Don't you just love to try new things? Especially new types of projects? I know I do!
When my dear friend's son broke one of the chairs in her sitting area, I hatched a scheme that would allow me to try my hand at a little reupholstering.
I scoured the local thrift stores and found this little beauty:
Several hours, many staples and not even one swear word later, I presented her with this:
Now, let's not kid ourselves: it's not perfect. But, my friend cried when she saw it. And I count that as a success. I mean, who doesn't love trying something new and making a self-proclaimed non-crier shed some tears ?
Allow me to give you some good ammunition to use:
I stayed up until midnight last night finishing a Christian romance/suspense novel.
(If that genre alone doesn't crack you up!)
I quite enjoyed Saturday's book. It won't win any awards, but it sure was a fun little escape.
And I can't stop laughing at myself for turning the pages so quickly in a Christian romance/suspense novel. (I mean, who knew there was such a thing?!)
I know, I know, you want the title. I am too embarrassed to put it! I was a little sheepish about people asking me what I was reading yesterday morning. A Kindle sure would be handy at times such as those!
Fine. You beat it out of me: Beguiled. See? Embarrassing--I told you!
Once upon a time, in a time long forgotten, our dishwasher stopped working. Oh, it would still "run"--making loud noises, using gallons of water, etc. But it didn't actually wash any dishes the way you would expect something called a dishwasher to do. Gradually, its performance became so poor that we abandoned all attempts of even claiming to own a dishwasher. Eventually, it became a large black box sitting under the counter. I tried to be a real trooper about it, but I was growing really grumpy, frankly. I felt like I was wasting so much time washing dishes.
So, when my Michael asked me for ideas of a Christmas present, I told him that I just wanted to get a new dishwasher (and not feel guilty about it). And that, dear friend and devoted reader, is what I did!
Last week, I went to Sears and purchased the long-awaited appliance. The salesperson told me that Wanda didn't qualify for free delivery. "No problem!" I responded, "I can pick it up." Warily, the salesperson continued, "But you will need installation, right?" (I had seen the "Installation $169.99" signs posted around the floor models.) "No, thank you. My brother knows how to do it," I replied. And that's true. He does. And I was going to have him help me if I needed it. But guess what? I didn't! I did it all myself!
The next morning, I drove to the merchandise pick-up center where they loaded the dishwasher into my van. I drove home and pulled it out of the car. It wasn't too heavy, despite the "Warning! Excessive Weight Hazard" label on the box. I picked it up and started to go up the stairs to the front door (my front door is 1/2 story up and on the side of my house). The box was rather large, obviously, so on my third step up I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and called my neighbor to see if she could come out and help me get it up the stairs. She didn't answer her phone, so I muttered my mantra to myself: "Where there's a will, there's a way." Then, I hefted that sucker one more time and took it up to the porch, scooted it around the corner and lifted it into the house. Thankfully, it slid effortlessly across the wood floors to the kitchen once I was in the house.
Then, I started the installation. I had watched a handyman video online the night before and felt like this task was totally doable. (A big thanks to Hans Vatter, The Handyman Extraordinaire!) I am not saying that is was fun be on my belly trying to reach the various pipes and wires while turning a wrench when there was nowhere to turn it, but it wasn't too bad. And it was certainly worth the savings of $170.
No, things didn't go perfectly smoothly. Right off the bat, I totally thought I'd turned the water off under the sink but realized when water came pouring out from under the old dishwasher that I had not. Big oops! That sent me running to the basement, groping in the dark of the laundry room to reach the house's main water shut-off valve (in the dark because I had already turned off all the power to the whole house--that's how we chickens do all of our electrical repairs!) But other than a couple of soaked towels, it was all good.
And it didn't take a super long time, either (even with a run to Home Depot in the mix to get a needed part (really, you can't put a 70 cent part in the box with a major appliance?!?!?!?--I would have paid a whole extra dollar, maybe five, not to have to run to Home Depot in the middle of the installation process!)). But I digress. Even with the annoying trip to Home Depot, I had a load of dishes being washed by the time I went to pick the kids up from school.
So, Merry Christmas to me and my new BFF, Wanda the Whirlpool (I figure a friend who came to my rescue and saved my sanity deserves the title of "new BFF" and a real name). She is such a welcomed addition to my kitchen!
It seems that now more than ever, I hear a lot of talk about this topic. I would like to put in my two cents. I believe in Santa Claus.
True Story:
Once upon a time, I was an eight-year-old girl, the fourth of eight children. One night in December, my parents announced that a special visitor would be coming to our house. Before long, Kris Kringle rang our doorbell. (This was his legal name.) He was jolly, thick man with a full white beard. He wore a red suit.
While he was in our little house, each of us children got a turn to sit on his lap and tell him what we wanted for Christmas. That year was my turn to do an extra-curricular activity and I was enrolled in gymnastics. My Christmas list consisted of a gymnastics mat, a typewriter that could type both red and black, and a reversible coat (two coats in one!). I gave Mr. Kringle the list of my heart's desires and he gave me a candy cane and a coloring book.
When it was time for our special guest to leave, he said this, "I have to get back to the North Pole now. I am going to leave a little surprise for you on the porch, but don't open anything until Christmas Day. It will take me a couple of minutes to hitch up my sleigh and reindeer. Don't look out the window for a full ten minutes to give me enough time to leave, okay?"
I remember two things about the next ten minutes: my parents kept wrestling us away from the living room curtains and it was the longest ten minutes of my life.
At the end of the allotted time, when we opened our front door, we saw magic. Our entire porch, which ran the length of our rancher, was covered in wrap presents--piles and piles of gifts of every size.
Christmas morning, when we were finally allowed to rip into those packages, what do you think I found?
Yep: a gymnastics mat, a typewriter that could type both red and black, and a reversible coat--with zip-off sleeves (an added bonus from the elves, I guessed)!
Now, some people say that Santa Claus is not real, but I know differently. I have never been to the North Pole so I cannot speak of the existence of a massive workshop manned by little people, but I can speak of the magic-making love I have felt this and other Christmas mornings. I believe that love and manifestations of it can come from many sources. And if those sources fall under the name, "Santa Claus," I am totally fine with that. I welcome Santa and his magic into my home and his love into the hearts of my children. He was a very tender part of my childhood and I hope someday my children will say the same.
Last year, my Maia was part of her school's musical, Grease (a school version--very "cleaned up," as it were). She was cast as Cha Cha DeGregorio. She was the most soft-spoken Cha Cha who has ever lived, I am sure. I was happy that she had fun being in the cast and getting to know so many other kids at her new school. The experience was good for her.
So good, in fact, that she wanted to do it again this year. Her school was going to perform Seussical: The Musical. Before try-outs, I gave her a little pep talk. "Maia, you can sing. You sing the right notes, but people need to actually hear them when you audition, okay?" When she came home from her audition, she assured me that she had been much louder than last year.
When the cast was announced, we learned that she was cast as Gertrude McFuzz, one of the lead roles. I was amazed--not that I didn't think my Maia could do it, but more that I was surprised that she had shown her abilities to the directors.
The week of the play, I was a nervous wreck. I had serious nausea at some points, I kid you not. I knew Maia knew her lines and songs, but I was nervous that she would get nervous and forget. I was worried that people wouldn't be able to hear her. I worried that she would remember that she hates attention. That she'd trip and fall off the stage. Or have a wardrobe malfunction. (You get the idea; I can be somewhat neurotic.)
I worried in vain.
Opening night, ten minutes into the show when she sang her first solo, it became apparent that my Maia is a star! Tears rolled down my face as I watched her sit in the spotlight and sing her little heart out. I couldn't keep a smile off my face all night. She sang all her notes perfectly, didn't miss a cue and was utterly adorable. (And we could hear her just fine.)
It was not without sacrifice that she had this amazing experience. Maia spends hours every night doing homework and had to fit in a couple of rehearsals a week with that intense work ethic for school. I had to drive a carpool and take her to those rehearsals. But, boy, was it worth it.
I could tell after the first performance that her spirit was just soaring. She felt confident, appreciated and supported. Who wouldn't love to feel those things--especially as an adolescent?
As for me, I was overwhelmed by yet another piece of evidence that my little chubby baby is long gone; there is a tall, thin young woman in her place. I was also overwhelmed with the love extended to my girl (and her nervous mom) from relatives, friends and neighbors who came to see her on stage. It warmed my mother heart.
Love this group shot we snapped on the last night: I am clearly mid-word; my Michael is afraid to come any closer lest anyone know that he is with us. But look at the sources of love: grandparents, three beloved aunts, some of her favorite cousins and dear friends.
I love me some musicals. Nothing like people breaking into song in the middle of tense and/or exciting moments. (I mean, isn't that how you live your life?)
I have passed this appreciation along to my children. We love watching all kinds of musicals, from "Funny Girl" to "The Sound of Music." We enjoy belting out along with our favorite songs.
This morning, we were listening to the "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" soundtrack while making lunches and cleaning up from breakfast. The song "Lovely Lonely Man" came on. It is sung about Dick Van Dyke's character.
"Why is she saying that he is a 'lonely man,' Mom?" Teensy inquired, "Is it because he's not married?"
"Yeah," I responded, "His wife died."
"Oh," she said, somewhat sadly. Then she added, "Was she Mary Poppins?"
"Um, no," I assured her.
Looks like I need to explain that all movie musicals are not once giant storyline.
Quotation of the Month
There is no way to be a perfect mother, and a million ways to be a good one.
-Jill Churchill
Okay...Maia put your gum under your tongue. Mason and Marlee, stand up straight. Mason and Mackenna, you need to smile. Marlee what are you doing with your jaw? Look here and just smile!
Fabulous. It's the photo every mother dreams of having. Let's do one more.
Okay. You've had your fun. Now, dear children, for the love of all, please stand nicely and smile naturally for 2 seconds.
Oh, forget it.
