It's Staple Gun Inauguration Day! Purchased with some of my birthday money, this little baby will take me far and keep me from asking the church custodians if I can borrow theirs overnight. You can see how happy I am to show this off because I am totally focused on the gun and I don't give a flying fig about the hair in this pic. Obviously. In fact, I'd say I look a little drunk with staple gun happiness here.
Here's what the back of the Hobby Lobby canvases look like. I had spring/summer prints up before, as you can see in this lively floral pattern.
It takes 5/8 of one yard of fabric to do two of these canvases. You just start stapling. The toughest part is negotiating corners--just like learning to drive. Well, at least you don't have to parallel park these. 
So I just push the corner in, then overlap each side, staple all together.
And voila! Don't you love to say "voila!"? I don't have that many opportunities to say that. So, you know, this IS a special day. Now what do you think I should do around it? My walls are so bare, and I do love metal artwork ....
This is pretty much the best set of pics I've ever taken. I was on a country road going to a friend's house, when I noticed this little tree. I have no idea what kind it is because in my life I have mainly focused nail polish colors instead of foliage names. Anyway, I'm pretty proud of me and my little cheap camera. Edited on Picnik.
This is from the hand-written, hand-copied recipe that my friend Diane's father, Merrill Gosnell, made at Christmas one year. She was weak that last Christmas, so he made it so that she could give all of us girls a bag of this wonderful caramel corn as gifts.
I just made this last night. I miss my friend. But I remember the things she enjoyed and loved. She loved giving gifts (like this treat), and she loved her parents. That is her dad in her hospital room in the 2nd picture. So this is a tribute to both sweet people.
3 to 3 1/2 quarts of air-popped white corn. *I used three bags of regular microwave popcorn. Could not find plain.*
1 c. brown sugar
1 stick butter
1/4 c. light corn syrup
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. baking soda
Spray a large brown grocery bag with Pam. Pour popped popcorn into bag.
In a 2 qt. bowl, combine sugar, butter, corn syrup and salt. Bring to a boil. Don't let it stick. This may take 2-3 minutes.
Remove and stir in soda. Should foam up.
Carefully pour this hot mixture into grocery bag of popcorn.
Close bag and shake well to coat popcorn.
Microwave on high 1 minute. Shake again.
Microwave 30 seconds and shake again.
Microwave another 30 seconds and shake again.
Pour out onto lined cookie sheet and cool.
You gave me so much.
This is how it looked yesterday morning after the root color and style. I teased it a bit more, but I cannot make it be Tutorial Lady hair. I realized she probably has a few more hairs on her head than I do, plus my layers are shorter. Anyhoo ... this is my favorite top, a Maurice's purchase. Love the feminine stuff. OK, that's all about hair for four more weeks. 
This is installment 2 of the scientific experiment which stems from my thesis: "My hair does not grow." I have hypothesized that when I get a haircut, I will sport that cut for three years before anyone can tell a difference in length.
I took pics at month one as seen in this riveting post: I Got My Hur Did & It Don't Grow to prove my point. I wanted a pic at 4 weeks and then 8 weeks. 
Eight weeks. Wow. The roots, they are a showin'... like those of the old oak which got blown over by the "Big Storm of Aught-Seven," or something Ingalls like that.
My sister-in-law posted a message on Facebook about coloring the roots: "Your natural color is beautiful."
Beautiful? Yes, if you like the color "cement." I mean, look at that black and white pic. That is basically the color of my real hair. 
You don't see this shade offered very often.
So even though I'm technically 5 days early, I just couldn't take the gray on gray anymore. Tonight was the night.
So I chose L'Oreal 8G, Golden Blonde. I go a little more brassy in the Fall/Winter. Note how this product instantly turns your hair into Taylor Swift hair. 
Now, I just happened to find this beautiful person with equally beautiful hair at The Small Things through Pinterest. She has a tutorial on how to work this miracle on your own head. (Please don't fail me, Tutorial Lady!) I bought the duck bill clips she suggested. I colored the hair while watching Biggest Loser. And then I styled it according to Tutorial Lady. Here is what it looked like. I have on no make up. That's not true. I put on lip gloss. (Don't say a word).
Ok, so hers is going back and mine is going forward. Funny thing is, mine usually wants to go backward. Oh well. If I had a cute little Barbie nose like that, mine would lay right, too. And hers is fuller, but I didn't want to tease mine up so much at bedtime. I told George, "I think I'm OK-happy with my hair. Wow. I bet you haven't heard that in a long time. When is the last time you heard that?"
George: "Never. Ever. In my life. I think I need to lie down."
So yeah, on the left is my root growth last month. On the right is this month. You'll notice .... NOT MUCH DIFFERENCE.
And here is the collage: day of cut in August, 4 wks, 8wks. NO DISCERNIBLE GROWTH. However, a very discernible loss of tan.
Oh well. At least I have my duck clips for tomorrow morning. Bring it, Wednesday!
One day a friend said to me, "I don't need religion. It's a crutch."
First of all, let me say that to most believers, being called religious is a bit off-putting. Religion implies "doing," as in "rules." Faith, on the other hand, connotes a way of moving through the world--your relationship with God and your relationships with people. Big difference.
In a sense, calling religious faith a crutch is accurate. If the definition of crutch is something that you lean on, that supports you when you're afflicted, I can see what she meant and would readily agree that in part, that is what religion is.
But she meant "crutch" in a derogatory way, as if to say that the sum total of religion's function is to placate the feeble ("opiate of the masses.")
That's sort of like saying, "The only function food has is to sustain me. I don't need to experience the savory, the sweet, the salty, the smooth, the crisp ... just hook me up to an IV bag of nutrients. That's how strong I am. That's how above the other weaklings I am." To that I would reply, "OK, maybe technically, that's true, you could survive without. But I have to say, wow--you're missing a lot."
Can the enjoyment of food become an unhealthy crutch? Absolutely. But don't throw out the baby with the bathwater, or the edges of the pizza with the box, because I like them.
So crutches can be misused, like any belief system or any good thing in life. Give us humans anything good, and we can warp it. We specialize in that.
Sometimes crutches enable you to walk when otherwise you'd be chair or bed-bound. If for the rest of my life I had to choose between crutches or being immobile, I would choose crutches, in order to live as fully as I could, including moving through the world the best I could. In this case, the crutch would actually offer me freedom.
But not all crutches have the same stigma as religion.
Let's get real. What else could be categorized as a crutch?
First example: People you love and who love you. Don't make me start singing Bill Withers' "Lean on Me." We lean on each other. Sometimes people burden us; sometimes we burden them. Even the Lone Ranger moved through the world with Tonto.
My elderly parents often apologize for needing my help. I am hurt by this apology because they forget or discount how I leaned on them all of my growing up years. Were they thrilled every time I became ill and needed exhausting around-the-clock care? No. It was a burden of love. I feel that way about them now. I want to say, "Please lean on me in your time of need! I want to be there for you!"
Other examples of crutches:
Your job--for finances, since you weren't born with the proverbial silver spoon.
Your car--because it's so convenient.
Hobbies--which entertain you because you need outside stimuli and interests.
Education--which gives you a step up in society.
Kisses, embraces, tears, laughter--when words won't do.
How about this: Is your vision a crutch? Because you can certainly survive without it. How about the ground under your feet? It's supporting you.
So my point is two-fold:
A. Almost any activity or thing can be viewed as a crutch.
B. A crutch is not necessarily a bad thing.
I think the bigger question is why would a person want to box up and label religion and tuck it in the basement never to be considered again?
I think it's a combination of
-a fear of looking weak
-a fear of what "being religious" might require of him
-a fear that opening himself up to things that can't be completely explained diminishes his intellect
-a fear of repeating previous bad experiences with "religious" people
- and finally, plain old arrogance
But what if the so-called weak, dependent simpletons sit at the banquet table and enjoy the raucous party and hearty feast with each other and the host, while the independent, desperado, Nobody's Fool settles for the bland, the predictable, the isolated, the temporal ... the "safe"?
People are free to stay grounded and immobile, but they're also free to fly. Faith is under your wings, like a crutch, and it's all around you as you fly, lifting you higher and higher.
So yes, faith supports. Sometimes it carries. But sometimes it builds up your muscles, smacks you on the butt and sends you off into the world. It also inspires, guides, and corrects you. It does not tie you down; it frees you. It works in cathedrals, and it works in shacks. It works for the wealthy and the poor. It works for members of MENSA; it works for children. It works for anyone who dares to open the box in the basement and just let it be.
You want to get rid of debilitating crutches in your life? Get rid of the false sense of superiority and independence. Open the box, open your mind and heart. Real life is waiting.
This is what I see when I leave my driveway for a morning run in late summer--truly a joy-filled moment for me. I love to run toward the sun, whether it's rising or setting. I never grow tired of looking at that big ol' ball of fire hanging in the sky. It is always spectacular.
When I was a little girl, before I knew that I wasn't that coordinated or athletic, I used to run all over my backyard like a Banshee. I set up hurdles before I knew what hurdles were or that there were school teams who ran and jumped hurdles. I used my old kindergarten rest-time mat, picnic table benches, boxes, peony bushes--whatever I could to leap over. I would just run and jump, run and jump. I crashed into fences serving as finishing lines. I ran for the love of it.
I wish that someone had noticed this penchant and encouraged me to keep moving when I hit middle school and fell into that phase of inactivity and passivity to which so many teenage girls succumb. I wish someone at home or at school would have said, "Why don't you try this?" (Any sport).
To be fair, once I made the cheerleading squad, I was all about that. All other interests besides boys paled in comparison.
Still, I wish someone had talked to me about taking care of my body and appreciating what it could do when put to the test, and how good I'd feel when I accomplished a run.
I wish someone had said, "Cheerleading is great, but you can't do that the rest of your life. Tennis, swimming, running or golf, yes."
But that didn't happen, and I didn't discover again that I loved to run until I was about 32. Still, even at that "advanced" age, I was blown away by what my body would do when I asked it to "go to the next mailbox, next stoplight." Simply amazing.
Here I am at 49, still going, albeit slow and plodding. But I never feel more alive than when I'm running.
And there are two things in this life I NEVER grow tired of looking at: the faces of my children, and beautiful Indiana skies. I have so much to be thankful for!
Last week at a small gathering, a friend posed the question to everyone sitting around the bonfire: "What is your favorite movie quote?" Some had to think; some knew right away. I am of the "right away" group. What's yours?
And just in case you're interested to see if anyone else agrees with your choice,
100 Most Memorable Movie Quotes will answer that question.
Mine? Comes from my favorite contemporary movie: 
The line is: "Swing Away." Simple, but when you watch the movie, you realize how multi-layered that phrase is, just like the movie itself. There are so many themes in the movie I won't even go into them in the interest of brevity. But here is my choice, for all posterity, in case the Great-Great-Grandchildren want to know which movie Granny liked.
Swing away, children. Swing away!
I hear there's a Footloose remake coming out.
I never saw this movie.
That's because in college, Jorge broke up with me while this movie was in theaters. During this break-up, he took a "girl" to this movie. Somehow, putting quotations around "girl" make her seem ... sketchy, at least that was my goal. But I think she was just really "a girl." Normal and everything.
I saw this girl later on, after we got back together. I said mean things about her-- having wide hips and being an equestrian. ? (I don't know. I was grasping.)
But to this day, when I hear "Let's Hear it for the Boy," I roll my eyes.
Twenty-eight years later, I'm still rolling my eyes and being snarky over one little, teeny-tiny HELLO--MAJOR event.
Anyway, they're remaking it, starring Kenny Wormald, Julianne Hough, Dennis Quaid and Andie McDowell. I kind of like the oldsters in this, so maybe I'll go see this one.
Of course, I'd have to get a get date. And since I'm married, it would probably have to be that guy who dumped me and saw Footloose #1 with The Equestrian. Not that I would ever bring that up during the movie or dinner or drive home or anything, oh nooooo.
So how about you ... is there anything from your early dating years with your spouse that you STILL bring up? A date that went bad, a break-up, a horrible miscommunication, an awful, tacky gift? (Please don't let me be the only one.)
Then back me up, spill what you can. Because life is too short to forget these petty grievances; let's make sure we get them down for posterity. LOL.
I said I was going to let the new haircut grow out and do periodic "check-ins" on here to prove how slowly my hair grows, which would legitimize my whining about my haircut, mainly that once I get it cut, it stays cut for like, a year. And then it sort of grows a little, if it feels like it. Or it might just decide to break off and give me that natural layered look, like Madge, here:
She can say, "I meant to look this way," and it's cool. That doesn't work for you when you're a 49 year old church secretary. You just end up looking like Ramona Quimby:
But I don't know if I can do this--that is, not color the roots.
Not that my natural hair color isn't a lovely shade of back-of-the-writing-tablet cardboard gray, because it's just awesome, if you like the "recycled paper on your head" look.
But it is taking all the willpower I have in the world to wait to color these roots until October 16, the 2 month marker of the haircut.
Is this proof that my hair is indeed growing?
Not so fast. I am one who cannot stand any rootage showing. So I colored my roots probably entirely too often. Which may explain the Ramona look.
But I'm hanging in there, in the interest of science (rate of growth, empirical evidence), social science (How will others treat me when they notice the line of mushroom colored hair in my part), and psychology (How long can I mentally stand it before I grab a box of L'Oreal 9G and get after it?)
This could be the longest 10 days of my life, excluding the 10 days I was overdue for Katie or the 10 days before Donny Osmond came to the Indiana State Fair in 1973. You get the idea. This is monumental.
Siiiiiigh
Yesterday I turned 49.
You know what that means.
One year from today: 50
Yes, 5-0, just like SNL's Sally O'Malley.
In my posse, when you turn 50, they do this to you:
They force a Red Hat Society hat and boa on you, amongst other hiLARious treats.
But even though I woke up and found myself 49 yesterday, it was still better than when I awoke at 30.
When year 30 dawned back in 1992, I was 9 months pregnant. During the night, a blood vessel burst in my eye, and I looked as though I had bright red blood all over the white of my eye. My hair was permed. I had on a big, dark green maternity tent and was on my way to church. And someone snapped a picture.
Ever since then, he's been known as "Jorge the Lefty."
So in an effort to be the best I can be in this my final year in the decade of what I once foolishly thought was old but now realize is not, I registered for the Indianapolis Indy Mini-Marathon in May. This means I have about 200 days left to ready myself to run 13.1 miles.
I is kind, smart, important, old and I is CRAZEE.
Anyone else out there fall in the same category?
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