Some Friends

My husband and I had the following conversation over gtalk this morning:

me: I found some friends

Ryan: yup, there they are

me: are they your friends too?

Ryan: never met ’em

me: yes you have you did just now and they like you. they told me.

Ryan: online…

me: but they see you through the screen their eyes are webcams

Ryan: thats creepy its making me not want to like them…

me: they can’t help it. They don’t use it for creepiness. Only social networking.

We are silly. We have fun. We don’t pay attention to punctuation or grammar in online communication. But hardly anyone does anyway.

Martha, Martha, Martha…

Why must you reel me in with your adorable crafts, your creative recipes, your guide that tells me where I can get all of the beautiful things I *think* I need in your magazines? Why must you make me daydream of being able to do everything in your magazine for a living?

It only makes going to my real job less pleasant.

Last fall, one of my dear friends let me borrow some old October Marthas for some Halloween ideas. I was immediately hooked. I traded my extra George Foreman grill for all of her old Marthas. (I think I got the better end of the deal.)

Whenever I mention the fact that I can’t get enough of Martha Stewart Living magazine, most people respond with shock, disgust, and, inevitably, a mention of her time behind bars. These people obviously haven’t seen what she can do to an Easter egg. I don’t buy her magazine and save all the issues so I can read them to my future children each night before they go to bed, telling them that my prayer is that they will be like Martha when they grow up. I don’t lose sleep over what she does with her money, personal life, etc. – just keep showing me how I can achieve the wonder I see on the pages of her magazine and I’m happy. Is that bad? Maybe…but we’re supposed to forgive, right? I forgive you, Martha.

Some time in the next couple of weeks, I shall be attempting to replicate the fabulous Easter eggs on the cover of the April edition. I would post pictures of her eggs here…alas, I am at work and the computer will hardly let me do anything. Besides, I plan on posting pictures of the eggs I decorate and having Martha’s eggs and mine on the same page for easy and obvious comparison would just depress me.

Leave Me.

This past weekend, my husband and some of our friends made a short film for a 36-hour contest. (No, I’m not posting this to drum up votes. There are specific judges for the contest. Your “vote” would make us smile, but would be obsolete in the actual determination of the winner.) The films have to be about 3 minutes long and include certain elements for points. I won’t tell you what the elements are here because I don’t want you to be looking for them and end up distracted from the story.

The film is absolutely beautiful, and I’m not just biased. Pretty much everyone from whom I’ve heard a response says it’s a tear-jerker. It’s difficult to pack so much emotion into so little time, but it only took about ten seconds for me to tear up. Our friend Dustin directed, many more friends were on the cast/crew and the film features Ryan and my precious friends Mag and the Kruses! Everyone did an absolutely fantastic job.

When you watch it, make sure you’re in a place where it’s okay to be sad! I know that sounds dumb but don’t say I didn’t warn you if you end up blowing your nose in your cubicle.

Egg night!

It’s a little pathetic how long I sat trying to think of an exciting post title that did not involve an egg pun. Turns out there isn’t one (unless you can come up with one), so “egg night” it is. It was way more fun than it sounds.

Some friends came over and we dyed, decoupaged, ate, talked, and laughed for a few hours. It was perfect!

Okay, the only picture I got of Gloria was of her making us sandwiches. A little embarrassing (you DO NOT see the empty paper towel roll on the holder or the casserole dish in the sink – to be fair, we had JUST used the last paper towel and the dish was clean, just drying) but here she is in all her glory – ha, ha:

Yes, someone else was making sandwiches for us. No, I was not at the top of my hostessing game that night. I had spent two hours trying to hollow eighteen eggs and managed to ruin half the crate before someone else took over. I was a little cracked. (I guess I’m giving up on the “no egg puns” thing.) Okay, let’s move on.

One friend brought her amazing glass teapot o’ goodness and wonder. We all sat in awe as we watched the tea blossom. ‘Twas funny.

The lovely eggs:

My favorite:This egg isn’t exactly beautiful, but it is an adorable bunny with a cane nonetheless (don’t forget my obsession with old animals):

And I must say that I am quite proud of my “egg tree.” Funny story – I spent a couple of weeks looking for the perfect branch on which to hang my eggs. Finally, on Saturday while running errands on Greyscale’s wrap day (a post on that to come), I was driving up Memorial and found the PERFECT branch. I told myself that I would come back for it later in the day. A few hours after that, I drove up and down Memorial looking for it but didn’t see it anywhere. I figured that it must have blown away and I was very sad. BUT – after we wrapped, while heading toward the BA, I saw it.

Turns out it wasn’t a branch. It was a whole tree. Someone had evidently uprooted it and decided that the side of a busy street in midtown was a good place for it. Undaunted, I pulled over into an empty parking lot, put my foot down on the tree, and tore off a good piece. I threw it into the backseat of my car, feeling like a very silly criminal. I took it home, sawed off the torn edge and some extra twigs, and spray-painted it. It became my quirky little egg tree.

To think I almost paid $40 for a little egg-hangy-thingy at Pier 1…

All in all, we had an eggcellent time. Aww, man…

In the Doghouse?

If you get a call from me anytime soon asking you to come bail me out of jail, here’s why:

Allow me to explain. I was driving home listening to the Ewan McGregor version of “Your Song” and I wanted to hear the whole thing so I drove around my subdivision a little bit. My husband called, so I started talking to him, and then I saw this dog. “Ohhh! Oooooooh! Oooooh!” I suddenly exclaimed into the phone. (He didn’t even question it. He’s used to me by now.)

I told him how old, fat and grey the dog was and that I wanted to pat it and feel its arthritic hip creak under my hand. I’m weird. But I love old dogs, and this one was soooo cute. I told him that I had to go because I just HAD to get a picture of the dog; “I don’t even care that its owner is outside.” He laughed and we got off the phone.

I drove past the house with my phone up to my ear, but on camera mode. I’m sneaky like that. I tried to take a picture. I failed. I drove down another street, then came back to the dog’s house going the other way, this time with the phone a little more obviously pointed toward the dog. I snapped the picture. I (as you can see, barely) got it! I continued driving down the street. I looked into my rearview mirror. The owner was staring at me intently. He didn’t look away before I turned back onto the street that leads to my house. It was more than a little scary.

Oops. Well, if worst comes to worst, this is probably the best reason ever to be incarcerated.

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