Flashback Friday ~ The Prom

Linda is in the swing of spring over at Mocha with Linda's Flashback Friday meme. Here's the prompt:

Share your prom memories. Did your school have a junior prom or just a senior prom? What did you wear? Was there a party after the prom? Did you go with a date or with friends, and if it was a date, was it a one-time date or a boyfriend/girlfriend scenario? Did you go to more than one prom (like, being someone's date at another school or year.) Where was your senior prom held? Any particular songs come to mind when you think of prom? As always, pictures are great!

I brought a bunch of pics home from my mom's yesterday afternoon on a whim, came home, read the prompt and realized I have no prom pics in the bunch, so I had to scan one from the yearbook. But here's what I remember:

Sophomore year: Bought my first dress from a bridal store. I felt so grown up. Went to prom with Hatrick the boyfriend, who was a senior. I wore a buttery yellow dress with spaghetti straps. Do you see what was wrong with that choice for me? I'll tell you.

1. Yellow on someone with the coloring roughly the equivalent of buttermilk.
2. Spaghetti straps on someone built like an ironing board.

All night long, I stepped on the hem of my dress and yanked it up at the chest to keep from showing no chest at all. Ugh. Plus, he wanted to dance the entire night, and I hated dancing. He danced quite a bit with other people. I just wanted to go home. We both had acne. Not a good picture, so I'm glad I don't have it here to show you. Lucked out. The theme song was "I Like Dreamin'," but I just wanted to wake up from the nightmare. Seriously.

Junior year: Different boyfriend. White eyelet-like dress with ribbon spaghetti straps. Well, at least this dress fit better, but it was still a shade of white: White. What was wrong with me?? He wore a powder blue tux. Oh yes he did. I believe the song for the night was "Always and Forever."

In my junior year, I was a prom princess, on the court with other juniors, and a senior was the queen. I'm on the far right with my eyes half-closed, looking drunk, but I was not, I assure you. The beautiful girl to my left was my best friend, Kris, who was elected homecoming queen the next year.



Senior year: Same boyfriend. I went all crazy and chose a CREAM colored dress with tons of pleats in it. He wore a burgundy tux with cream shirt. Theme song: "Grand Illusion." That I chose that color of dress shows I had a "grand delusion" that my pale skin would actually look distinct from the dress itself.

End of story. But I did wear a black shirt with a silver metallic thread running through it afterward to go bowling in, which I thought was way cool.

Next weekend, my youngest daughter will be going to her high school prom. You can bet there will be pictures here!

Please go on over to Linda's and link up today; it's way more fun than dancing on your dress all night long and worrying about your frizzy hair and acne, I promise!

Wow. That is the lamest prom story ever. Just be glad you only read about it and didn't live it.

Bedhead Carnival

Lovely, sweet Sara from Butterville is hosting a meme/contest which is pretty self-explanatory.

I think you can see 1.)How bad I look in the a.m. 2.)How vicious my children are to have snapped these as I walked out of my bedroom one morning. 3) My lack of pride due to an intense desire for a Starbucks card.

You need to vote for me because ... I stand for change! Yes we can! I stand for ugly! Yes we can! I stand for bedheads of the world, unite! Yes we can!

Vote early, vote often, vote for me for "American Bedhead Idol."

Secret Meaning of Your Name

What Linda Means

You are relaxed, chill, and very likely to go with the flow. "Chill" is not an adjective, but I do go with the flow, except when the flow is a sentence written that awkwardly. You are light hearted and accepting. You don't get worked up easily. Um, see the description after this next one, which seems to imply the opposite. Perhaps I am merely ambivalent, or perhaps I'm multi-faceted like fine crystal. Well adjusted and incredibly happy, many people wonder what your secret to life is. Oh yes, people routinely stop me to ask my secret to life as they mistake me for a Walmart employee. That's what they're really asking when they say, "Can you tell me where's the big mans' clothes is?" You tend to be pretty tightly wound. It's easy to get you excited... which can be a good or bad thing. So now I'm tightly wound. Whatever. You make me grit my teeth. You have a lot of enthusiasm, but it fades rather quickly. You don't stick with any one thing for very long. I beg your pardon. I have a long-standing love relationship with chocolate no-bake cookies, Camaros, and ELO, so "Don't Bring Me Down." You have the drive to accomplish a lot in a short amount of time. Your biggest problem is making sure you finish the projects you start. True. And I WILL finish my gingerbread house. You are very intuitive and wise. You understand the world better than most people. That is why exactly 20 people in the entire U.S. voted for my favorite Presidential candidate. You also have a very active imagination. You often get carried away with your thoughts. No way. I dare anyone to find any evidence at all in any of my posts of my getting carried away about things like dessert, LOST and the Food Network Challenge shows. You are prone to a little paranoia and jealousy. You sometimes go overboard in interpreting signals. What's that supposed to mean, Buster? You are balanced, orderly, and organized. You like your ducks in a row. That's why I misplaced a brand new jacket for two weeks that I had only worn once. It turned up under my desk at work. Which means it did not turn up in one square inch of my entire house that I combed over with a mascara wand looking for a big black jacket for nothing. You are powerful and competent, especially in the workplace. Oh, this is the cruelest joke of all. Even the teenage interns run me. People can see you as stubborn and headstrong. You definitely have a dominant personality. That is so not true. OK, it was true when I was a little kid in the neighborhood, but we all know that our basic personalities change as we grow older and more mellow. Don't we. You are usually the best at everything ... you strive for perfection. I strive for perfection for about 60 seconds, and then I give in to "learned helplessness." Works for me. And not just on Wednesdays. You are confident, authoritative, and aggressive. I'm sure [being confident] that you will [authoritative] be leaving me a comment, or else [aggressive]. You have the classic “Type A” personality. Type A, as in "Annoying."

What's Your Name's Hidden Meaning?

5 Minute Chocolate Mug Cake ~ Fall Into Flavor Finale!

Well, today we conclude Fall Into Flavor, the comfort-food recipe carnival that guaranteed participants 5 new lbs on the thighs by Thanksgiving or my name isn't Mrs. Butterworth! Who could resist that opportunity?

I wanted to go out with a bang this week, and at one point, I was afraid it was going to be a literal bang.

You see, I received a recipe from a co-worker that I had to try, as dicey as it sounds in writing. It's the "5 Minute Chocolate Mug Cake," baked entirely in a coffee mug! I knew that if it worked, I would never be without chocolate cake again, and that if I ever wanted chocolate cake but not left-over chocolate cake, this would be the answer.

So I made the 5 Minute Chocolate Mug Cake in my 2nd Cup test kitchen as my big Fall Into Flavor swan song.

Let's start with the simple ingredients:

4 tablespoons flour
4 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons cocoa
1 egg
3 tablespoons milk
3 tablespoons oil
3 tablespoons chocolate chips (optional)
a small splash of vanilla extract

The Procedure:

Add dry ingredients to mug, and mix well. Add the egg and mix thoroughly. Pour in the milk and oil and mix well. Add the chocolate chips (if using) and vanilla extract, and mix again.

Put your mug in the microwave and cook for 3 minutes at 1000 watts (high).

You probably shouldn't let your child cook her head and eyes while watching the magic mug cake rise, but sometimes you forget about your child when you're awaiting chocolate miracles.

You will see the cake rise over the top of the mug about an inch, and some might drip down the side, but don't be alarmed! It will not explode. I tried to take a pic of it while it was nuking, but it didn't turn out. And as soon as I took it out of the microwave, it immediately shrank back into the mug, so this was all I could capture for you, but while it was in there puffing up, it was as exciting as Jiffy Pop, I promise.

Allow to cool a little, and tip out onto a plate if desired. Actually, what I desired was to halve the cake, put it in a dessert bowl with a dip of ice cream and cover it in chocolate syrup.




And then I desired to take a bite, but some dropped on the floor. If you should happen to drop a bit on the floor, don't panic; your emergency floor cleaner-upper will be right there before it actually adheres to the floor.

But I did get my bite, and it was delicious, very moist and brownie-like.

So I hope you enjoyed falling, --no-- Diving Face-First Into Flavor with me this Fall.

Please link up to share your recipe, and then


Be sure to come back tomorrow for a big announcement! Yay!

I Love the 70s Thursday Thirteen

I’m dropping in on Thursday Thirteen for the first time in a long time because I had a quirky thought about some 70s songs this week and said to myself, “Hey. That sounds like a TT.” And that’s how genius is born, my friends.

“My friends.” Oh, Senator McCain. Please stop saying that phrase; I beg of you. Please.

OK -- Thirteen 70s songs which contain funky stories.

These are not just odes like Elton John’s “Daniel,” or love songs, or songs about an event like when Buddy Holly died and Don McLean wrote that song which I won’t name here because then it will be stuck in my head for 6 weeks.

No, these are songs that have a beginning, middle and end, a narrative, if you will. I have listed either the writer or artist after the title. And here they are, my friends:

13. Bad, Bad Leroy Brown. (Jim Croce, 1972). My 5th grade music teacher let us sing this song, but he was very adamant that we weren’t going to substitute some “pansy” word like “darn” for the “d” word in the song. As a result, when we came to the crucial lyric, half the class laughed uncontrollably, half the class yelled the “d” word, and I took the road less traveled by, and sat there mute and fearful that a lightning bolt was going to take out half of my classmates for swearing. That teacher was … not smart.

12. Brandy. (Looking Glass, 1972). Brandy the barmaid's story painted the strongest case for the feminist cause, ever. When I hear this song, I always want to say, “Brandy, you don’t need no stinkin’ sailor. Go back to school, get your degree, travel--see the world yourself instead of listening to some blowhard’s tall tales. Stop waiting around on that scalawag sea dawg.” I like to imagine that Brandy invented those little paper baskets that hold chips and pickles and became an independent, powerful multi-millionaire chain restaurant owner. Or something.

11. Wildfire. (Michael Martin Murphy, 1975). A horse “busted down” its stall and got lost in a blizzard. Then the narrator felt haunted by the horse and some girl who ran calling “Wildfire.” The end.

10. Indiana Wants Me. (R. Dean Taylor, 1970). Somebody dissed somebody’s woman, so the narrator killed the disser. And somehow, Indiana, my state, got mixed up in this awful song which includes sirens and the actual words: “This is the police. You are surrounded. Give yourself up.” Given a choice between hearing this song and being shot by the police, I might take the bullet.

9. The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia. (Vicki Lawrence, 1972). So, Little Sister is singing this song about her older brother’s wife who cheated with everyone in town. Through a strange and totally implausible chain of events, Brother goes off to kill his friend, Andy, who cheated with the wife, but discovers that someone has already killed him. In a flash of brilliancy, Brother fires his gun in the air to summon a passing sheriff but is found standing over the body with a literal smoking gun. Brother is then hauled off, tried for murder and executed at midnight, which apparently sucked all the electricity out of the entire state of Georgia, in spite of the fact that he was hanged, not electrocuted. Plot twist: Little Sister done it for her big brother [“Gee, thanks, Sis!”] and got away with it.

8. Delta Dawn. (Helen Reddy, 1973). A beautiful girl gets jilted then walks around town with a suitcase in her hand for pretty much the rest of her life, or at least until she's 41, at which point her daddy still calls her "Baby." So she's got more than one problem. Modern day Miss Havisham.

7. Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves. (Cher, 1971). The narrator, a 16 year-old girl, reminisces about the zany life after “being born in the wagon of a travelin’ show.” It wasn’t pretty, but Cher was, so everyone cheered and bought the album.

6. I Shot the Sheriff. (Eric Clapton, 1974). I think this is a song about perceived retributional justice, with the stoopid rationale for shooting the sheriff being, “Reflexes got the better of me/And what is to be must be.” He did not like it that the sheriff had it in for him, so his trigger finger got “itchy.” Noble, indeed.

5. Honey. (Bobby Goldsboro). Sad songs, they say so much. OK, this one’s about a guy who’s missing his “Honey,” who died. It’s a sappy, sad, sad song, which actually includes the lyrics: “She was always young at heart/kinda dumb and kinda smart” Nothing says “love” like a back-handed compliment. “Honey” planted a tree, and now it has grown big. And that is sad, my friends.

4. My Eyes Adored You. (Frankie Valli, 1975). Pre-pubescent, innocent love that haunts a grown man even after he has found fortune and fame. Contains the name of a bridge which confused every listener who never heard of “Barnegat Bridge and Bay.” It is a real bridge in New Jersey. Looking at this picture, I can’t help but think they’re lucky they made it past 6th grade since they walked that treacherous route every day.

3. Cat’s in the Cradle. (Harry Chapin, 1974). This song preys on every fear that conscientious parents have about not spending enough time with their kids. The lesson is, if you ignore kids, they will grow up to be just like you, a bad person/parent, and they will probably stick you in a nursing home and never come see you, and you deserve it, you bad, bad parent.

2. The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. (Gordon Lightfoot, 1976). Possibly the worst, funniest song every written, imho. “The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee.” Any song with the words “Gitche Gumee” and “Cleveland” in the lyrics doesn’t lend itself to elegiac stanzas, but Gordon overcame those challenges, and unbelievably, this dirge made it all the way to #2 on the Billboard Hot 100. Next time you have a party, have everyone link elbows, sway, and take big, sloppy drinks of ale from frothy mugs while you sing this song at the tops of your lungs. Good times!

1. Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree. (Dawn, Featuring Tony Orlando, 1973). This song is #37 on Billboard’s Greatest Songs of All Time, selling 3 million in 3 weeks. Wow. We must have loved that song even more than I remember (I was 11). Plot: Ex-con is returning home but is afraid to look at the old oak tree, because if the ribbon’s not there, he’s gonna have to bust some heads. No, just kidding. He’ll be … sad … and he’ll “stay on the bus, forget about us, put the blame on me,” but it turns out he’s wringing his hands and asking the bus driver to look for him for no reason because lo and behold—100 ribbons are around that old oak tree! Everyone on the bus cheered! We just know they lived happily ever after, right?! Right!

And there you are, my friends, 13 story-telling songs of the 70s!

Fall Into Flavor, Week 1

*EDIT: Go ahead and click Mr. Linky to add your dish. I probably chose the wrong format, which is why you can't automatically see everyone without clikcing first, but I'm afraid if I change it now, I'll lose the links that are there.*

As I announced last Friday, today is the first installment of "Fall Into Flavor," a weekly homage to the comfort foods of Fall.

I'll bet you have some favorite family recipes that you'd be proud to share with us: stews, pies, casseroles, cobblers. Healthy choices have their place, but this ain't it, sister. Bring on the butter, cream, sugar, bacon and ... more buttah.

Tell us from whom you inherited the recipe (or if it's just one you love) and why you love it and any other special notes of memories or servings tips, etc.

The world is your oyster dumplin'. Here's my first contribution, a salute to my great state, Indiana, which has more cornfields than grass:

Corn Chowder

3 lbs potatoes, peeled and diced
4 oz. bacon, diced
3/4 c. chopped onion
2 (15 oz) cans creamed corn
1 (12 oz) can evaporated milk
3/4 c. whole milk
1/4 c. butter or margarine
1 (8 oz) block of Velveeta, cubed
Salt and Pepper to taste
*Optional: You can substitute cooked ham for the bacon. Or sausage.

1. Place potatoes in a pot with just enough water to cover. Bring to boil then simmer gently until tender. Do not drain.

2. Fry bacon with onion until crisp. Drain and set aside. Now turn back around and sample the bacon, just because you want to and no one will know.

3. Stir bacon & onions, corn, evap milk, reg milk, butter, cheese, salt and pepper into potatoes. Heat, stirring 10 mins, until cheese and butter are melted into an artery clogging consistency and all is thoroughly heated.

I supposed you could cancel out the artery constipation by also offering a salad. But it's not a requirement. I'm also into adding small jars of drained pimientos into yellow foods. Makes it prettier and zestier.

Please share the comfort food that helps your family "Fall Into Flavor!"

WFMW

I am a gum chewer because I feel insecure about my breath all day long. I know that smacking irritates some people, so I tried to switch to Altoids, but opening the can in a meeting or in church is noisy. You have the "clink" of the can and the rustling of the paper. And one day in a meeting at church, I dropped one down my blouse which temporarily derailed the meeting due to laughter. Did I mention we were seated at a round table so half the group saw it happen? As you can imagine, occasionally the "wayward Altoid" joke resurfaces with this group. And I'm not embarrassed at all.

So I went back to gum (preference: Extra, Polar Ice) but found myself frustrated by the packaging of gum, the worst being the new and improved packaging of Stride, which sort of unfolds like a book.

Whenever I open a package, they all fall out almost immediately. I feel as frustrated as Ralph Kramden.



So I got myself a cute little red change purse designated solely for gum pieces. It's quiet, clean and cutey-cute. Mine happens to be a red Chinese pattern. Red is good because it's easy to see in the deepest of bags and has nothing whatsoever to do with any political statement, although China was indeed once called "Red China" by Westerners. I'm not sure how I was able to refer to Communist China and storing chewing gum within the same post, but there you have it. And believe it or not, for as small and dumb as this idea is, it has made life ... more halcyon, more peaceful, more balanced, less Kramdenish. So that is my tip.

Thanks to Shannon for the Mother of all Memes: Works for Me Wednesday.

Friday Fill-Ins

1. There is no need for you to eat all of that buttery movie popcorn all by yourself.

2. Where in the heck did the dog drag my underwear?

3. Exercising, reading, building community, organizing my entire house and spending time with loved ones was my goal, but blogging is all I managed to do.

4. Prospects for my internship at Vogue are looking dim.

5. “Grease!” is the message. No, wait a minute. “Grease is the word, is the word that they heard; it's got groove, it's got meaning ...."

6. Simplicity and tranquility are perpetually elusive.

7. And as for the weekend, tonight I’m looking forward to working on a mystery novel about ancient Egypt, tomorrow my plans include visiting a new Ikea store in Cincinnati and Sunday, I want to spend time with friends!

Weekend Update & So You Think You Can Hip Hop, Part 1

Weekend Update #1: There is still time to vote for my not-so-cute picture of my mother and her sisters and family in the photo essay contest at 5 Minutes for Mom. Apparently, some of you are having difficulty finding the right spot to vote, so I'm re-posting this link, but if you don't see it when you get to the home page of the site, just scroll down, down, down, past more recent posts, past 15 big pictures, to a list of blog names below the pictures, where you may click next to the name of the blog you would like to vote for, namely, 2ND CUP OF COFFEE, a blog which admittedly does not have the cutest picture entered, but it does have a heart-warming story behind it.

Therefore, please go here and vote today! As of right now, I don't stand much of a chance, but I have THE AUDACITY OF HOPE to carry me through this voting process. (Whew. This campaign is TOUGH! Glad I got all of my yard signs out into the neighborhood tonight!)

Weekend Update #2: Jordan brought his friends home for din-din, and I did not poison them. Yay! They were very nice young men, and we got to meet his roommate for next year. Here is what I ended up serving, the main course suggested by Sara of Make Music from Your Heart to the Lord: A roast beef sandwich with provolone cheese dipped au jus (crock pot roast cooked in French onion soup, beef broth, beef consomme, which I don't even know what consomme is), old fashioned macaroni and cheese, baked beans, cole slaw, Sister Schubert rolls (thanks, Melanie) and TWO desserts: the Ken Lee Cake of all Cakes and Mrs. Smith's Apple Crumb Pie a la mode, which I intend to post about soon. I said, "Guys, I've been blogging about you, and I must take a picture so that all my bloggy friends can you see you eating and surviving this meal." They readily agreed, and then I forgot to take the picture! Ugh! I think I was intoxicated on Ken Lee cake. I know I said it before, but thanks for all of your wonderful ideas! You are good friends. I huggeth you, sisters.

And now, on to the "au currant" which is not the same as "au jus."

Saturday: Guess what I’ve been doing this morning? It’s a tiny little thing but something I never thought I’d do: paint my daughter’s toenails black. Yes, the little pink toes that I kissed and piggied and fitted in just the right shoes, I have been painting Goth black.

Ick.

Let me back up and tell my back story before I get back to the future, back where we belong. Back.

When I was a little girl, before I knew there was such a thing as the life-changing international fame and glamour of cheerleading, where one can truly be a big fish in a small pond, I wanted to be a ballerina.

How I even knew such a person/profession existed, I have no idea because I grew up in the most blue-collar of backgrounds and was not allowed to go to movies nor was I allowed to dance, so where this wild idea came from, who knows. Some older members in the church would have probably said, “Satan.”

Anyway, the biggest cultural exposure I had was 1) “Special” gospel singers coming to our church (sort of like Don and Seymour, here) which I’m pretty sure would now qualify as the post-modern Catholic interpretation of purgatory 2) The Fort Wayne Zoo. Not even the Indianapolis Zoo. Just the Fort Wayne Zoo, which featured lots of raccoons. Because Indiana doesn’t have many live raccoons, just dead ones on the roads every 30 feet or so. So they took us to see live ones.

Anyway part 2, my mother bought me a chenille breadspread that had a life-sized chenille ballerina on it as its only design. In other words, her figure was sort of raised on a white background. The ballerina was blonde. Therefore, the ballerina was I, and I was she. We melded, kindred souls, one of blood and water, one of … fuzz.

I've always wondered why my mother bought that bedspread. Maybe she felt it made up for the disappointment of not being allowed gymnastics or ballet, a concession or apology. What it did was make me envy the life of a 2-D bedspread character. Pathetically funny.

Like Elijah and the dead boy, I would stretch myself out atop of that ballerina, arm for extended arm, knee for bent knee, head cast upward in an ethereal glance.

I’m sure I looked just like a real-live ballerina ... or maybe a dead one, just lying there, like a Hoosier raccoon separated from his eternal spirit.

I read ballerina books, I drew pictures of tu-tus, I danced around my churchyard after services when all the half-dead people would stand around talking. I flitted in between little caucuses of them, distracting them, catching chagrined glances, but I didn’t care. And I don’t know where my parents were, so I guess they didn’t care. Maybe they were trying to pretend the wayward dancing child was not theirs.

Now let’s go forward in time to about 1990. I have a four year-old little girl. Our church is offering ballet classes taught by one of our pastor’s wives, of all things. Katie wants to dance. I want her to dance. We are happy.

Oh, ballet pink ~ is there anything sweeter? Not hot pink, not baby pink, but a muted, dusty pink. And tu-tus! Oh, tu-tus, I still love you. I’m dancing on the inside right now. My little brunette girl was a-dor-a-able in ballet pink. And people, she excelled at ballet. [I knew it was in my blood! I knew it!] The first time we bought her toe shoes, I she was in heaven.

I wouldn't say she was living my dream, but ... you could say it and be totally right.

The years passed, and Katie kept dancing. I had a couple more kids, including another little brunette thing, Kristin, whom the dance teacher wanted in her class, and asked about enrolling her often.

“No,” I would respond, smiling and shaking my head, “She’s not ready. She’s not like Katie. She’s rowdier. She’s spunkier. She’s not ready.”

The teacher said over and again, “Yes she is! Oh please sign her up. She’s so cute.”

So I did, and while others twirled and pirouetted in class, Kristin twirled the pony tail of the girl in front of her. And even though you can't tell it in this pic, she does indeed have a neck.

Double fast forward: When the younger hit 5th grade, she discovered Christian hip-hop. She bloomed as if she had discovered a hip-hop dancer breadspread.

And people, she excelled at hip hop.

Hip hop dancers do not wear tu-tus or ballet pink. They do big production numbers where they pull giant sweatshirts over their heads and throw punches and kicks in the air and snarl and roll around on the ground.

One year, they did a Heaven/Hell evangelistic thing. And lo and behold, just what every mom wants to hear, one day Kristin, my baby, came out of class and exclaimed, “Mom, I’m gonna be a HELL dancer!!!”

Kristin is now 15 and still hip-hopping. And that's what we're doing today, going to a dance competition in Indianapolis, where she will jump around with black toenails.

I'm going to end Part 1 here, but there's so much more to say about the world of dance competitions. Moms of young ones--beware the snare of ballet pink. Sometimes it fades to black!

1997 vs. 2004 ... wait til you see 2008!

Cafe Chat Asks:

If you could have a conversation over dinner with any one person, dead or alive, with the exception of Jesus, who would it be and why?





Erma Bombeck. She's my writing hero. No one was like her before she came on the scene, and since she's been gone, no one comes close to filling the void.

Blog Toe & Meme

I have a mystery pain in my foot that is growing.

The pain has altered my lifestyle. That is, I was thinking of exercising before, but now I'm no longer thinking about it. I know; that's tragic.

I have explained over and over and over and over and over again to my husband that I simply cannot do anything except blog because I have this pain in my foot which precludes any activity but blogging, and maybe watching American Idol and LOST. And eating food that he has prepared and brought to me. Because I have this pain in my foot.

Being the analytical type, I had to figure out what caused this pain so that I could continue to milk it for all it's worth.

I know what the malady is now. It's "Blog Toe." When I post, I have a habit of pulling my right foot up and pressing the ball of my foot into the floor, lifting my heel, and apparently pushing down with vim and vigor. I suspect the more impassioned I am about the subject matter, the harder I push. Therefore, I cannot write about my close personal friend Clinton Kelly for at least a couple of weeks.

I believe I have pulled a muscle or tendon. It hurts to even simulate that picture above. So it looks like I'm going to have to be catered to hand and foot (no pun intended, just instinctively clever) for a long, long ... long time.

Have you ever strained your wrist or neck or foot from blogging too much or in a weird way? If so, I'd like to hear about it and what your strategies were for becoming excessively pampered due to said injury.

Also, a meme. Look at me. I actually remembered I got tagged. By Lynn at Life in Bloom.

What were you doing 10 years ago? I was preparing for my first short-term missions trip to Kazakhstan, member of the former USSR.

5 things on your to do list for today:

1. Place signs in the yards of youth group kids while they're at school inviting them to a special event
2. Help with a youth meeting/meal tonight.
3. Work on a book proposal
4. Read my Bible because I'm on a roll; I haven't missed a day this month. I decided that even if it gets all legalistic and becomes a task, it's better than hit or miss.
5. Exfoliate and consider getting a Mystic spray tan just for the heck of it. You have to exfoliate first.

3 Bad habits:

Forgetting names
Forgetting when I've been tagged
Forgetting ... something else

5 jobs that I've had:

I'll give you the first 5--
Worked at a KFC-like place called "Famous Recipe Fried Chicken"
Sales associate at Stuarts clothing store
English tutor at Ball State University
Secretary to the President at Winebrenner Theological Seminary in Findlay, OH
Weight Watcher Meeting Leader

5 books I've recently read:

All She Ever Wanted, Lynn Austin
Candle in the Darkness, Lynn Austin
Two books for reviews that are coming up TBA later
The B-I-B-L-E, yes that's the book for me; I've read it every day this month, the B-I-B-L-E!

What Does Your Latte Say About You?

What Your Latte Says About You

You don't treat yourself very often. You find that indulging doesn't jibe with your very disciplined life. You can be quite silly at times, but you know when to buckle down and be serious. You have a good deal of energy, but you pace yourself. You never burn out too fast. You have a healthy relationship with caffeine. You're definitely not dependent on it. You are responsible, mature, and truly an adult. You're occasionally playful, but you find it hard to be carefree. You are expressive and friendly, but you are never pushy.

What Does Your Latte Say About You?