Be warned! This is probably going to be a bit of a ramble. It’s what happens when I get only four hours of sleep and I have to face my computer the next morning.

If you haven’t noticed. Sometimes, I kind of go off on strange tangents with my blogs. I can get bored doing the same-ole thing every day. So, sometimes, I let the first thing that pops into my mind lead the ramble…

This morning, as I was turning on the Keurig, I saw a bloated clear plastic bag on my art table and paused. The bag contained my latest thrift store purchases. And faced with coming to my desk to open up my computer or exploring what I’d purchased inside a stapled plastic “grab bag”, I chose to rip the bag open and dump the contents on my table.

I took the picture without giving it any thought to how it looks…

When my dd takes a picture of my treasure hauls,
it looks like this…

This is what happens when I take the picture…

Ack! Ignore the jumble-box of leftover beads in the upper left corner and the flower pot of pens in the upper right. Those belong there. But look at the horrid mess of junk I purchased, mostly sight unseen for $4.

The stash includes a McCall’s wedding dress pattern (it’s underneath the crap, lower left). Lots of really ugly and dated trim (which I just know will be something I can use in a mixed media journal, uh-huh), ugly fabric scraps, embroidery threat (I didn’t misspell that—I keep promising myself to begin a friendship bracelet, but the thread is too intimidating), a really ugly old-fashioned frog closure/sewing embellishment, a yard of red beaded/bugled trim underneath everything where you can’t see it (that I could use to frame something, maybe), a grody old index card box, a bag of cheap, acrylic loops and a plastic crochet hook to go along with TWO plastic potholder looms…

And its the looms that catch my eye. I remember those! I had one when I was a kid, and I made some really ugly potholders. So, of course, I have to go check Pinterest for “potholder weaving” and OMG. New obsession! After watching my third “How To” video, I went back to my stash, stuffed the crap back into the plastic bag, but left out the two looms and the acrylic loops and realized I can’t start a project because I don’t have the bloody-goddamn metal hooky-thing that you use to drag the loops.

So… I find a company that sells modern potholder looms—lovely metal looms instead of the cheap plastic, but still, the same damn things—and they sell the metal hooky things! I bought one. And then, I noticed they sell COTTON loops, so I purchased two bags of cotton loops in colors my dd will love (so she doesn’t yell at me for buying yet more project junk to add to my craft hoard).

And that’s my blog. Sad, isn’t it? But I did manage to write some words and my fingers are limber. Now, I can start the REAL work. 🙂

I save quotes, quote books, etc. to give me inspiration. When I’m feeling at a low ebb energy or idea-wise, I thumb through them to find something that “fits”.

Here’s one that always makes me smile…

If you have enough fantasies, you’re ready, in the event
that something happens. ~ Sheila Ballantyne

Do you love quotes or daily mantras to get your creativity or gumption going?

Here’s wishing all you moms, stepmoms, foster moms, and even
you babysitting aunties a Happy Mother’s Day!

This will be my shortest post ever because tonight I’m thinking that tomorrow will be a perfect day. I’ll be in the company of my family as we head to the theater to watch Avengers: End Game. I think I’ll dream happy dreams.

Follow your bliss. ~ Joseph Campbell

One thing I love to do to relax is sneak away to a candlelit bubble bath with a good book. I adore soaking in all those glorious scented bubbles while indulging myself in a sexy romance or high-spirited romcom. I even enjoy action/adventure. And if I can’t have a bath, I enjoy curling onto a cushy sofa with a thick throw and warm cup of hot chocolate—unless, of course, it’s summer in which the throw must be ditched and the hot chocolate replaced with a cool Mimosa. Or if I’m feeling exceptionally frisky, I may substitute the mimosa for a cosmopolitan or a good ol’ Southern Hurricane. However, a winddown I recently rediscovered is makeup. Yep, cosmetics. To explain this, I have to recap briefly my high school days.

Like many little girls, I dabbled with glitter makeup and my mother’s lipstick when I was in grammar school. I didn’t try to apply it in any meaningful way until junior high—which actually was the beginning of high school. See, the school I attended consisted of an elementary school from kindergarten to sixth grade and high school from seventh grade to twelfth grade. No distinctions were made for middle school or junior high school. Although to an untrained visitor, the elementary school may have appeared as five buildings, it was actually one structure that expanded one city block and connected in a series of internal and external stairways and underground passages. That may sound bizarre or like an uncanny version of Hogwarts School of Magic, but the explanation is actually unremarkable. The school was built in the 1800s and run by an order of nuns. A section of the school (the convent) housed the nuns. To move around in inclement weather, the nuns used the tunnels to travel from the convent to the main areas of the school. Since the nuns spent much time in meditation and prayer, the tunnels, as well as the inner stairs, allowed for privacy from the public. More importantly, at its inception, the elementary school wasn’t “elementary”. It was an all-girls school for students in kindergarten to twelfth grade.

As you’ve probably guessed, this meant that the high school was the original all-boys school. It was several miles away and not as large, as it did not have a monastery. It was run by priests. When the schools were made coed, they were split into what is now designated the elementary and high schools—well, sort of. The original high school burned and was rebuilt on a different parcel of land, and the original elementary school was sold to the city as a cultural art building when the order nuns moved from the convent. Instead of being a three-story half-block, the new high school was one-story and a quarter of the size of the original. But I digress. (You know how us southerners are.)

My point is, as a tweenie, I was exposed to and traveled in a circle with the high schoolers. We shared the same hallways, bathrooms, classrooms, locker rooms, and teachers. Naturally, I wanted to emulate some of the more popular upperclassmen, who in my preteen mind were gorgeous. I remember when the homecoming queen, who lived up the street from me, visited a neighborhood playground. She never did this, and I don’t know why she did that day. It was a usual humid southern day, and I was seated on the merry-go-round and covered in dust. (Actually, I think the technical term for the equipment was roundabout, but we called it a merry-go-round.) There was a “baseball” game happening at the time. (They called it baseball but they were using both metal and wooden bats with a softball but pitching it like a baseball—playground shenanigans and kids who didn’t know any better.) I was too little (and lousy) to play, and the other kids shooed me away from the game. Honestly, I didn’t blame them, and my feelings weren’t hurt. I’d rather swing or teeter on a todder than embarrass myself striking out or being belittled for not being able to field a ground ball. I’d never had anyone to teach me to play, let alone play using their janky rules. In any case, I was covered in dirt and dust because it had not rained in weeks, and all the grass around the merry-go-round was worn from foot traffic. Anytime I stopped or started the merry-go-round bolls of dust would formulate and engulf me like a sandstorm. I will never forget that on that day I was wearing white sneakers, white shorts, and a white T-shirt (like an idiot). My nails were ragged and my pigtails windblown out of their scrunchies. Then here comes this goddess in a yellow sundress, French manicured nails, Egyptian lace-up sandals, flawless skin with even more flawless makeup, and perfectly sculpted hair. If there ever was a moment that cussing was appropriate, that was it. Read the rest of this entry »

I was up early today. First, my dd messaged to ask if I was dressed. Her hubby forgot his wallet and needed it dropped in town. Now, usually, I’d send her a rude emoji but it’s Easter, and I knew she had to help the bunny deliver goodies, so I ran into town to give my policeman SIL his wallet. *smh*

Then it was back to my dd’s for coffee as we waited for the kids to stir. Everyone awoke to my dd’s hand-decorated buckets filled with edible goodies and gifts. Everyone got things they wanted—the oldest girl got makeup and jewelry and an expensive mixed media sketchpad (she’s a budding artist—how could I, er, the bunny not indulge?), the baby got sidewalk chalk and glitter clay (also, a budding artist, so again, we have to encourage!), and the boy got lots of cologne and shaving stuff (because he’s very vain 🙂 ). We’re spiritual with a mixed bag of beliefs but not religious, so no church morning for us.

Next came the annual photos my dd takes in her yard. She lets the wildflowers take over every year until they go to seed. Her hubby hates them. Calls them weeds. But it’s hard to argue with the butterflies and bees that are attracted to her yard! Not much crimson clover this year, but we do have these pretty purple blooms… Oh, and the kids are darling, too!

Cathleen Ross

This post is more cheerful than the title suggests because it does have a happy ending, but it’s important reading because most of us have at some time done a long-haul flight. Cathleen Ross interviews author Enisca Hasic about the time a Deep Vein Thrombosis nearly cost her…her life.

25 December 2017

One Christmas Day forever embedded in my memory.

It’s common knowledge that cancer kills, that heart disease kills. No one warns you about blood clots, how life-threatening they can be.

Stealthily forming in your leg (or your arm) when you remain seated for long hours, the blood clot is a ticking time bomb you don’t know you have inside you until the moment you stand.

That upright movement is like a signal for the clot to break into pieces, each piece travelling at speed towards your lungs, filling them with blood so there is no room for air.

And there is the real danger then — the risk of heart attack, of stroke, of death.

I am intimately acquainted with blood clots. One settled in my right calf as I sat through a 15 hour flight from Dubai to Sydney. I felt fine through the flight, no inkling of what was about to happen. Half an hour before landing, I had an urge to use the toilet, but decided against it as the passengers beside me were sprawled in their seats fast asleep. I learned later from the doctors my decision not to go saved my life. I would have collapsed in the toilet, and with the plane still on the air and no immediate medical intervention available, I would have died.

Scary, sobering thought.

The plane landed. I got up, collected my cabin bag, and immediately felt a shortness of breath. My heart began beating fast. I was now gasping as I walked down the aisle. My head was dizzy. Nausea attacked my stomach. I wondered if my blood pressure was playing up, thought to stop for a moment to catch my breath.

Next thing, I was on the floor with an oxygen mask on my face and a voice repeatedly asking, ‘Can you hear me?’

I was in pain, unable to do more than gasp out answers before the paramedics arrived. Unconscious again, I woke up in Emergency at RPA hospital. I’d had a sub-massive bilateral pulmonary embolism, the worst they’d seen, needing riskier than usual emergency treatment (riskier, as the treatment itself can cause massive bleeding). I was, they said, very, very lucky to survive both the PE and the treatment. And I was, because many, many people die from it.

If I’d known about blood clots, how dangerous they were, I would not have sat for hours, I would have walked up and down the aisle and drunk more water to keep myself hydrated. The blood clot would not have appeared then.

I hope by telling my experience that others will be aware and know how not to get acquainted with blood clots.

Rough and Ready
by Cathleen Ross

Before special ops soldier Hugo Boudreaux can move on, he has one last thing to do–fulfill a wartime debt to the friend who saved his life. He must infiltrate a vicious Louisiana MC club to stop their next illegal weapons shipment and send the president to jail. What he didn’t plan on was ending up an unwilling bodyguard to the man’s daughter–innocent and attractive nurse Alice Kaintuck.

Alice wants a normal life with a nice guy. But her rough-edged bodyguard is the sexiest man she’s ever met. Suddenly she can’t stop thinking about just how hot he makes her. Before she knows it, she’s tumbling into his muscular arms…though she’ll be damned if she’ll fall in love with a man as dangerous as her father. Only Hugo doesn’t make love, he consumes her and turns her life upside down with his carnal, erotic sex. Dreams of nice guys vanish when her enemy becomes her obsession…

Get your copy here!