Thursday, March 31, 2011

You're moving out?

Last night I finally wrangled that wonderful husband of mine into helping me with some laundry. Now, when I say help, I mean maybe put a few clothes away. I am no slave driver. Mostly I just need some company. So I'm needy and attention grabbing, so what? Well, all I can say is that I was closer to the dish rag and hand-towel pile than the numerous t-shirts and socks. And perhaps I had planned it this way. I would never admit that it gives my organized mind a panic attack every time I open our sock drawer that we share or try to stuff one more of my t-shirts into the already 'filled-'til-it-can't-shut' drawer. But it does. It's such a mess of crawling clothes (mostly mine) that I grabbed the things that needed to go into the kitchen drawers before the unsuspecting husband could turn around and notice that all the socks and t-shirts on the bed would find no room in the inn. I come back in the room and all the dresser drawers are open and handsome husband is re-organizing. He was moving out! Our shared arrangement was too much for him and he surrendered the sock drawer to me alone. He was moving out and it troubled me for a minute that he didn't want to rest his socks next to mine anymore. He didn't want to dig through the pink, red and white of my girly socks to get to his manly blacks. He no longer wanted to share in the frustration of shutting that drawer without a few socks peeking over the edges. He was opting out of this small trial in life that I was sure going to leave us both stronger, as trial are supposed to do that. At least, that's what everyone tells you to take the sting off. It was kind of a weird sensation. Kind of like being told in Kindergarten, "You're not sharing the blocks very well. Tommy can go out to recess but you need to stay and clean up."

I only use my pockets once a week

Utah winters keep a coat on me constantly; however, being an avid purse carrier I rarely use the pockets. At work we have to wear name tags presenting ourselves as a happy-helper to answer a number of various questions. Questions like, 'where's the felt' 'what kind of mat should I use with this piece' and surprisingly many guys come in who need a second opinion on which frame to buy from our ready-mades. I've been asked more times than I would like to admit, 'do you work here?' as I had currently mis-placed my tag. Who knew that little 2 by 4 piece was such a needed accessory? 'Cause you know, you might miss a worker if only identified by classy tan pants and black shirt. And back to the post title. My pre-mentioned name tag was nestled in my coat pocket. After I had scoured the path to the laundry, flipped through every single piece of clothing, swiped my hand along the washer and dryer searching for the magnetic piece of plastic and done nothing short of scoping a flashlight in both it was in my pocket the whole time! What a little sneak.

I wasn't going to report the tag as 'lost' because we're actually switching things up at work. I guess employees voiced their opinion about being denied expression in a craft store and out came the following brilliant idea. T-shirts. Regular t-shirts with screen printing on the back and a little piece of print up front for the employee (that's me) to write their name artisticly neat. Is there such a thing? Is that an oxymoron?

I am not totally upset, I mean... I never was much of a doodler. Therefore my name will easily fit into the category of 'neat' and maybe I can retrace the letters to make them bolder to give it some individual artistic flare. 'Cause thickening up a few lines is really artistic, right? But what if people judge me by my handwritten name? What if they look at that name and silently do a handwriting analysis: very readable (organized, purposeful, efficient), it drives me crazy when my 's' don't look identical (patience, perseverance), and lastly, sensitive (because my 'J' is capitalized, as is my 'A' because I think it looks more balanced with a tall letter at the beginning and end of my name). I can sum that up into two words, "kinda boring." See why I don't want people seeing my name written in my handwriting?

Now, these t-shirts are not just your basic white T. No Plain White Ts in a craft store, please! (And that includes in the music choice. Our target customers were raised in the 80's, therefore our background, easy-listening music is suffocating its way to the 90s) These t-shirts have various experts posted on the back. 'Framing Expert' 'Cake Expert' 'Art Expert' and my personal favorite, 'Party Expert.' That's right. A t-shirt that says Party Expert. Who wouldn't want to be an expert on every party ever thrown? But even if I got the shirt with 'Party Expert' screened all over the back people would take one look at my handwritten name and turn the other way and run fast. Because obviously someone who's 's's look just the same and who starts and ends their name with a capital letter to keep it looking balanced cannot be trusted to plan a raging party. Even if it's a jewelry making party. Perhaps I will keep wearing my printed name tag till the day that I resign.

Monday, March 21, 2011

I heart U

It was one of those days. You know the kind. Where you stay in bed until 12 just 'cause there's nothing else to do. And I am not even lying when there's nothing else to do. I promise the house is clean, including the bathroom free of toothpaste dots on the mirror and the laundry folded and put away. Well I felt a little guilty living my dream life this way. I mean, I've got it good. I'll be the first to admit. I've got an awesome husband that just got a raise at work. A job of my own that pays for gas and my crafties. Callings in church where I can make an impact (nursery leader and girl's camp director) and a house that is slowly becoming a home (including a table, chairs, couches, tv, bed minus the headboard or frame and some awesome scentsy Hemmingway drifting among the smell of baked pretzels that I just pulled out of the oven) Needless to say, a housewife who spends the day in bed has no room in this picture. So I got up, skipped around blog land and found a recipe for soft pretzels and ahem, an idea was born. Not original, by any means. But an idea. Now when Steven comes home from work and I am in Sugar House putting together frame orders for people with money to do things like that he will know that I was thinking of him today. I was also thinking of our own darling children that will come to us someday as I made these. In 3rd grade I had a teacher who had given us a soft pretzel recipe and I remember spending large amounts of time making just the right snail or mickey mouse shape to put in the oven. And having friends over and having contests on who could make the best shape or when it was just a few girls we would make the first initial of the boy we had a crush on, completed only with a + and our own initial. It's such an easy way to entertain some kiddos and as I hastily pulled and kneaded the dough I wished that there were some kiddos running around that I could enlist to make some shapes for me. I concentrated most of my energy on making traditional pretzel shapes but I still managed to slip a snail in there. There's just something satisfying about pulling apart the dough snail swirls as you eat it.

Soft Pretzels
2 1/4 tsp yeast (or 1-1/4 oz package)
1 1/2 cups warm water
1 tsp salt
1 Tbls sugar
3-4 cups flour
1 egg, beaten
Flavorings such as course salt, cinnamon and sugar, parmesan cheese, sage etc.

Preheat Oven to 425 degrees and cook for 12 -15 min.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Our Table

Nothing like starting a blog because you want the world to know about your table, hu? But really... it's true. We've lived in this duplex for 3 months and we haven't gotten a table to put in our increasingly cute kitchen. Until yesterday. When I chanced by DI (DI will show up a lot in my posts. It's my treasure box of adventures and wonders) and found two tables that were decent. I pulled Steven in later that night by reminding him of the last time we procrastinated going back and retrieving something I had scoped out. That's right. High turnover at that place.

So, we get there on a time crunch and couldn't stand waiting for the helper man to come find us in the 'as is' section when he was called to the 'outdoor' section. So we stepped up our game, piled all the pieces together (yes, pieces. This $20 goody has two leaves to add for size) and muscled our way to the checkout. We stepped aside to pull the new addition of our family apart to fit in the car and were discouraged at the genius that has designed our table. It didn't pull all the way apart! So then we had to have the helper man called to the front to take the legs off. We waited patiently, silently wondering if we could just drive home with one door open and a table leg hanging out. It actually didn't take that long and we were soon on our way.

The doors slid open and.... oh crickeys! It was pouring. Now, being an Oregonian, I know many synonyms for 'rain' and this was no drizzle. Hail pelted out of that sky right on top of us as we ran to the car. Me carrying the severed legs and Steven carrying the table top over his head. I got to sit in the car while he went back for the innards (the leaves).

Now sitting in our kitchen is this darling little table. Only... it's saying to me. 'Hey, what is this white sanitarium you have put me in? If your landlady insists on white walls please paint me to make your kitchen more unique.' The search is on for the perfect spray paint. I am not going to touch it with a brush because nothing is worse than brush marks in dried paint. But I can whip out some mad spray paint skills. So... if you see a robin's egg blue or rosette red table sitting at DI in a couple of years you will know that it came from our kitchen.