDBNhkEJKdgyjQ5/s320/images.jpg" /></a><br />
You are so right, Simon. Being a geek is liberating. Having fandoms is joyful and liberating. Having an unabashed love for something so distant from yourself is a unique kind of freedom. And so, I devote myself to my fandoms. I devote myself to the likes of Captain Jack Sparrow and Johnny Depp, Iron Man and Robert Downey Jr. Elvis. Harry Potter and J.R.R. Tolkein. Julia Quinn and J.R. Ward (romance authors). Narnia and Wonderland. I wholeheartedly express my enthusiastic, over the top, and sometimes childish love for these things that have endeared themselves to me and earned my eternal adoration.<br />
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I salute you, fandoms. I'm yours forever.<br />
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Now tell me, dear reader . . . share your dirty secret. What is, or are, your fandoms(s)?M.E. Bellamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07260642160571764359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794262347975600073.post-62757053977263256282013-02-19T17:04:00.000-08:002013-02-19T17:04:47.356-08:00A Pantry Worth Crying OverHave you ever watched a cooking movie like No Reservations or Julie and Julia, sat there for two hours of them making food that looks so good you can almost smell it through the TV? <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOuBKQSYrM2oTjoK5K0TVo9Xy0CJwn14o8zruVfIlQufp66wYpzDuSF8xFgmVzqGYlOoh1Hk4EJbn8Tv9ixooytzJKwHaL7gobw11ifupwoulqq1LMamxViFGvCOSvK9mrYEVliuOk2Gl0/s1600/boeuf_bourguignon.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOuBKQSYrM2oTjoK5K0TVo9Xy0CJwn14o8zruVfIlQufp66wYpzDuSF8xFgmVzqGYlOoh1Hk4EJbn8Tv9ixooytzJKwHaL7gobw11ifupwoulqq1LMamxViFGvCOSvK9mrYEVliuOk2Gl0/s320/boeuf_bourguignon.jpg" /></a> And you end up, at the end of the movie, so hungry that you would eat just about anything, even if it didn't look like that? So you go to your pantry or fridge, determined to find something even marginally awesome to eat. You open up the door. And want to cry.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9YPDOmgESrIDTthrqJJamVWWu95OsTaUlXaF9rqlCXdg1qoCbtxheO4Rxf6BI8RRVT3HgXqZzBu700uCZ-P6mUuVkhoEXnzEFkCLCpLmYRCfdvusZ74ouFcU9kYiZLv5qqeTmUr9nAWD7/s1600/empty_fridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9YPDOmgESrIDTthrqJJamVWWu95OsTaUlXaF9rqlCXdg1qoCbtxheO4Rxf6BI8RRVT3HgXqZzBu700uCZ-P6mUuVkhoEXnzEFkCLCpLmYRCfdvusZ74ouFcU9kYiZLv5qqeTmUr9nAWD7/s320/empty_fridge.jpg" /></a><br />
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Let us have a moment of silence for that horrible, horrible feeling.<br />
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*Sighs*<br />
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Ok, everyone done? Do you need another moment? No? Ok, moving on.<br />
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For anyone who didn't follow, the reason we are all crying and having a moment of silence is because the contents of our pantries and fridges . . . in no way resembles the kind of pantry or fridge you need to reproduce anything even slightly similar to what you just watched Amy Adams eat. Don't even get me started on having the patience to even give it a decent attempt, given ideal ingredients and kitchen accouterments.<br />
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This is just so not fair. And it has gotten to the point that I don't even watch Julie and Julia anymore unless I am prepared with something good to eat afterwards! Because I know what will happen, and I can't endure that heartbreak!<br />
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Or something like browning butter. Excuse me? I am already dragging out a mixer, half a dozen measuring cups and spoons, whisks and spatulas and spoons and EVERY OTHER DISH IN THE KITCHEN, but now you also want me to get out a pan, and painstakingly melt and saute butter in there until it is brown but not burned? Are you out of your freaking mind?! Come on, I am the kind of girl that reads a recipe, gets to the end and says, "Well, THAT'S not going to happen," and then either disregards it altogether or cuts corners like I'm late to work. Honestly. There is not way I'm going to sift those dry ingredients. The best you're going to get is I'm going to dump them all in a bowl together and give them a good stir with a whisk. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6MpTc2tK1XIUhoOQhyeZ1fqvMfgfAWEYdvP3bxyYPcEw5JWkEWDddsmL6X6IQiJfTL2ItzfKK3ALJwYkZs0mt5jgrVyw9nIihc5HhB_HayXU97G7vtp7Y9NyxFonhWTw_v4Qeo-P7dQjy/s1600/october2012-077.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6MpTc2tK1XIUhoOQhyeZ1fqvMfgfAWEYdvP3bxyYPcEw5JWkEWDddsmL6X6IQiJfTL2ItzfKK3ALJwYkZs0mt5jgrVyw9nIihc5HhB_HayXU97G7vtp7Y9NyxFonhWTw_v4Qeo-P7dQjy/s320/october2012-077.jpg" /></a><br />
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You know what needs to exist? A grocery store that will deliver 24/7. So that when people like me decide to watch a food movie at eleven at night, we actually have an option available when our mouths are watering and we're starving. "Yes, I need to order one of your meals from the freezer section. I don't care, something that looks even remotely similar to what Catherine Zeta-Jones just made that can be ready to eat in ten minutes." Such a place could make a killing, I'm telling you.<br />
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Come to think of it, y'know what would be even better? A magic fridge. "Fridge, I want chicken parmesan." *Ding!* "Ooh, yummy!" <br />
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"Fridge, I want Girl Scout cookies." *Ding!* *Munch*<br />
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"Fridge, I want a half-naked male model." *Error!* "Aww..." <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjosXCnFmaqT8LP4Yqm-WZJv1BfpX8F7AF_1W9cp0TojQt0ItNUivquk6K1wf0YPrQDEdUYGDyNGfmfcQEM7uMHMwg736A5A_By0OstBwuin1Vj8p86AQQM-sN4QVCxyKuT137LouJlim-e/s1600/Untitled.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjosXCnFmaqT8LP4Yqm-WZJv1BfpX8F7AF_1W9cp0TojQt0ItNUivquk6K1wf0YPrQDEdUYGDyNGfmfcQEM7uMHMwg736A5A_By0OstBwuin1Vj8p86AQQM-sN4QVCxyKuT137LouJlim-e/s320/Untitled.jpg" /></a><br />
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Anyway . . . <br />
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This is a serious problem, people. These beautiful food movies and sadly lacking fridges are contributing to food depression all over the world! Something must be done! Raise awareness! Because there are few things in this world sadder than a fridge, a cupboard, or a pantry worth crying over.M.E. Bellamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07260642160571764359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794262347975600073.post-38395941676230912602013-02-19T16:48:00.000-08:002013-03-18T16:04:45.906-07:00Sleeping Beauty, Bronchitis, and Disney MagicSo, my little five year old Sammy and I have been sick in bed (literally) for the past few days with bronchitis. It has . . . not been fun. At all. But at least one good thing has come of it. Sleeping Beauty. I shall explain. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMzYjbPnE2jZk9s-XAkyx0vswNQoMxwz99Jx1k71TsxUhiPOgNlCktjx3cu7G9WfXzKaRr0QJZ-fscLv5fyqQ1xWcuS2TGJ-9Ft4-3Nfwk9P_UADoeTy30Fm5pJFv5WWAO-_l7kelJaOZG/s1600/MV5BMjExODM3ODMyMF5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTcwNjg4MzM2MQ@@._V1_SY317_CR6,0,214,317_.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMzYjbPnE2jZk9s-XAkyx0vswNQoMxwz99Jx1k71TsxUhiPOgNlCktjx3cu7G9WfXzKaRr0QJZ-fscLv5fyqQ1xWcuS2TGJ-9Ft4-3Nfwk9P_UADoeTy30Fm5pJFv5WWAO-_l7kelJaOZG/s320/MV5BMjExODM3ODMyMF5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTcwNjg4MzM2MQ@@._V1_SY317_CR6,0,214,317_.jpg" /></a><br />
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You know how us as humans tend to fixate on things? For example, I've been fixated on Robert Downey Jr. for the longest time now, my sister in law has been fixated on Stargate (the AMAZING TV series), etc. Well, Sammy has been fixating on Sleeping Beauty. She has probably watched this movie 20 times this weekend alone. We're working on the fourth time through just today, and it's not even dinnertime yet. We've also watched special features, and done the Sleeping Beauty Castle virtual tour three times in a row.<br />
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Well, while the two of us are sitting in bed, sniffling and hacking and dabbing at watery eyes and trying to breathe past the enormous invisible elephants on our chests, I've been having Sleeping Beauty related epiphanies left and right. Seriously. I can't even Facebook them all, otherwise people would start questioning my Nyquil intake. (For the record, none. I don't do medicine I have to drink, and gel capsules make me gag just at the sight of them. See, my throat is seizing just thinking about them. *Gag*) So, in order to share these priceless epiphanies with the world, hello pretty blog! Hold onto your hats, people. It's about to get Disney all up in here.<br />
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First off, a rant. I know, odd thing to start with, but we're going with it anyway. And I promise, this all ties in at the end, bear with me. It's been a big trend recently to redo classic fairytales into these big, grand, live action adventures. Snow White has been done twice, Hansel and Gretel inherited Jeremy Renner and some witches, Alice in Wonderland got the Tim Burton treatment a few years ago, Red Riding Hood grew up and fell in love with a werewolf. Now, on my part, I've pretty much been a big fan of these. Mirror Mirror: wacky, but I loved it. Julia Roberts was GENIUS. Alice in Wonderland is a favorite, Johnny Depp has yet to find a role he can't do. Red Riding Hood appealed in the most bizarre way, since I'm not a big fan of the creepy things. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_PvwQ6Z517ykf_AClbjLGKw6E0g_3RW0HBW07T89UIjdYY6_tVdTs10vA2xJwkMHKzTfApWo450EQV71a3ZF60cpXRoOeYPCLIu6MAVU3W3lpLbKOtFgoynU_MpT9ZbuJhe_JqPUkaxu3/s1600/6216841898_49130b2e69_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_PvwQ6Z517ykf_AClbjLGKw6E0g_3RW0HBW07T89UIjdYY6_tVdTs10vA2xJwkMHKzTfApWo450EQV71a3ZF60cpXRoOeYPCLIu6MAVU3W3lpLbKOtFgoynU_MpT9ZbuJhe_JqPUkaxu3/s320/6216841898_49130b2e69_b.jpg" /></a><br />
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However . . . It all fell apart when we put the hot factor of Chris Hemsworth, the acting prowess of Charlize Theron, and the fantastic story of Snow White, with . . . Kristen Stewart. We gave a girl with as much expression as a brick wall the role of the fairest in the land. No. As of yet, not even the lure of Chris Hemsworth's muscles and Charlize Theron as the wicked queen have convinced me to sit through two hours of snooze on the part of director-screwing, Stony-Faced Stewart. I can't do it.<br />
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Which brings me to one of the next live-action fairytale interpretations set to hit the scenes, rumored to give us the backstory of one of the most famous villains in history, Maleficent (see, told you this would tie in). I'm stoked for this. As stoked as I was for Snow White and the Huntsman before I found out about that the fairest of them all was really going to be the least expressive of them all. I mean, come on! This is going to be awesome. The actresses they are picking to play these evil queens is genius. Julia Roberts, Charlize Theron, Angelina Jolie, these women are top of the totem pole. Watching them apply their own particular talents to such huge, fantastic characters is or is going to be AMAZING. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ4Lcx0-yIKUolqtAWS8VuIaG8mgqSBjwx6rKBd2xZXlWdcalPDFoBqgr-U0hQYL7IY-eiFhidnn8WVZ7XJO5t3mSmEL4tCQoXuuvJzZ-ygt-EVmWG-f0kZioYz-o6vgfI5Vj2RUNM7NpD/s1600/maleficent_teaserposter.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ4Lcx0-yIKUolqtAWS8VuIaG8mgqSBjwx6rKBd2xZXlWdcalPDFoBqgr-U0hQYL7IY-eiFhidnn8WVZ7XJO5t3mSmEL4tCQoXuuvJzZ-ygt-EVmWG-f0kZioYz-o6vgfI5Vj2RUNM7NpD/s320/maleficent_teaserposter.jpg" /></a><br />
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And while we're waiting anxiously for the summer of 2014 to find out what the good goshdang happened to muck up Maleficent's life, I have a theory: She and King Stefan have a history. I'm not sure what kind, but there has to be something going on there. Why else would Maleficent just randomly show up at the royal baby shower and be uber-pissed about not having been invited? It's a baby shower, not like you're missing much, just oohing and ahhing over this season's cutest in haute for baby.<br />
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Unless . . . it's your ex's baby with his wife he left you for. In that case, I can see being a bit miffed. Especially when the other woman has the gall to actually talk to you when you crash the party, putting on the innocent act and asking if you're not offended. If that's the case, they kinda asked for it. Yeah people, this is where my brain goes. I have a good time.<br />
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So, Maleficent is pissed, plants an evil curse on (her ex's?) baby, and disappears in a cloud of green smoke, leaving everyone's favorite good fairy, Merryweather, to unsnarl this mess. I have one question . . . <br />
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WHAT WAS MERRYWEATHER GOING TO GIVE THE PRINCESS BEFORE ALL THAT HAPPENED?! Seriously, this has been bothering me for years. The kid already has beauty and song, which seems like a pretty good deal to me, so what could the third gift have been that would have been equal to those gifts already given? Mysterious. But, as before, I have a theory. I would bet that Merryweather, being the adorable thing she is, was either going to give Aurora the gift of happiness or love. Because those are the kinds of things the spunky, cheeky fairy would value. And yet, despite this happy theory I have formed, I'm still going to drive myself nuts every time I see this movie. Which will probably be another two or three times before bedtime, if the day continues as it has been. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiliU6vlCkBHdNJgcSmYxcZF0HOEidLVsmobfBUV4NyahHIz09ltGik7MDH31-55LtfHuWpp0tf-i1dpfZROD0qtVK_ggp_Ln_VecziPXvjczXC_wV9rq_1K3G_DR_p7SNhb1BVx6Pikqxf/s1600/KG_MERRYWEATHER_001.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiliU6vlCkBHdNJgcSmYxcZF0HOEidLVsmobfBUV4NyahHIz09ltGik7MDH31-55LtfHuWpp0tf-i1dpfZROD0qtVK_ggp_Ln_VecziPXvjczXC_wV9rq_1K3G_DR_p7SNhb1BVx6Pikqxf/s320/KG_MERRYWEATHER_001.jpg" /></a><br />
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Since we're on the topic of Merryweather, that brings me nicely to my next thing. I have decided that dressing up as one of the fairies for Halloween would be totally awesome! I totally have the body type for it, short and round. And I could totally make that hat, I have some pretty mad hat skills (ask me about my Mad Hatter top hat). And, since my mother-in-law and sister-in-law are as big of Disney fans as I am, we could totally do a trio of all three!<br />
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Then my daughter threw in her two cents, and I was surprised. Sammy wants to be the green fairy, Fauna, Grandma can be Merryweather, sister-in-law can be Flora, our dog can be the dragon Maleficent, I can be Sleeping Beauty, and Daddy can be the prince. Of course I was delighted to be the princess in this scenario, so I graciously accepted. The temptation to do a dress that is splattered pink and blue is irresistible. If I am being Princess Aurora this Halloween, I am so doing that.<br />
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Ok peeps, a couple of quick tidbits of trivia will wrap this thing up, so here we go (I'm a BIG trivia fan, deal with it). The voice of Maleficent = Same woman who voiced the stepmother, Lady Tremaine, in Cinderella! The sound of the dragon snapping its jaws = Castanets! And this last one is my favorite: when Maleficent is taunting Prince Phillip in the prison in the Forbidden Mountain fortress, and his subsequent daring escape, all of that was originally meant to go to Prince Ferdinand in Snow White. The reason it didn't? When Snow White was being done, Walt Disney didn't think his animators could do a convincing enough human male (look at that picture, he had a point), so it was scrapped and put in Sleeping Beauty years later instead! Cool, huh?! Told ya, trivia nerd over here. I love this stuff.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpYNPL6t_IoS4vP-JI-Bkoarm-ZVnlqQ4pYuCyn8bNFBPRpM0jYnHaJB6cRPiuHNWgUXLTSy62YUytvxHDcf2ivScw44gw_HONRj7Dlyl24sJmPCeZA-1wHh1cXDui55BaVcTzexBMlQLZ/s1600/Untitled.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpYNPL6t_IoS4vP-JI-Bkoarm-ZVnlqQ4pYuCyn8bNFBPRpM0jYnHaJB6cRPiuHNWgUXLTSy62YUytvxHDcf2ivScw44gw_HONRj7Dlyl24sJmPCeZA-1wHh1cXDui55BaVcTzexBMlQLZ/s320/Untitled.jpg" /></a><br />
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You wanna know the best thing about this movie, and even all Disney movies in general, especially the classics? That they never stop being as awesome as the were the first time you saw them. I still get that thrill of romance when Prince Phillip starts dancing with Briar Rose, waltzing through the forest. I still laugh in delight as Flora and Merryweather bicker back and forth while the fairies are all preparing for the birthday party. I still feel that deep sense of foreboding and fear as Maleficent appears in the fireplace and lures Aurora away up the tower to the tune of that creepy music. It's magic. Disney magic. And even when I'm old and gray, looking far more like a Fairy Godmother than a princess, I will still see with wondering eyes everything that those movies have to offer. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbvj1QScF-W0-SjdeSZNdhZuMTPyGPn4SThQPvQjn2jM3r1xBvui8LSm-rQdKs0TNxUkhNFLLg282s-8dSOkt9myWOzesHeXiNMK3XzyvksJhMb3UmNUuOkpxuN7jk2HYb-rl3as0aa-_y/s1600/Disney-Logo-classic-disney-22116496-587-407.gif" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbvj1QScF-W0-SjdeSZNdhZuMTPyGPn4SThQPvQjn2jM3r1xBvui8LSm-rQdKs0TNxUkhNFLLg282s-8dSOkt9myWOzesHeXiNMK3XzyvksJhMb3UmNUuOkpxuN7jk2HYb-rl3as0aa-_y/s320/Disney-Logo-classic-disney-22116496-587-407.gif" /></a><br />
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P.S. Have you ever noticed that the horses in Disney movie are the most hysterical, outrageous creatures! The attitude! It's fabulous!<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirJp8TuVF5it69YMl7s3azTfjak1DxS7_Syqvov2MBPwizayY2aQ9VtcJtOipnNCVOf5W_Ns-Oz_9vdpOdWTelDvE-u1towSF3y_xkNFsz16O28rcW-Ho-xbEIPK4sV1bdxRS7AnnZy5LK/s1600/Disney-Horses-disney-princess-31472208-500-374.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirJp8TuVF5it69YMl7s3azTfjak1DxS7_Syqvov2MBPwizayY2aQ9VtcJtOipnNCVOf5W_Ns-Oz_9vdpOdWTelDvE-u1towSF3y_xkNFsz16O28rcW-Ho-xbEIPK4sV1bdxRS7AnnZy5LK/s320/Disney-Horses-disney-princess-31472208-500-374.jpg" /></a>M.E. Bellamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07260642160571764359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794262347975600073.post-11224060293720485072012-10-23T22:23:00.000-07:002012-10-23T22:24:16.306-07:00The Squash I SquashedI have learned sooo many new things today! One of them being that I really find pulling hair out of my tub drain distasteful. And my daughter always looks cute in a short bob (yes, she cut her hair again). The most . . . entertaining, perhaps, thing I have learned is that a jack-o-lantern is probably the closest I think I'll get to a whole, raw squash again.<br />
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Here's why: <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqD7TbRpVJFAihiEZHoUzxQQwvbEgCAGfE2mm05DhVbxdJyyoJmqJfwGPFZ0EP9v03pwkPOOjLO4KP_Wou_YiyA9VtNQoma867EsThghfcThCYv11yfPqvQo-vWIazLC_aKhJ5kNu2trf9/s1600/ButternutSquash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="267" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqD7TbRpVJFAihiEZHoUzxQQwvbEgCAGfE2mm05DhVbxdJyyoJmqJfwGPFZ0EP9v03pwkPOOjLO4KP_Wou_YiyA9VtNQoma867EsThghfcThCYv11yfPqvQo-vWIazLC_aKhJ5kNu2trf9/s400/ButternutSquash.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Last week at Sammy's preschool, they had a whole passel of butternut squashes that they were giving away. Feeling slightly adventurous, as I get sometimes, I grabbed one. I figured, hey, if I can't figure out how to cook the thing, we can always paint it for Halloween decor, right?<br />
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It'd been sitting on the counter since then, and I've been contemplating it. I looked up a few recipes on Google, and found everything from soup to roasted squash to pureed squash. Lots of options. Now, I know that most squashes are naturally quite sweet. Hello, pumpkin pie anyone? They didn't arrive at that delectable treat without some kind of suggestion in the right direction. So I'm figuring that most of this squash will probably be going towards some kind of sweet dish. Worst case scenario, we have butternut pie, a la imitation pumpkin! Which, really, how is that a bad thing? And the rest of it can go towards a savory dish, say, a halved recipe of soup since I'm the only one that will eat this stuff anyway!<br />
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I've been meaning to cut the sucker up and get cooking since Saturday, however, I've also been battling a cold that has been flirting with me for over a week and settled in for a nice, long-term relationship around Friday. Suckage. Big time. So, poor squash just sat on the counter, waiting to hear its fate. And that cold, yeah, still hanging around. I've packed its luggage and put it outside, even left an eviction notice, but it's not taking the hint.<br />
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Anyway, I picked up the squash this afternoon while dinner was baking, and I didn't even have a chance to decide what to do with it before I felt a squishy, wet soft spot on it. Well, obviously, if this squash is going to start going bad, I need to do something about it pronto. And painting it to look like a cutesy-pootsie ghoulie is out of the question now.<br />
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So . . . the real question is . . . what the devil do I do with the thing?! I start looking around online. And it seems like every recipe I find calls for already cooked squash. And the most common way to do that? Cut it in half and bake it in the oven for a couple hours.<br />
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Er, problem there. Because, um, I kind of already went Sweeney Todd on the thing, and it it now in three pieces, and sans the whole part that was soft. Not exactly perfect roasting material now, huh? So I'm just gonna have to find a different way to cook it! Which brings us to recipes, because there is no easily accessible alternative out there for what to do with three big pieces of butternut squash.<br />
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I did, however, find a unanimous agreement that the squash needs to be peeled and cubed. Ok, peeled. Peeling a squash. Zucchini is easy peasy lemon squeezy, that stuff has a thin peel like a cucumber. However, I have never tried to peel a pumpkin, and that was pretty much what I was lookin' at right then. So, for kicks, I pull out a vegetable peeler like it says.<br />
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I would have been there until December, I kid you not. Because not only is it practically impossible to peel a concave-shaped vegetable, but I would need to go over this thing with my dinky little potato peeler about three times to get through to the lovely orange stuff underneath the tan skin and pale stuff under it. Think orange, here. No that texture, but that idea. You take a peeler to an orange, what do you get? That white stuff underneath that you don't wanna eat. Same concept, pale yellow flesh under the tan skin that I don't wanna eat. So, peeler is a no-go.<br />
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Next option, I'm gonna have to just cut the skin off with a knife. So, which knife. Let's play a game! You bring me a knife that you think would peel a pumpkin, and I'll tell you if it'll work. And do not even think about touching that butter knife, because I will snigger at you. Put the paring knife back. Fillet knife? Don't be funny. Long skinny knife. Ha. Butcher knife, no. You will cut off your finger before you skin a butternut, because a knife that big will be a joke.<br />
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Ok, I'll tell you. You want a knife about 6 inches long, half the blade width of a butcher knife. We have two at my house, and they're my favorite, especially because I sharpen them before each use. I tried the fillet knife, and started laughing because I got 3 inches into a cut and realized that this was a fail of epic proportions because have you every tried to cut a jack-o-lantern with a fillet knife? Yeah, it's like trying to carve an apple with a spaghetti noodle. You need a big, sturdy bad boy to cut into a super-firm thing like a squash. You need a slightly flexible, equally sturdy smaller bad boy to PEEL a squash.<br />
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Now, I finally got started peeling this thing. It was not pretty, to say the least, my squash looked more like an abstract sculpture than a vegetable (fruit? What category would this be in?) by the time I was done with it. By this point, I was sighing a sigh of relief, and then hurdling onto my next project in between checking on my dinner and two pots on the stove (dinner is baking and cooking, remember?). Now I need to cut this puppy up!<br />
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This worked pretty well, and for this job I used the biggest baddest knife I had, a super-long butcher knife. Butternuts are tough suckers, and it took a little muscle to get through the big pieces, but after that cubing the small stuff was nothing. Wanna know what I did next?<br />
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Um, sorta nothing. I put them in a ziploc bag, and now, some five hours later, they're still there. Sitting on the counter. Waiting. I don't know what to do with it! I checked for how to store the stuff, but I got nothing for raw, cubed squash! Don't refrigerate was a common one, but that was for WHOLE squash. Apparently the cold does bad things for the flavor. But letting a skinned, cubed squash out all night might be bad, right? Yes? No? I don't know!<br />
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So here I sit, polishing off the leftovers of some truly fabulous chicken and some cold french toast from the day before, dipped in powdered sugar. A worthy dinner, I assure you. But I'm still bothered by the incredible conundrum that is THAT STUPID SQUASH! Because it's after 11 at night. And most of these recipes I'm looking over take a minimum of an hour to make! I really don't want to be up until nearly one in the morning, but what do I do with my baggie of squash in the meantime? I'm so stymied. <br />
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I guess . . . I'll stick it in the fridge. And then, in the morning when I take Sammy to school, I'll take it out. That can't do it TOO much damage, can it? I have no idea. *Frustration*<br />
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Anyway . . . I'm going now. I'm going to go stare at that cubed squash in a most cheerful shade of orange, and I'm going to get some information out of it if kills me. And, worst case scenario . . . I'll have a go at that butternut pie!M.E. Bellamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07260642160571764359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794262347975600073.post-39601066420115755512012-08-31T02:06:00.000-07:002012-10-23T22:31:35.254-07:00How the Baby Grew Up<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj05i2mrEbNJIINEEEoHHj_XBG4xkRBF823kc5bSAXL1cCkvppUFIQRTQPjtoDvJV89cVoMQuC0uOa3rRK0Guk9Fki25ct9BuWCHephea4UbohcDrNaymfqesHsWmdhpYEwIfN4R1hstAAA/s1600/2012-07-28+14.02.43.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj05i2mrEbNJIINEEEoHHj_XBG4xkRBF823kc5bSAXL1cCkvppUFIQRTQPjtoDvJV89cVoMQuC0uOa3rRK0Guk9Fki25ct9BuWCHephea4UbohcDrNaymfqesHsWmdhpYEwIfN4R1hstAAA/s400/2012-07-28+14.02.43.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I had another one of those moments a minute ago when I think about my daughter and kind of . . . sit there in awe and shock and completely unadulterated terror for a second about how fast things are changing. Thankfully these moments don't happen too frequently, or I'd be a basketcase, but I just had one. Allow me to explain . . .<br />
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So, Sammy starts preschool in one week. I know. A week ago she was still wearing toddler size clothes that come from the baby section, and then this week suddenly she knows her alphabet, is reading the letters off the label on the ketchup bottle, and we have to buy her clothes from the little girl section at the store. <br />
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Seriously. She picked an absolutely hideous pink and white zebra striped jumper to wear for her first day of school. I wanted the light pink, yellow, and orange plaid, or the cute striped one of the same color scheme, or the blue shirt and pant set with little chalk drawn hearts in different colors. But no. She wants the zebra stripes. Because she loves zebras. And it hasn't occurred to my nearly 5 year old that zebra stripes in preschool is a bit much. It doesn't help that I have exactly one bra that is anything other than boring and it happens to be zebra stripes (only fun one they had), which makes it the default when Sammy picks out my bra for me (don't ask how this got started, I still don't know).<br />
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Anyway, where were we? Oh, me freaking out a little that my baby is growing up. See, I can kind of figure out how this is catching me weird. It's because up until now, for Sammy's whole life, she's always been at home. She hasn't had daycare or anything like that to go away every day for, no schedule to meet. She was still a baby, a toddler, something other than a little girl in school.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMSnDJF_xy6-PFuG9g2Rk0lCLVbf8Vm1_YFnFojKOB_M_aD56Sm2miGMORr_Hn52W8LqYGhVOiuKP31hbGkHEMr1bN_uIyIYwz2Hsx_BbpNr-4wryadO6wtPBNQtVkbCkGLbUMaLBfmZyt/s1600/424290_3133594232038_457115918_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMSnDJF_xy6-PFuG9g2Rk0lCLVbf8Vm1_YFnFojKOB_M_aD56Sm2miGMORr_Hn52W8LqYGhVOiuKP31hbGkHEMr1bN_uIyIYwz2Hsx_BbpNr-4wryadO6wtPBNQtVkbCkGLbUMaLBfmZyt/s400/424290_3133594232038_457115918_n.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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But now . . . this is the precipice of a completely different time in her life. From now on, my baby is a student, a school kid, and for the next 14 years of her life, she will be going to school 9 months of the year. No, it's not like she's leaving home to go to a boarding school on the East Coast. But it's weird. Good and bad weird. Good because the child is driving me absolutely nuts, increasingly so over the last year or so. I think a nice 4 hour break 4 days a week sounds DIVINE. <br />
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But it's also bad, because . . . she just won't be my baby anymore. She is officially and irrevocably out of her toddler stage. And yeah, she hasn't been a toddler for something like 2 years now, but she's still kind of been in that group in my head. She's still been the baby. And now . . . nope. Not anymore. She is a grown up little girl who is going to school. And in two years, she starts elementary school, first grade, full time school. Which might be another big change, I don't know. I just know that this one, this leap from baby to preschooler, is a weird thing for me.<br />
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She is going to have so much fun. She's going to get to interact and play with a bunch of little kids her own age. She's going to suck up information and learning so fast, and I know she's going to love it. She'll have an absolute ball! And I'm sure she'll make new friends, and get to love her teachers, and I think she's just going to be the type of kid that loves school. I'm really excited for her.<br />
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But I sure will miss my baby. She'll always be my baby, in a lot of ways, but she's past that age now where she's still my toddler running around the house with jingle bells on her shoes so I can find her. She's a big girl. And her life is about to change in a major way. And so is mine.<br />
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I'm looking forward to making the journey with her. And at the same time, already missing my baby.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS3IsmMhtdNYzjEK7iByF9WTwL5uUV0tTgKVdWBPGW8lGRGjBx2N8lcH2ODNXc5NUdc4o6ToO-YiiWJigh1XCEvBKefCfNzGIfTOCUC_VzNpk4KMAYjxnFNzd6rH1vO5Wyfq9R38B8kzPx/s1600/200160_1766008243243_388715_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS3IsmMhtdNYzjEK7iByF9WTwL5uUV0tTgKVdWBPGW8lGRGjBx2N8lcH2ODNXc5NUdc4o6ToO-YiiWJigh1XCEvBKefCfNzGIfTOCUC_VzNpk4KMAYjxnFNzd6rH1vO5Wyfq9R38B8kzPx/s400/200160_1766008243243_388715_n.jpg" /></a></div><br />
M.E. Bellamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07260642160571764359noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794262347975600073.post-82865138121699759952012-07-26T18:48:00.000-07:002012-08-14T19:34:43.688-07:00Blood-Curdling Fear<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4P1XJU0dtlVB_XjKPb0uC9mQYHjTxQocIn3mjhc6txWxB7F9aZrgN6oOtyZqwKI4QjPsWoJy69kWYKWKUCqANZSv6FyA4Pof01Jf6NFdn5Lo1kCzPxfLsBwBgunB6Gh-BGsyBJiuiATcP/s1600/dark-night-full-moon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4P1XJU0dtlVB_XjKPb0uC9mQYHjTxQocIn3mjhc6txWxB7F9aZrgN6oOtyZqwKI4QjPsWoJy69kWYKWKUCqANZSv6FyA4Pof01Jf6NFdn5Lo1kCzPxfLsBwBgunB6Gh-BGsyBJiuiATcP/s400/dark-night-full-moon.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I was thinking about something the other night, something intriguing and terrifying all at the same time. This is kind of a two parter. One is deepest fears. The things that you, as a person, are absolutely terrified of. I'm not talking about jumping when you see a grass snake slither across the yard or avoiding horror movies because they kinda freak you out. I'm talking bone-deep, lung-constricting, literally shoots terror through your soul kind of fear. The second part was, oddly enough, death. I shall attempt to explain how these two are intertwined. And how they have nothing to do at all with that picture.<br />
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One of my deepest fears, and it is a recent one, is that I will die through some act of stupidity on my part, and in the seconds before I die horribly, I will know it is my fault and it could have been avoided. As I'm pitching off a cliff or a building because I wore unwise and unstable shoes, or leaned over too far to look. As I'm about to rear-end a semi and see God up close and personal because I took my eyes off the road for a second to skip a song on my CD. I have loads of these, the probable, the unlikely, the downright unfathomable, all things that end in my immediate demise or fatal injuring, things that could have been prevented. <br />
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I don't know why this scares me so much. I really don't. But it does. Just having that one crystal clear moment of "hindsight is a b*tch" before my life ends and I'm standing on the other side, unprepared and in an absolute panic about what just happened.<br />
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I have a theory as to why this terrifies me like it does. I have been the lucky winner of two near-death experiences, and a whole host of other experiences that shaved right close to near-death, but those are closer to the accident category and not the near-death one. <br />
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When I was 10, I nearly drowned trying to cross a river with my friend. This culminated with me, unconscious, hanging onto a log by no means that logic, reason, or science can explain, floating like a windsock in the water while hypothermia nearly set in. After a terrifying ride in an ambulance and night in the hospital, I was sent home, but it was a near miss. While I was in that water, when I was still conscious and flailing, trying to get my head above water long enough to suck in a breath of air and yell, I had one of those "life flashing before your eyes" kind of things. I pictured my family and, oddly enough, our pet. The whole time, from when my feet first started slipping on the slick rocks to when I finally fell unconscious, all I could think about was, "Why did we do this? Why did we try to cross the river? Why didn't we just go around?"<br />
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My second near-death experience isn't near as dramatic, but it easily could have been. When I was 14, I climbed a tree in my grandparent's yard, and 25 or so feet up, put my weight on a dead branch. It broke. I remember that I managed to grab ahold of a branch above me, and this is where I'm not sure what happened. I don't know if I slipped or if I just let go. Maybe part of my brain overrode the other part, and somehow knew that I wouldn't be able to hold on anyway. I honestly don't know.<br />
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Anyway, I fell, and escaped the incident with a broken bone in my foot and scratches on my hands and stomach from sliding down the trunk. I barely missed bashing my head open on several large branches on the way down, and although I wore a boot for the next three months for my foot and had one slightly panic-driven trip to the ER, it wasn't that big a deal.<br />
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I do remember thinking, on that split-second trip to the ground, "Why did I climb this tree? Why did I climb so high?" What was I thinking?" To find myself on the ground, alive, and certainly shaken up a second later was a relief. But I've had an intensified fear of heights ever since.<br />
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Other than these, I've been in several (at least 6) car accidents, been very near a lightning strike, had an emergency c-section with my daughter, and most recently ended up in the hospital with a very badly failed miscarriage that people tell me would have killed me if my sister-in-law hadn't taken me to the ER when she did. You might say I've led a very adventurous life.<br />
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I think it is from these experiences that I find myself in a panic when considering all the ways natural human folly and stupidity could lead to my death, and that undetermined amount of time at the end to look back and know exactly where I went wrong and pulled something stupid. It must mean that I am unprepared for death, and I know that in most ways, I am. I am not morally or spiritually ready for death in any way. Death itself does not scare me. The actual separation of spirit from body is not something I fear. It is the pain beforehand, and the judgement afterward that have me scared spitless.<br />
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I have other things like this that terrify me. Pain is one of them. I can handle normal pain, although I DO NOT like it. Headaches, hangnails, cramps, that sort of thing. I've even come through two surgeries and the pain both before and after. But I don't do extreme pain. Of the few times in my life that I have experienced this kind of pain, I know for sure that torture isn't for me. They wouldn't even have to get out the thumbscrews before I'd be spilling everything.<br />
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The other is the concept of eternity. I'm a Mormon, so eternity is something that is real and definite for me, but it sure scares me. I mean . . . eternity. Time without end. So after the end of the world as we know it and all that goes about, after all the things happen that I've learned about my whole life . . . then what? I'll tell you this, I have some theories about what happens next, and I don't like the one that seems most likely. Terrifying idea, that. But even if, after this life, we will live in a state of eternal bliss . . . what if I get bored? Seriously, ETERNITY. I can't even comprehend that, it's too much, it's too big. <br />
<br />
I know that I will be able to keep myself busy for awhile. I want to learn everything. I want to learn every language of this world and be able to speak it fluently. I want to go back to the beginning of the world and watch it all. I want to know all the mysteries, all the stories, all the histories, I want to be able to see it all. I want to see the rise and fall of Rome, the life of Cleopatra, what happened with the dinosaurs, how mankind spread across the globe, what kind of a personality Alexander the Great had, what it would have been like to have lived in Turn of the Century America. What really happened with all the scandals that rocked the world. What happened to Amelia Earhart. What's the deal with aliens? I want to learn everything. And I want to learn how to do everything do. Every instrument. How to fix cars. How to program a computer. The exact process that would go into making a whole world.<br />
<br />
But eventually there will be an end to the things that I could learn and learn to do. And I worry that someday, in the far off reaches of eternity, and I will maybe just want to peacefully cease to exist. <br />
<br />
This is deep stuff, huh? I know. I get way up in my head sometimes. That's probably why I don't act so serious the rest of the time, because my forays into the deep stuff always send me sprinting away post haste as soon as I've adequately frightened myself. Sometimes I like to contemplate the universe, the sheer size and composition of it, and I'm usually a brain-fried puddle after those little exercises.<br />
<br />
Deepest fears. The real ones. Do share with me, dear reader, your deepest fears. I am intrigued. The things that terrify me might seem silly to you, so tell me something about yourself. What leaves you awake at night, alone in your bed, too afraid to close your eyes because your mind is too much for your matter?<br />
M.E. Bellamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07260642160571764359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794262347975600073.post-30380639673223960572012-07-26T15:47:00.000-07:002012-07-26T15:47:02.674-07:00The Incredible Ineptness of Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjwzOt1ELqILxWHsieFZjfTQuXezclybOWkWhTwpq3sdx7CPp2hiPdGKU4ckmbC6qUpcf7bkJAAi8ixQcDC5-OeL3DRBDd2_ts2k8CchXUJNV5tnJT3WNCwKYAGk8aKxThlRAN_dIxmMiT/s1600/computer-user-error-mistake-malware-infection.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="232" width="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjwzOt1ELqILxWHsieFZjfTQuXezclybOWkWhTwpq3sdx7CPp2hiPdGKU4ckmbC6qUpcf7bkJAAi8ixQcDC5-OeL3DRBDd2_ts2k8CchXUJNV5tnJT3WNCwKYAGk8aKxThlRAN_dIxmMiT/s400/computer-user-error-mistake-malware-infection.jpg" /></a></div><br />
*Drums fingers on laptop* This is a problem. I am officially deeming myself incapable of knowing how to actually run this blog. Because I just pulled a stupid.<br />
<br />
I have, in the whole time writing this blog, and my other one, I have gotten 4 comments. Yes, four. Just four. For two blogs, written over almost two years, I think. <br />
<br />
And do you know what I just did? I deleted a comment I just got recently. It popped up in my comments box and I was SO EXCITED! And you know what was even better? It was from someone I don't even know! Two of my comments have been from my sister-in-law, which were awesome, but hardly counted since I know her! I live with her, actually, so she usually yells her comments through the wall or if we're feeling particularly lazy, she texts or IM's me. <br />
<br />
But this comment was from a stranger! And it was an awesome comment, about my Superhero post, and I even replied to it! And now I feel like such an idiot because I was stupid and deleted it! I figured that it was some kind of an alert, that I could delete the alert and keep my "comments inbox" looking all pristine and lonely. No. That's not the case. *Slams head against wall* <br />
<br />
I need lessons. I need someone to explain things to me! Facebook and Pinterest I was able to figure out just fine, but for some reason I cannot get the hang of this blog site! It's driving me nuts! How am I ever going to get followers to see how awesome and funny I am (oh please, I am practically leaking sarcasm right now, don't look at me like that) if they think I'm deleting their comments on purpose! *Wails*<br />
<br />
Anyway . . . I'm still feeling retarded. Betcha couldn't tell. I keep wracking my brain, trying to think of a way to undelete comments, since I've apparently been deleting them after I read and squee about them. <br />
<br />
Apologies, my dears. We are talking about a very incompetent and inept person, here. I am the girl that still does not know how to turn the wipers off in her car, so I guess it is to be expected that I managed to foul up a blog. I just expected this to be a little more, I dunno, easy?<br />
<br />
*Le sigh* Apparently not. Random stranger that left a comment on my Superhero post about your power being teleportation, I love you! I replied, I really did! <br />
<br />
I suck.M.E. Bellamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07260642160571764359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794262347975600073.post-47992243251083814352012-07-20T17:35:00.001-07:002012-07-26T18:49:30.485-07:00The Superhero Era<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBKTXD4YrVe9-u01MTndxxPIvfkhTqX49cFD-dvBGqP13U9YXu2vocIvG0FHIVM8aDQLqi5qT8FrUTFthX31-mfi20JEY1gXls9ld4DoWQkjNycgPZCm4K3IszGdBGYEPBgRpnpHrkCAnf/s1600/2006+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBKTXD4YrVe9-u01MTndxxPIvfkhTqX49cFD-dvBGqP13U9YXu2vocIvG0FHIVM8aDQLqi5qT8FrUTFthX31-mfi20JEY1gXls9ld4DoWQkjNycgPZCm4K3IszGdBGYEPBgRpnpHrkCAnf/s400/2006+2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
And that era is now. And I'm not just talking about how superhero movies have been on the rise lately, culminating most recently in The Avengers coming out and followed by Comic Con this week, I'm mostly talking about the glorious rise of the superhero in my life.<br />
<br />
I can actually tell you exactly when this all started. It was a few weeks ago, I had told my husband that unless he took me to see Avengers with the gift card we got from my grandparents at Christmas (yeah, it took us that long), I was going to see it with somebody else. He knew I was serious about it, so he agreed and in preparation we started watching whatever superhero movies that had preceded it, specifically Hulk, the Iron Man's, Thor, and Captain America.<br />
<br />
It was all over when we watched Iron Man. I had seen it before, once, and I did like it a lot then, but this time . . . somehow the stars aligned, the planets were in the right positions, and the power of the universe united in that moment and I was undone. Besides the MASSIVE crush/obsession I developed for Robert Downey Jr. that is still ongoing, I also fell in love with superhero movies. So far I have watched Captain America twice, Thor at least three times, I am not going to share my count of Iron Man movies (partly because I lost count), the 2008 Hulk with Edward Norton, Green Lantern, Hancock (don't argue, he's a superhero), Daredevil and Elektra I've seen many times, and I have a list waiting that I'm making my way through. <br />
<br />
I have Fantastic Four from Netflix on my bed right now, X-Men's in my movies cases, the Batman movies with Christian Bale, the 2003 Hulk with Eric Bana, and I'm considering the Spider Man's with Tobey Maguire. Leaning towards a no on those, since I don't like, well, most of the actors in those movies. And I've heard that the new Spiderman is amazing! I've seen all the others except Spiderman. I'm also debating Cat Woman (yes, the Halle Berry one that was reportedly awful), and I counted League of Extraordinary Gentlemen on my list just 'cause.<br />
<br />
I also saw Avengers. And oh. My. GOSH! It was so awesome! It was epic! It was on the scale that Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings and Star Wars were done, it was just . . . I was in awe the whole time. So, so good. I will actually pay full price for that movie when it comes out, and I RARELY do that. I am a discount bin/Amazon/Ebay kind of girl, so when I am willing to pay full price for a movie, you know how serious things are.<br />
<br />
Anyway, so you can see how serious I've been about my superhero movies lately, and that is only part of it. Actually, probably about half of it, but still. There is more. I have been reading fanfiction. I have never been a fanfic reader before, I never had a ship (relationship) that I was in favor of, and I never wanted to take on the enormous task of sifting through the loads of crappy fics out there to get to the really golden ones. But I kind of have with this one. At this moment, I have three massively long (over 100 pages each) fanfics saved on my computer because I like them so much! Two are Avengers and the other is Pepperony (Pepper and Tony Stark from Iron Man). This is getting serious. I also spent the better part of the last two days trolling over an Avengers Tumblr, just looking at all the fun pictures and nonsense on there.<br />
<br />
Ok, enough about that. I didn't actually intend to come on here and have a whole fountain of every little superhero thing going on in my life. I actually thought of the popular "If you could have a superpower, what power would you chose?" question. And I have had mine decided for years, so I thought I'd make it official.<br />
<br />
There are a lot of superpowers to choose from. Invisibility, strength, x-ray vision, all kinds of body transformations and manipulations, just everything! All of them would be awesome to have, I can imagine, but my superpower . . . would be the ability to fly.<br />
<br />
Oh, yes. That would be my dream. Which is ironic, since the closest I have ever come to flying was jumping off the swings at the playground, or the rides at Lagoon. Nope, never been on an airplane. But maybe that explains it, my yearning to fly. Imagine how much easier things would be! Getting to work would be a matter of mere moments or minutes! Going to the store to grab that one stupid thing you forgot would be a breeze! Just getting out of the house and going soaring to escape normal life for a minute without having to use up the gas in your car! I would love to be able to fly. Seriously. Most awesome superpower ever!<br />
<br />
Although, come to think of it, being able to summon people to me at a whim would be pretty epic, too. My life would be a constant stream of celebrity visitations, I'm telling you. Starting with Robert Downey Jr.<br />
<br />
So how about you? Favorite superhero, superpower, or super movie?<br />
<br />
M.E. Bellamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07260642160571764359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794262347975600073.post-44304703118914529542012-07-13T13:04:00.000-07:002012-10-23T22:35:42.852-07:00MommyphobiaI've been having that kind of week . . . the kind where you look at your sweet child(ren) and honestly understand why some creatures eat their own young. Oh yes. You moms know what I'm talking about.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigRqArnUPT5OOPc8Wd_vr6x6h9TJEQ_Arq3-Hq7XFPO2LFev6IUjkcn9E9Is2NB-tD3r-2Bz8gVoLu7SYNxzJqqEjgadNpO9pGP7W4bmW7a4H-cHc5XJj8ZgegsluwPm7jpcPY1aCIFRG3/s1600/Untitled.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="173" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigRqArnUPT5OOPc8Wd_vr6x6h9TJEQ_Arq3-Hq7XFPO2LFev6IUjkcn9E9Is2NB-tD3r-2Bz8gVoLu7SYNxzJqqEjgadNpO9pGP7W4bmW7a4H-cHc5XJj8ZgegsluwPm7jpcPY1aCIFRG3/s320/Untitled.jpg" /></a></div><br />
First of all let me put this out there, I am SO NOT Mommy of the Year material. To be quite frank, I'm not all that good at being a mom. It's just really difficult for me. Probably because I'm a selfish, self-involved person, especially with my free time, and sharing that time is incredibly difficult for me. This is not something that Supermom deals with, I swear. Supermom always plays with her kids and they always look nice and act polite and never do naughty things, and Supermom herself is so disgustingly good at it that you kind of want to bash her head into a wall just to give her a handicap to put her about level with yourself.<br />
<br />
So. Mommyphobia. Let me explain. Mommyphobia is what you have when you find yourself completely and utterly overwhelmed and stifled by the cute little blessings in your life. You love them dearly, you always will, but if you could hire a babysitter for the day, you would do it and run away for a few hours without a backward glance. Just to go somewhere to get that crazed look out of your eye that makes you want to take a baseball bat to every single toy in the house.<br />
<br />
It's like being claustrophobic (fear of small spaces), agoraphobic (anxiety in situations where it is perceived to be difficult or embarrassing to escape), and suffocating all at once. You feel panic, sheer and utter panic, and it's a very unstable lid that you're keeping on it all. You want to run away, you want to scream, you want to bury your head under your pillows and cry. All that is happening is your child wants you to play, just take the big giraffe and follow her prompts and play house with the little giraffe, but it feels like you're being water boarded and there's no way out.<br />
<br />
As you can imagine, this is a problem. This is a situation that really has no solution. The best you can do is turn on one of those sickeningly happy and perky kids shows that you hate, send your little angel in to watch it, and hide for a bit. Eat a pound of chocolate, chug a 64 oz. Dr. Pepper, turn on soothing music, try to back away slowly from that anxiety attack you've been flirting with. If you have a babysitter, now would be the time. If you have a spouse or family around to help, now would be the time. Preserve your sanity while you can!<br />
<br />
Because you know that in fifteen minutes, your little darling will be coming to barge in on your little cocoon of seclusion, waving around another plastic toy to play with, demanding string cheese and chocolate milk, and you are going to have to suppress the urge to scream while you smile and remind them to say please.<br />
<br />
You love them, you adore them, you really do. But some days you feel a stunning oneness with the creatures that eat their own young.M.E. Bellamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07260642160571764359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794262347975600073.post-63858440491922989052012-06-20T01:30:00.002-07:002012-06-20T01:32:39.514-07:00JeremyThis isn't a happy post, unfortunately. Nor is it a sarcastic or a witty one, because that would have been a lot more enjoyable for me to write. Actually, this particular blog post is kind of an "in memorium". And it probably won't be important to anybody, but for some reason it is important to me.<br />
<br />
I went through a miscarriage this month. Jeremy is the name that my husband and I picked out for our baby. We don't know for sure that it was a boy, but . . . that's just what we feel. And we've been calling it a him.<br />
<br />
I got pregnant in April after about a year or so of me being off birth control. I'm not really surprised it had taken us so long, since my husband's job requires him to be away from home literally almost 90% of the time, and we actually had to make special arrangements for me to go with him so we could conceive. And I did.<br />
<br />
I took a pregnancy test in May which confirmed I was pregnant, and my husband was absolutely thrilled. He couldn't stop smiling, he posted it immediately on Facebook, and told everyone in the family that he was going to be a daddy again.<br />
<br />
About a week later went in for my first prenatal appointment. I was almost 9 weeks along, and despite me being so early in the pregnancy, my doctor did an ultrasound anyway. And there it was, just a tiny little shape tucked in there, and yet despite him being so young we still got to hear the heartbeat. And due, of all days, on Christmas Eve.<br />
<br />
All this time, and over the next couple weeks, we made plans. I had the names all picked out if it was a boy or a girl, although we and most everyone else still thought it was a boy. We figured out where to put the crib in our cramped bedroom, got it figured out how to work around Pete's work schedule when it got time for the baby to be born, and even got it settled with my doctor that since I'd had problems with my last labor and delivery, this time we'd just schedule a c-section.<br />
<br />
Long story short, I started spotting and then cramping about a week after my appointment. I called my doctor in a controlled panic when the spotting hadn't stopped after a couple days, and I was put on bed rest for the weekend. Unfortunately, at that point it was already too late. After a very long afternoon of tests and ultrasounds at my doctor's office, it was confirmed that I had miscarried. The baby was too small for me being 11 weeks along, and there was no heartbeat.<br />
<br />
I had called my mom the day before to have her come and be with me for my appointment because Pete was at work. And I had bawled to her on the phone when I did, because I just had this horrible, sinking feeling that I had lost our baby. I sobbed about it, trying to be quiet so I didn't make Pete worry, but he caught me anyway and just told me over and over that it was ok, and I tried so hard to try and be hopeful for him.<br />
<br />
Telling Pete that it was a miscarriage was one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life. I didn't want to tell him. He'd been texting all day, asking how things were going, keeping up with what was going on, and for a few minutes I just didn't have the heart to tell him that we'd lost our little one. When I talked to him on the phone a little while later when I had some privacy, it was undoubtedly the worst phone call I've ever had. The sheer . . . grief in his voice made my heart break, even more than it already had broken. <br />
<br />
I had let myself get excited for our baby. With our first child, it was easy to hold back a lot of the emotion and attachment, to wait until she was here until I let myself fall in love with her. I wanted to make sure we would actually get her before I loved her, just in case. So I wouldn't be so hurt if we lost her. But we got her, and I loved her, and she was perfect and healthy, and she still is. It was harder this time to keep emotion out of it. I had already had a baby, I knew what to expect and I had already gone through this before. So it was easier to love the little life I was growing inside me, the little piece of me and my husband that we were looking forward to.<br />
<br />
So it was devastating for me to have lost him. It hasn't hit me as hard and as abruptly as it hit everyone else. Pete was still talking about it as if everything would be fine, even the night before my appointment. But I was very worried long before I got confirmation from my doctor that I had miscarried. I had an entire week to dwell over the possibilities, and due to my extremely rational, often pessimistic mindset, I had plenty of time to consider and even expect the worst. Even though I hoped, and prayed, that everything would be ok, I still tried to prepare myself. Just in case.<br />
<br />
I was doing ok, and Pete was doing ok, until this week when my sister in law had her first baby, a little boy. Pete got to see and hold him yesterday morning before he went back to work, and I got to hold him yesterday evening. It didn't surprise me that both of us have suffered a sort of relapse. Pete mostly. I've been so overwhelmed from my body going through this and even being in the hospital because of it last week that I haven't had a lot of time to be able to just think about it. To just let myself feel the emotions I need to feel to be able to move on again.<br />
<br />
I guess this post is a part of that. I tried to write it over a week ago, I tried to just get it all out, but I couldn't. I couldn't find a way to say what I wanted to. But last night, Pete and I were talking, and something he said made it easier for me. Both he and I have been independently struggling and wondering if, with how young the baby was, if he really was someone or if he was still just an empty body waiting for a spirit. He died shortly after my first appointment with my doctor, so that heartbeat that we heard in her office ended within days or even hours of us hearing it. And both times, he was very small, and only measured about 7 weeks. Is that long enough for a body to exist before they are a real person? Did we actually have a little child in there, a baby with an identity and a mind and a character all his own, or was it just an empty shell waiting until it was more mature before it got its soul?<br />
<br />
We don't know. And that was what was tormenting my husband the most. So he asked me if we could name him. For me, it gives a little bit more of something, I don't know what, but something to my own grief and mourning, to be able to miss and feel the loss of a real person, not just the possibility of someone. Someone real, with a name, that I can wish I could have known and held and been able to watch grow up.<br />
<br />
We named him Jeremy. I suggested two names to Pete, and we both liked Jeremy. I had actually thought of this name before, on the day of my appointment with my doctor, and had considered writing it on the ultrasound pictures we got during my first prenatal checkup. And now I can for certain.<br />
<br />
We had a son. A little boy named Jeremy that we never got to actually see or hold or have as our child, but we was ours, and we miss him. And we loved him. We were looking forward to having our Christmas baby, and we would have given a whole lot to have been able to have him. I just wish he could have been able to know his daddy. To have that relationship with the most amazing man I know. That's the worst part of the whole thing, is that he is missing out on a family that would have loved him dearly.<br />
<br />
We love you, Jeremy. And I'm so sorry.<br />
<br />M.E. Bellamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07260642160571764359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794262347975600073.post-87453858171936234152012-06-20T00:38:00.000-07:002012-07-13T12:27:34.914-07:00The Evaporated Milk Miracle<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Mbk0jzbr7-hZI2ofX90k6E-QKmNRCb8jAy4KW5ca0ArTginjYnk_pGdr6gQct6SPJ8CoVbJD3pQistvE_rOrSAakFTjTPQvhECZfDuq5drjwt47nKqdD1Lbr5BqFHTEM83KjC6mgFmQ_/s1600/cooking-at-home.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Mbk0jzbr7-hZI2ofX90k6E-QKmNRCb8jAy4KW5ca0ArTginjYnk_pGdr6gQct6SPJ8CoVbJD3pQistvE_rOrSAakFTjTPQvhECZfDuq5drjwt47nKqdD1Lbr5BqFHTEM83KjC6mgFmQ_/s320/cooking-at-home.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
I am going to share with you possibly the most life-changing cooking secret I have ever stumbled upon. And I wish I could say that it has been my new trick that has been keeping me away from my blog for so long, but sadly that would be a lie. I just haven't had anything to write, honestly. But I do now, yay me! And so . . . the secret.<br />
<br />
Anyone who cooks regularly and is on a budget, like me, has a certain set of skills that are necessary for their kind of cooking. One of them is looking at a recipe, and depending on the list of ingredients or the number of steps it takes to get to a finished product, lots of recipes go on the "Psh, that's not happening" list. Another skill is being able to see the shortcuts or cheats in a recipe, or even the ability to look at the picture, the ingredients, and be able to kind of wing it on their own without needing a recipe. And then there's this skill: the inconvenient ingredient spotting.<br />
<br />
You know what I'm talking about. Shallots, pecans, buttermilk, puff pastry, weird herbs, wonky mushrooms, phyllo, milk of camel, eye of newt, you get it. Those ingredients that, yeah, you could find at most grocery stores, but honestly, you don't keep them in your house. And you wanna know the number one reason? You don't use them a lot, and they don't keep. <br />
<br />
If you're buying yourself a pint of buttermilk and only using one cup and two tablespoons of it, what the crap are you supposed to do with the other cup? It would be immensely convenient for me to have a complete recipe database where I could look up things like "Recipes that use buttermilk" and then I'd be ok because I'd end up being able to use all my buttermilk. But I don't have that, and frankly, the thought of making one gives me a headache despite how much I would love it.<br />
<br />
So, you find a recipe you want to make that calls for one of these pain in the butt ingredients. Sometimes you're already planning a trip to the store with enough money, so getting this ingredient is no problem. But then there's those times that you either just went to the store and you're not wasting the gas to drive there again for one stupid ingredient. <br />
<br />
Half and half or heavy cream is one of those ingredients for me. And for good reason. There is no practical use for cream on a daily basis, there just isn't. I don't drink coffee, and that's honestly the only thing I can think of that would justify me keeping cream on hand. Which means that unless I buy it specifically for a recipe, I do not have it in the house, because it will spoil before I get around to using it, even though I have several recipes that call for it. So I've been suffering without these particular recipes simply because I was missing that one dang ingredient.<br />
<br />
Well, folks, just recently I discovered the magic secret that has changed my cooking life. And I didn't even find this intentionally, I literally stumbled across it in an article or blog or something that I was reading. And it is this: a substitute for half and half or heavy cream in a recipe is . . . evaporated milk.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdwxiwGkV5rxECjV5vHN47_lR-lRuqm02ELbN0ZhGqGg9DgWXy1EbeKaHRliC1HIfV6pjuTvP8U82DMhrgoGnxyVkQBqRjsMmv2iCc_kKHnijLzGY2kBOZ5TUsB1jyTTFdi2nn07U7Hjls/s1600/evaporated_milk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="280" width="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdwxiwGkV5rxECjV5vHN47_lR-lRuqm02ELbN0ZhGqGg9DgWXy1EbeKaHRliC1HIfV6pjuTvP8U82DMhrgoGnxyVkQBqRjsMmv2iCc_kKHnijLzGY2kBOZ5TUsB1jyTTFdi2nn07U7Hjls/s320/evaporated_milk.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
*Heavenly glow of light* That's BRILLIANT!<br />
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I seriously had a complete *DING* of awe when I read that! It's so simple, yet so genius! I have evaporated milk in my pantry, I use it enough that it's on hand all the time! Because, this is the BEST PART, it's CANNED! Which means, it lasts for a long time! I can buy four cans at Walmart in April, and they're still good at Christmas!<br />
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I'm serious, I almost had an aneurysm over this. Ecstatic fit. And that very night, I made one of my new recipes that I'd found and discarded at first because it called for heavy cream. It was a peaches and cream overnight french toast, incredibly easy to make (once I found out I could use evaporated milk!), and it was DELICIOUS. I'm going to make it again, it was so yummy, and I had every single ingredient on hand in my pantry. *Boogie dance*<br />
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So, ladies and gentlemen, that was my wonderful discovery that I just had to share with the universe. The magical substitution that changed my life. So many avenues are now open to me, I can do whatever I want! Who knows, maybe someday soon I'll learn how to FLY! (Ok, maybe this has gone to my head a little).<br />
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Now . . . if only I could find a good substitution for cream cheese . . . <br />
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<br />M.E. Bellamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07260642160571764359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794262347975600073.post-28205899559043691402012-05-03T12:47:00.000-07:002012-07-13T12:34:40.348-07:00The Wonders of Pinterest and the World of the InternetIt is really no surprise that I, practically an internet addict, am now also addicted to Pinterest. Really, it was just a matter of time. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0UCYYZ4scMnShgPPvzF7AfUfDjQKUtyh3i4xyq5XQvx8DO75eHqnCwFnPFxGCRV-nehoF7XEYyx_05J-9Kx4lVfJY9lwZcvrM8IQGf-CWLXLggFE5idYrdQ-wGUp_ZejKTIJt6CYEe9Tn/s1600/Pinterest_Logo.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="81" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0UCYYZ4scMnShgPPvzF7AfUfDjQKUtyh3i4xyq5XQvx8DO75eHqnCwFnPFxGCRV-nehoF7XEYyx_05J-9Kx4lVfJY9lwZcvrM8IQGf-CWLXLggFE5idYrdQ-wGUp_ZejKTIJt6CYEe9Tn/s320/Pinterest_Logo.png" /></a></div>For those who don't know and have been living under a rock for the past year, Pinterest is basically an online pinning board. You find pictures or blogs or sites off the internet that you like, and "pin" them to one of your boards on Pinterest. <br />
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It sounds useless, huh? And you know what, it pretty much is. It is purely frivolous, although I have found it handy in some situations. It gives you some boards to start with, six or so, with categories like "I can do this", "My library", "For the home", stuff like that. I, occasionally and even often one to flout tradition, changed all mine to something else all my own. I started with six or so, and I've extended that to fifteen. Ranging from "Someday Dream House" to "Purty Jewelry" to "Fandoms and Favorites". I have a board dedicated to shoes and clothes, of course. One for crafts I mean to do. All sorts of things. <br />
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It kind of reminds me of flairs on Facebook, in the way that it really is something completely meaningless, but I take joy from it all the same. It's like having a physical testament to what kind of a person I really am. What I like, what I think is funny, things I want to do. I guess it's just kind of a way to give yourself some meaning in the world. Having a footprint in the vastness of the internet that is all your own, a Facebook profile you don't have to apologize for if you're being yourself and someone doesn't like it. <br />
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Blogs are like that too. I figure, if no one's gonna read it, why bother pretending? Same concept. The internet is full of ways to lose yourself, people stealing your identity, or even just getting so sucked in on your computer that you forget to have a flesh and blood life. But there are ways to find yourself, too. Through things like Pinterest, blogs, DeviantArt, all these places where you can be an anonymous face in front of a person with incredible depth. Without having to apologize or be ashamed of everything you are. It's a curious sort of freedom. <br />
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Finding easy recipes to make dinner for the rest of the week or cute picture of fluffy animals doesn't hurt either. And someday, when the apocalypse comes and all the power shuts down and the internet is no more? I am going to go through withdrawals. <br />
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Because no matter how silly it is, parts of my life are in the endless void of the internet. Even if no one else ever sees it or reads it or even knows if it exists, it's still there. And I always know where to find it. And some days, it's like coming home.M.E. Bellamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07260642160571764359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794262347975600073.post-36014346234199830402012-02-08T17:29:00.000-08:002012-02-08T18:29:30.852-08:00The Feminization of Ken<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp_h_SKXzVfHb2diou9j9XfQix0lGiw7yXMUMJMeFVW6KyRavipc0RA-oFognWzKsNOPfdJZkH9XjtNt0d6U-d0GhXwykqTuY5XaFk2YJL6xnPzOvmD8fq7SXwXNvlukVCWn8ba_jK9_E2/s1600/5449191258_05936b3390_o.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 282px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp_h_SKXzVfHb2diou9j9XfQix0lGiw7yXMUMJMeFVW6KyRavipc0RA-oFognWzKsNOPfdJZkH9XjtNt0d6U-d0GhXwykqTuY5XaFk2YJL6xnPzOvmD8fq7SXwXNvlukVCWn8ba_jK9_E2/s400/5449191258_05936b3390_o.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706957257170179298" /></a><br />When I was a little girl, Barbies were kind of my life. Well, toys in general were my life, but Barbies were in that special zone of versatility where anything that could happen to a person could happen to a Barbie. Barbie had lots of fun clothes, tons of shoes, accessories out her cute little wazoo, she had a bunch of friends, and she could drive the pink Barbie Jeep Grand Cherokee even though she always seemed to lose a shoe when she did. <br /><br />But the best thing Barbie had? A boyfriend. Oh yeah. And not only did Barbie have a boyfriend, but she had options for a boyfriend. There was (these are what I named my Barbies, by the way) Michael, the first Ken doll I ever had. Michael was a blonde, blue-eyed teenage basketball Ken that came with a cool jacket, sneakers, the nylon shorts, and a basket ball. In later years, Michael's head would come off and have to be glued back on, so he never was able to look to the side, but Michael had the glorious status of being my first Ken.<br /><br />The next I got for my birthday when I was six or so, and I got a Belle and a Beast Barbie set. This Ken doll was *dun dun dun*, our villain, Daniel. Because he had long, "real" hair, and he was ugly. Or at least, nowhere near the Leonardo DiCaprio-like cuteness of Michael. But let's face it, that particular Disney prince never did have the looks like the other ones did, although I have warmed to him more in my adult life.<br /><br />Next Ken in line was actually named Ken, but he was my sister's first Ken doll. With his hard plastic hair and good looks, he got to be boyfriend to a whole host of desperate Barbies. We had a lot of Barbies, mind you. A LOT of Barbies. I can't even remember how many now. But I can tell you all of them had names, we had an Evil Stepmother/Villainess Barbie, and we even had Skipper and a whole bunch of Kelly's.<br /><br />And then . . . then we got the real deal. Mr. Hottie himself, the cream of the crop, the Supreme Hunk . . . Facial Hair Ken. *Swoon* This Ken had it all. "Real" but normal guy length brown hair, wonderful blue eyes, he smelled vaguely like Old Spice, and the best part . . . he had facial hair. A beard and mustache that just screamed masculinity. There was a new Ken in town, and he was taking no prisoners. <br /><br />His name was Kevin, and with his arrival the dating lives of Michael and Ken suddenly became not quite as exciting as they'd been before. They got shuffled off to the side and set with permanent girlfriends, Michael got Melissa until her head popped off and then he got the redhead cowgirl Amber. And Ken got to date the two blonde twins. Daniel dated Martha, the older lady who was our villainess, or she was his mother. Different plot lines, different days.<br /><br />Kevin was a total dreamboat. His adventures with prettiest-Barbie-of-the-moment were the stuff of legend, and his skills of wooing were incomparable. Romantic dinners in the kitchen of the Barbie house my Dad built with real linoleum floors. Boat rides at sunset in the pink Barbie boat with an attachable sun shade. He was the sexiest, most sought after man alive, the Johnny Depp of the Barbie world. It was a very, very dark day when Kevin's story ended. The boy I had a major crush on came over with his family, and in a fit of tantrum at his younger brother, threw Kevin across the room and broke his leg off. I almost cried. I almost got mad at the boy I had a crush on. It was that bad.<br /><br />Fast forward about 18 years. I'm a mommy with a Barbie-loving daughter of my own, and the Christmas before last I decided that she needed another Ken doll to go with her three Barbies and lone Ken. Such a momentous day, Sammy's first Ken doll that she would remember, since her first one she got when she was something like two years old. I have never stopped loving Barbies, and I sometimes find myself wishing I could sprawl on the floor with a Barbie and a bag of clothes and shoes and just start off with, "And then let's say Ken came over and asked Barbie on a date."<br /><br />I went into the Barbie aisle, filled with a familiar sense of glee, getting a big old eyeful of that unearthly hot pink color that is Barbie's and Barbie's alone. I practically pranced down to the dolls, my husband dragging along behind me only because we were stopping at the Legos next. I found the dolls, grinning like a seven year old as I saw the pretty dresses and fluffy hair and sparkly eyes. I looked for the Ken doll I had in mind, Steven, a surfer Ken with brown skin and fuzzy dark hair. It would be so great to have another boy to even out the odds at home.<br /><br />I looked for him by the beach Barbies, but he wasn't there. A little put out, I decided to keep looking, figuring that if nothing else, another blonde Ken couldn't hurt. I looked and looked. And do you know what I found?<br /><br />I found Ellen Degeneres wearing flip flops and a pink and plaid black shirt, that is what I found. They were trying to pass off the most ugly boy doll I had ever laid eyes on under the name of Ken, and he was horrible! This Ken doll had a face that was so feminine, it almost passed as Barbie! But it wasn't even a pretty feminine, it was like a woman who'd had WAY too much plastic surgery and her face was going to fall off from all the plastic in it! Which is ironic, since Barbies are made of plastic. <br /><br />To make matters worse, this "Ken" who would have done better with the label "Drag Queen Ken" all over the box, had the most awful hairstyle since Robert Pattinson in Twilight! They combed the hair on the crown of that doll's head straight up, practically glued it there, and then lopped it off to create this totally bizarre flat plane of hair sticking straight up. And then the rest of it was combed down and likewise practically glued in place.<br /><br />The worst part? Do you want to know the worst part? HE WAS WEARING PINK!!! Who in their right or wrong mind, would put Ken, the hero of Barbies and little girls everywhere, in PINK?! I was shocked. I was horrified. I stood there in the Barbie aisle at Walmart at eleven o'clock at night mere days before Christmas, and gaped at that horrendously ugly Ken doll. I said, out loud, a number of times, "What did they do to him?!" Pete just kind of stood there and rolled his eyes while I got the attention of a few shoppers that were passing by, clearly not understanding that my childhood was practically being gang-raped in front of my eyes. It was awful.<br /><br />I bought the stupid doll. I think it was the 23rd of December, so it's not like I had time to do a any more shopping before we were down to the wire. Even so, for the next couple months I kept my eye out for a Ken doll that was actually Ken, not Barbie's weird second cousin Bertha who'd had a sex change. No dice. And I haven't had the heart recently to go Ken hunting again. I just don't think I can handle it if my childhood gets violated like that again.<br /><br />I think from now on I'll do my Barbie shopping online. Somewhere out there, there has to be a Ken that is more like Kevin was. Handsome, manly, attractive, maybe with facial hair, just anything other than the pink-wearing freak of nature that is shoved reeeeeally far under Sammys' bed right now. And you know what, even if he was in the box with all the other Barbies, Sammy doesn't like him. I think he confuses her, with his what-a-joke hairstyle and "I need more Botox, doctor!" face. Not that I blame her. She has good taste in her fake men.<br /><br />And someday, I pray that we will have a return of what Ken should be. Because honestly, last time I went to the Barbie aisle, I saw a pale, glittery Edward Cullen doll. And I went home and vomited. Kevin, please come back!M.E. Bellamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07260642160571764359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794262347975600073.post-26534992526602579262012-01-19T01:03:00.000-08:002012-02-08T18:38:09.415-08:00My Head Feels Like A Dead Squid<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEb7BRAx7wZIn7TRfaa73CMh5HEis1HUfA7eBxVN-Kz89yshwTSaPxTwOpwMF56LYL-IKWq22Te_nuHFdBURjYIMJVBRXtHnHplmkgVTePX4puPrxM1BqcMEjcZ5ZQuASFFbSKXy2lrCXf/s1600/0903-colorist-300.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEb7BRAx7wZIn7TRfaa73CMh5HEis1HUfA7eBxVN-Kz89yshwTSaPxTwOpwMF56LYL-IKWq22Te_nuHFdBURjYIMJVBRXtHnHplmkgVTePX4puPrxM1BqcMEjcZ5ZQuASFFbSKXy2lrCXf/s400/0903-colorist-300.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5699291835126379010" /></a><br />I shall attempt to explain. I'm dyeing my hair. This is not nearly the first time I've done this, although I've only been dyeing my hair for fun for a few years now. I was, for the most part, a hair dye virgin for most of my life. I did do highlights a couple times in junior high and high school, and once or twice after that, but I didn't do a full on dye job to a different color until about two years ago.<br /><br />My natural hair color is kind of a really dark blonde/light brown color. Since I highlighted it when I was a teenager, it looked golden/dark blonde. Which worked out great, because I truly am a walking blonde moment. My sister actually calls me that, and I have an MSN Messenger emoticon specifically used for blonde moments, too. <br /><br />I love being blonde. That's me all over, my personality and everything. But after I had Sammy and had been married a few years, I started wondering what I'd look like as a brunette. My sister-in-law was a Mary Kay consultant at the time, so we played around on the virtual makeover site all the time and I played with hair colors. And on the computer at least, I looked good with dark brown hair.<br /><br />So I was talked into it, but instead of going way dark, I went with a medium chocolate brown hair color. And my hair takes a dye really well, so it turned out great. And it was even a few shades lighter than the picture, which worked out fine, since it was my first foray into the dyeing world.<br /><br />That opened the way for me. Next I went red. And we're talking fake fakedy fake bright red hair that looked truly awful on me, but it was a hoot anyway. I did it for the Fourth of July, and went swimming the day after I did it, so a good deal of the dye faded out in my day in the chlorinated pool. Which was ok, since we went from a truly garish shade of bright coppery red to a more muted copper blonde color.<br /><br />Going blonde next was probably not my best idea . . . I'm sure you can imagine. Orangey strawberry blonde anyone? Oh yeah. But at least that one looked better than my bright red attempt. And it faded out a bit and looked decent.<br /><br />Next was another shot at blonde, which went just fine, and that brings us up to tonight. Now, it's been at least six or seven months since I dyed my hair, and tonight I took my two boxes of champagne blonde Revlon dye to my brother and sister-in-law's. Aside from making my brother a pretty darn awesome t-shirt to wear to work for the midnight release of the new Twilight movie (Team Van Helsing, we're Twilight haters), I got my sister-in-law to dye my hair for me.<br /><br />And so, after a good half hour or so of gooping up and trying to untangle my hair when it was roughly the consistency of hair covered in half-dry glue, I was pronounced done. So I wrapped my head up in a plastic bag, and I was totally rocking the I Love Lucy bandana look. Hard to imagine, I'm sure, but trust me. I was a fat Lucy.<br /><br />I had twisted my hair up and smooshed it down on my skull, and since it was basically like chilling Jello, it stuck really well. And since my gooey hair was kind of in gushy dreadlocks, it felt like I had a cold, dead squid on my head that kept dropping tentacles down over my face. It made for some pretty hysterical giggling on my part, and I finally got all the tentacles tucked up nicely and secured inside the plastic bag.<br /><br />And now, I'm fresh from the shower smelling strongly of the special dye treatment conditioner that came in the boxes of dye, and the jury is still out on results. My roots look strawberry blonde and my ends look maybe a few shades lighter than they were before, so I guess only morning will tell. And when I emerge from my little bed cocoon with my dry hair twirling out of control in Roman-esque curls, we'll have to see what color of the rainbow I'm sporting.<br /><br />Anyone want to take a bet?M.E. Bellamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07260642160571764359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794262347975600073.post-50007720958074901812012-01-11T18:23:00.001-08:002012-01-11T23:52:25.233-08:00Things Pete Does That I Find Annoying/Endearing<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheJb1hcu54e-wsovpxI_8dkqm9hQl_pBcQpm9zQwRK9iH-QEbsV-G0AVEsn5L_5YNX_jegKYBU75LZBN_6qho-Y29Pa8NqPrlO4gpSrgIvDXLlUYpzaeDbhdD3mrQrm64sdaMQj5qo_j-X/s1600/child-wicker-laundry-hamper-fb.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 325px; height: 325px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheJb1hcu54e-wsovpxI_8dkqm9hQl_pBcQpm9zQwRK9iH-QEbsV-G0AVEsn5L_5YNX_jegKYBU75LZBN_6qho-Y29Pa8NqPrlO4gpSrgIvDXLlUYpzaeDbhdD3mrQrm64sdaMQj5qo_j-X/s400/child-wicker-laundry-hamper-fb.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5696649916563492146" /></a><br />I couldn't resist. I really couldn't. After the post of things I do that are annoying/endearing about me for Pete, I just could not help the snickering and immediate sense that I am the devil when I started thinking of doing the same, vice versa. So here it is.<br /><br />Things Pete does that I find annoying:<br />#1 - This is the biggest thing, hence, #1. You know how people, men and women young and old, tend to kinda leave things on the floor or bed or whatever, especially when they're getting undressed? Yeah, everybody does it, no biggie. Um, to a point. OMG. This man . . . sometimes I honestly think he looks over at me, dead to the world in sleepytown, and just gets this evil grin on his face while he leaves his pants and shirt from the night before on the floor, drapes his robe over the end of the bed, ditches his shoes right in front of the bedroom door, AND LEAVES TO GO BACK TO WORK. Oooooh. *Strangles* We've discussed this before. You know what he did? He smirked at me. SMIRKED! I threw something at him.<br /><br />#2 - Puts the clean, folded blankets and/or sheets . . . on the floor. The FLOOR! The floor that the dogs lay on and shed on all day long! And I swear, it does not matter how much I sweep and vacuum, there is no escaping the dog hair. And the dogs know it, too. So then Pete, my darling beloved husband . . . puts the freshly washed and perfectly folded blankets on that grody, hairy carpet. It makes me want to gouge my eyeballs out with a rusty spoon, I swear. Also under this category . . . putting the towels on the floor in the bathroom. Same problem, only the towels are often damp.<br /><br />#3 - This relates to the first one. My husband has this bizarre problem, I swear. It's like he actually has no physical ability to clean up after himself as he makes messes. Take, for example, something simple like having a bowl of cereal. There are four things involved, cereal, milk, bowl, spoon. I cannot list one single time in my memory where all four things were cleaned up within an hour of that cereal being finished. I'll always go into the kitchen afterward, sigh loudly, and demand for him to come fix it. He does this with Spaghettio's all the time. The bowl will likely make it in the sink, but there will be a thick layer of dried tomato sauce the next morning that has to soak for awhile until it comes off. Can we just mention how nasty that is to look at? Kinda like the condensed, scummy 1/4" layer of Nesquik goo in the bottom of his chocolate milk cups.<br /><br />You know, those ones actually cover just about all of it. I'm sure later I'll remember a dozen other things he does that annoy me, but the majority is in those three infractions.<br /><br />Now for things that I find endearing (there are way more than I could ever fit in a blog post, but we'll do some favorites:<br />#1 - His laugh. Pete's mom has one of the most distinct laughs I have ever heard, you don't even have to know if she's in the room, as soon as you hear that laugh, you go, "There's Rita." Pete is EXACTLY the same way. I've never heard anyone with a laugh like his. It's part Mozart's laugh from Amadeus (YouTube that, seriously), part normal man laugh, and part giggle and snort. Usually when I hear it, I'm laughing harder at his laugh rather than what was funny.<br /><br />#2 - This would embarrass the crap out of him, but he'll never see this, so it's ok. So, he does this one thing when I'm doing whatever in front of the mirror and he's taking a shower. Out of the blue, he'll all of a sudden just do this whale call, and then I don't know how he does it, but somehow he poofs a spray of water (sounds exactly like a whale doing it) over the curtain and all over me! I have no idea how, since he's at least a foot lower than the top of the curtain, and I'm a good two feet away at the sink, but he still does it!<br /><br />#3 - He has the worst potty mouth in the world when he is playing video games with friends. Every word in the book, from A to Z (if there is a Z), usually shouted at the top of his lungs when he gets a good shot or dies. It is hysterical to listen to. Especially when he plays with his sister and they are both running around the screen during Halo toting big guns and swearing like sailors.<br /><br />#4 - This is one that he hates, it drives him crazy when I point it out. His facial hair on his right cheek on this one spot grows in a circle. Seriously, it looks like some kind of UFO alien crop circle in his beard. It is HYSTERICAL! He hates it, and he'll always bat my hand away when I sit there and trace it with my finger while taunting, "Growing in a circle." But I think it's awesome. Really, who else has crop circles in their facial hair?<br /><br />I really could go on for ages, like about how his feet are like twice the size of mine and when I wear his shoes to take the garbage out I feel like I'm wearing clown shoes. And how he snores like an epileptic with sleep apnea and a head cold. How he, like me, beats his clothes and shoes into the ground but still clings to them like a baby to his blankie. And how he sneezes a different bizarre way every time. And he gets SO HIGH on even simple drugs like Lortab or Ambien, and once he tried to take our dog out in the middle of the night, in December, stark naked, while hopped up one some pills he got from the doc. Like I said, I could go on. But we'll stop me now, shall we?M.E. Bellamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07260642160571764359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794262347975600073.post-78297926632035582562011-12-30T17:22:00.000-08:002011-12-30T21:01:51.060-08:00Is This Fudge Still Good?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQBqaur-KrWgaJMcGeQdx1yG9u2PARri_kq1NSBYhzu9YgygZO9VLf3XoSXYNCbtTmoL-tYX-t5q4iqcJ1bR5wSiecWmi9W2DkBycPUYIK4ubICxTSn-KYfnXjSgcUUvS35xmQd6IJmKqq/s1600/00515.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 360px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQBqaur-KrWgaJMcGeQdx1yG9u2PARri_kq1NSBYhzu9YgygZO9VLf3XoSXYNCbtTmoL-tYX-t5q4iqcJ1bR5wSiecWmi9W2DkBycPUYIK4ubICxTSn-KYfnXjSgcUUvS35xmQd6IJmKqq/s400/00515.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5692153215601854130" /></a><br />Today and yesterday have been purging days. What are we purging? We are purging Christmas from the house. It has been a bittersweet process, since it is always sad to see the sparkly and shine go down, but since this year just did not feel like Christmas to me, it wasn't too bad. And it was nice to be able to see the living room again, now that the seven trees are down (yeah, you read that right, we had 7 Christmas trees).<br /><br />And in the midst of taking down my tree and packing up my decorations, I also started throwing out the Christmas goodies that have been picked over and left to go stale. We got a good haul, everything from fudge to some kind of relish to sugar cookies to a box of fancy nuts. A good portion of the stuff eaten (and thrown away) was stuff I made, since December seems to signal to my inner baker that it's time to have fun. So I did. Ho boy, did I have a billion calories worth of fun.<br /><br />First up were chocolate cake batter cookies, my first attempt and it was a glorious success. Fabulous. I added in Andes mint chocolate chips to make them festive, and those cookies were polished off in no time. I didn't even have to take any to work, I was so impressed.<br /><br />Next up were molasses cookies. Easy peasy, no odd instructions or anything. About halfway through sifting together the dry ingredients, I realized something . . . We didn't have molasses. *Facepalm* I KNOW I bought molasses, at least within the past couple years, and honestly, how many recipes call for molasses? But not a drop was to be found anywhere, so I substituted what Google told me to substitute. And bought molasses on my next trip to the grocery store.<br /><br />On that same trip to the store, I remembered that I had several recipes that called for chocolate chips, and recently had noticed that we were out of chocolate chips (that was a bad day). Normally I always have a stash of two bags of chocolate chips in one fridge or the other, so being out was incredibly disturbing to me. So I bought four bags to compensate.<br /><br />Upon arriving home, I put groceries away, and when I opened the drawer in the fridge to toss in the chocolate chips, I burst out laughing. Apparently on my trips to the store that I had taken in the week or two before that, I had remembered to buy chocolate chips then as well. With my new addition of chocolate chips, I had a total of nine bags of chocolate chips in my fridge, 6 Hershey's, 2 Nestle, and one Andes mint. Suffice it to say, we are set on chocolate chips.<br /><br />Upon acquiring my precious chocolate chips, I also added to my cart that day rice Chex and powdered sugar. Oh yes, my friends. Muddy Buddies. The reason Chex cereal is still in business, in my opinion. Sure, Chex Mix is good, but Muddy Buddies . . . heaven. I made three batches this year, and probably consumed at least one full batch all on my own. I love those things. And my shirt loved them too, because by the time I was done, my nice black shirt had powdered sugar streaked and puffed all over it, with a really nice chocolate peanut butter smudge all over my stomach. I need to stop leaning over the bowl.<br /><br />With the list of clothing I dirtied up while baking, we can also add another shirt generously sprinkled with oatmeal bits from making No-Bake cookies. And a pair of pants dripped with batter from maple bars (too dry, couldn't figure out why). And I got the toe of one of my white tennies when I dropped a little chunk of warm, gooey, and green colored Rice Krispie treat mix on them. <br /><br />Like I said, I went a little bonkers. I think the most popular were the Muddy Buddies (duh, I mean really) and the chocolate mint cake batter cookies. For some reason, the maple bars didn't get touched except by me, and the green Rice Krispies ended up in the garbage because they dried out too fast. It was a shame, really. But all in all, I made a whole lot of delumptious holiday treats, and I've got the chocolate still under my fingernails to prove it. And the powdered sugar all over the counter. And the Pam spray on the floor. And the flour in my hair. And the chocolate chips under the edge of the cupboards on the floor.<br /><br />Now it's New Years, and despite still being in an insane sugar coma from all the treat-bingeing I've been doing over Christmas, I can't wait to tackle the traditional New Years food. Little smokies in their special sauce. A cheese ball with crackers. Shrimp cocktails in that sharp red sauce. The classic vegetable tray. Who knows what else! All I know is my holidays are planned around food, and in a whole lot of ways, dishes and mess notwithstanding, that often makes it feel the most festive of anything.M.E. Bellamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07260642160571764359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794262347975600073.post-83124956240895468312011-12-08T02:04:00.000-08:002012-05-03T12:48:12.396-07:00Things I Do That Pete Finds Annoying/Endearing<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbdcJUteL6J6Zg1K_Y1092haxL3n5YI2hyvfS_1o0rpTpdrD-A0RnQaNWxuvLFIS7oXbzPPqqmZUms1VL-OIG72KH-DfeiqwCJmL3AWD3idyUhpc8HhmyZoiBnLwkwHNJIcIEHn_L9W326/s1600/bustedtees.a12bfe475b3e014fb11009acde01e8bf.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbdcJUteL6J6Zg1K_Y1092haxL3n5YI2hyvfS_1o0rpTpdrD-A0RnQaNWxuvLFIS7oXbzPPqqmZUms1VL-OIG72KH-DfeiqwCJmL3AWD3idyUhpc8HhmyZoiBnLwkwHNJIcIEHn_L9W326/s400/bustedtees.a12bfe475b3e014fb11009acde01e8bf.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5683705724733232610" /></a><br />All of us have those traits, those absolutely idiotic quirks or habits that drive our near and dear completely insane. And here is a list of mine that annoy Pete, although thankfully he can usually find something endearing about the situation to make him not want to kill me.<br /><br />#1 - Shoes. I am a shoe girl. I love shoes, I think they are fabulous and wonderful and no matter how fat I get, my shoes still fit. Same thing with purses and jewelry. I still fit the earrings that I wore in junior high! Anyway, yeah. I have easily 30 pairs of shoes, scattered all over in our closet and on the floor in front of the closet. Basically anywhere near the closet is a shoe deathtrap. However, I think Pete kinda likes the little squeal I make when I see a new pair of shoes I must have. Until he realizes he has to pay for them.<br /><br />#2 - My side vs. His side. Of the bed, that is. See, when he's on the road, I can think of no valid reason that I can't just shove all the crap on the bed over on his side at the end of the night when my eyes fuzz over so bad I can't see. That is, until he comes home. And has a mountain-sized mound of crap all over his side of the bed. But don't worry, he gets even. Because he just shoves it all back over on my side.<br /><br />#3 - Hobbies. I have . . . a lot of hobbies. I do crafts like crazy, including everything from sewing to coloring. Yes, coloring. With princess coloring books and colored pencils. And these hobbies of mine take up a LOT of space. I could fill a room with all of the crafting/hobby crap I have. I have a guitar, a box of items to be used when I someday have the vineyard kitchen I want, boxes of movie ticket stubs and Sammy's old nursery drawings she brought home from church, scads of scrapbooking stuff. It is truly insane. And yet . . . I honestly use all of it. I don't think Pete has found a good side to this yet.<br /><br />#4 - Freak out at electronics. This happens a lot. I do something to my computer or phone that I didn't want to do, and I immediately throw a whiny tantrum that potentially escalates to sulking, stressing, and even the silent treatment. It doesn't annoy him to have to fix it, usually. It bugs him when I throw a fit at the problem. But then he gets to call me a dork.<br /><br />#5 - Making him render an opinion. "What color should I do?" "Which shoes look better with this?" "How should I do my hair?" "Does that match?" "What should I make for dinner?" His answer? "I don't know." "I don't care." Do I let him get away with that? Psh. Nope. I bug and nag and pester and annoy until he heaves an annoyed sigh and I get an answer. Drives him nuts!<br /><br />#6 - When I randomly wander off at the grocery store. We're walking down an aisle, I see something shiny, or cheap, or tasty, or whatever, and without a word I just suddenly start veering off in a different direction to beeline at what I just saw. And right after I disappear, Pete realizes I'm gone and has to go find me. It happens ALL THE TIME. He's taken to standing behind me while I push the cart with an arm on either side of me and holding on to the cart as well. People probably think he's being really cute with me. Nope. He's keeping me from wandering off. I'm like a psycho bunny.<br /><br />Now . . . there are also a few things about me that he finds endearing. I'm putting these mostly because I can't think of any more things I do that consistently annoy him (and he's denying 3 out of 6 of the above things). I would ask him, but he's half asleep. And I would be fulfilling #5 if I woke him up and asked him.<br /><br />#1 - I ask questions about video games. I've discussed before my absolute lack of ability when it comes to video and computer games. I have not improved. But for some reason it really tickles his fancy when I ask questions about something he is an expert at. It's the same with Star Wars and Star Trek. Now, I'm a total Star Wars Fangirl, but Pete is a bit more knowledgeable about the stuff that happened before, after, and in between the movies. And he's kinda a Trekkie too. And I think he really digs being the source of knowledge for me.<br /><br />#2 - I am a klutz. No, really. I can list 3 spectacular face plants right off the top of my head, and I can even tell you which shoes were at fault each time. And two of those were in public! I also injure myself on a fairly regular basis, especially when in proximity to the stove. I have a wicked awesome steam burn scar on my wrist from one of those escapades. But rather than finding me a hazard, Pete just finds it slightly adorable at how accident prone I am. Especially since that means he often gets to roll his eyes at my shoes.<br /><br />#3 - I talk to myself and lip-sync with my headphones in. I think the rockstar lip-syncing makes him laugh the most. Oftentimes when I make dinner I do so with my MP3 player blasted and wearing my noise-cancelling SkullCandy headphones, and I can't resist that. So I lip-sync along quite enthusiastically, and apparently that is a really funny thing to walk in on. And yeah, I talk to myself. More often than not calling myself an idiot for doing a stupid. He likes to listen to me argue with myself.<br /><br />#4 - My giggle. Apparently I have a signature giggle. The kind that even when I text *giggling* on my phone, Pete says he can hear it. I know I giggle all the time, I have structured my life so that I have plenty of opportunity for kicks and giggles at every opportunity, and I guess it has paid off. Because I have a Pete-approved giggle, and he gets a dorky little smile on his face every time he hears it.<br /><br />Next time I think I'm going to have to make a list of the things Pete does that I find annoying/endearing . . . this could be so fun . . .M.E. Bellamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07260642160571764359noreply@blogger.com0