Five Minute Friday: Messenger

START.

Don’t shoot the messenger.  Messenger bag.  Deborah “Messenger”.  Messenger.  I have no idea what to write about this word.  But the clock is ticking, and I have to write whatever pops into my head about this word.  Messenger bag.  I keep coming back to that.  So let’s go with it.

I took piano lessons for ten years growing up.  One year for my birthday, I got a little messenger bag for my piano books.  It had a black and white keyboard on the front and zipped all around three corners.  On the very front in little gold letters it said “Kelli Marie”.  Eventually after a few years, the little gold letters started peeling off.  But they hung on for dear life.  I loved carrying around my little “brief case” of music.  I felt very professional…me and my bag full of Beatles sheet music.  Or Elvis.  Or whatever my fancy was at the time. 

When I was younger I wanted to be a lawyer.  I could picture myself in a smart pantsuit carrying around a brief case.  Then I saw Jurassic Park, and all that changed.  There was one scene where a lawyer was running from a large scary looking dinosaur and ended up in a porter potty screaming.  The dino got him.  And with the death of that poor lawyer my childhood dream of legal stardom died with him.  Porter potty…is that how you say it?

STOP.

Five Minute Friday is a weekly writing prompt from Lisa Jo Baker in which she gives you a word, you set a timer for 5 minutes and write whatever pops into your head.  Fun times!

Five Minute Friday: Hands

I really want to get back into writing again.  Just because I love it.  I found a lady with a blog, and she started something called Five Minute Fridays.  Every Friday, she gives a new writing prompt on her blog (a word, a picture, etc) and you have five minutes to write about it.  It can be anything: a stream of conscience, a poem, ramblings, etc.  And you can't be worried about grammar or anything else like that.  You just WRITE. I really like the idea of this, and apparently so do hundreds of other women who have joined in on the fun.  Now that I am a mom, it seems my time and brain power are slightly more limited than they used to be.  But I think I can handle five minutes on Fridays.  Here was last week's prompt: Hands.

My hands.  My mom’s hands.  My grandma’s hands.  My great-grandma’s hands.  My baby boy’s hands.  The older I get, the more and more my hands are starting to look like my mom’s.  I am 30.  She is 53.  And my baby boy is 4 months old.  Almost.  His hands are soft and mushy and have dimples on the knuckles.  I love his hands and I kiss them over and over every day.  His hands grasp my finger and hold on tight.  His hands go  in his mouth and are covered with drool.  His hands recently just started reaching down to his nether regions when I change his diaper.  I love his hands. 

I also imagine a potter forming a something or other with their hands.  Covered in clay.  Some of it is dried and some is still wet.  A big mess.  But creative.  It will turn into something beautiful.  I had a little kids’ pottery wheel when I was younger.  I never quite got the hang of it.  Plastic piece of junk.

On my left hand is a wedding ring.  This year we will be married 8 years.  I cried when he asked me to marry him.  And I cried on our wedding day.  My fingers swell at night so I take them off.  Sometimes I think my hands will shake when I get old.  And that is okay.  They may get stiff.  And wrinkly and freckled.  Age spots.  But I will always remember that these hands held the face and hands of my little baby.  And it felt so soft and squishy.  And he smiled at me, sometimes with his tongue sticking out.

Homemade Christmas Roundup. Yeehaw!

Howdy y'all!  The Christmas season is here and gone, but I wanted to share with you some of my homemade gifts from this year.  I took a little siesta from quilting and ventured out into new crafting territory.

Crafted Gift #1: Some personalized playing-card wreaths for my great-grandma, grandma and great-aunt (and first dive into my new hot glue gun!).

And a closeup of those snazzy little playing-card flowers…

Group shot; everybody smile!

Crafted Gift #2: Some little pieced stocking ornaments.

Crafted Gift #3: My first dive into embroidery!  A "She Splash" hand towel for my brother Adam (it's a quote from our very first home video in 1987).

Crafted Gift #4: Some homemade silhouettes for my mom! (One of each of her 4 kiddos)

In order of appearance into this world: Me, Adam, Luke and Karli.  Please note that the silhouette of me is, in fact, me, and not a llama.

Crafted Gift #5: Country Western Coasters for Grandpa Marvin!

Hold up…let's take a closer look at that Porter Wagoner and Dolly Parton coaster.

In the words of Grandpa Marvin, "Well…hoooowdiieee do!"

I also ventured into the "personalized tea towel" world, but, alas, I don't have any proof.  You'll just have to believe me.

One last thing I have to show you…I did not make these.  Nor did I buy them.  But I most certainly did rock them in the store.

Let the zoom-in commence…

Heck yes these are moon boots.  I can't believe no one snatched them up!  Perhaps everyone else had the same thought I did.  "Well, these are really cool, but…what am I thinking?  I'm just not her."

Nor do I have the matching star-horse.

Happy 2013, everyone.

Hardee's: My Job and My Drug Bust

Not too long ago, the hubby and I were out on a mini-date to the brand spanking new Wendy's down the street.  And I have to say…this Wendy's is the most swank of any I've ever seen.  It's deluxe!  It has not one, but two space-age soda machines, and a lounge area complete with a modern fireplace.  Anywho, whenever I go to a fast-food place (which is a rare occurrence these days), I am immediately taken back to the days of old…more specifically, high school.  I had a variety of jobs in my growing-up years, but job #3 had the added perk of wearing a cool hat.

Now, I was only fortunate enough to wear the Hardee's uniform for a few months; I had to throw in the towel when track season started.  But I remember nervously going in for my interview, dressed to the nines in my black dress pants and fancy shirt…oh yeah, and don't forget all that makeup caked on my face. I was trying to look professional, after all.  At the end of the interview, the lady told me I was hired, but then lowered her voice and said, "But, uh…when you come in for work, wear a lot less makeup."

And thus, I started my short journey in the fast (food) lane.  I had to buy some really classy black or navy blue pants.  You know, the kind that make anyone look like their lower half is a hot-air ballon.  And some black slip-resistant shoes.  However, I went more for comfort and style and less with the all important slip-resistnancy.  Hello, Dr. Scholl's loafers!  I paid the price for my vanity, though, as I slipped and slid all around the greasy floors for the entirety of my shifts.  Why, Dr. Scholl, are you so stylish yet so reckless?

I also remember the sheer terror of being sent to the walk-in freezer to get more bags of fries.  I always tried to time it so I could grab the fries before the freezer door would close on me (and avoid having a mini panic attack).  But, alas, I never made it in time.  Thanks again, Dr. Scholl, you slippery fiend.  Supposedly the door was rigged so no one could ever get locked inside the freezer, but all I could picture was my obit on the second page of the Journal News.  "Local Teenager's Last Words: Would You Like Fries With That?"

But, really, I am grateful for my time at a fast-food joint.  It made me appreciate all those who work in the service industry; I tip my Hardee's star hat to you all.

Good news, though…my fast food loafers have made a surprising comeback as part of a certain youngster's Halloween costume (Severus Snape's grandmother?).

Oh yeah…I almost forgot the best story from Hardee's.  It was that time that my brother Adam dropped a Hardee's onion ring somewhere in my little red Cavalier…which then resulted in my one and only drug bust.  Some cops and canines came to our high school one day to do a random drug search.  I was in P.E. when they called my name over the school intercom.  I think all the blood in my body went straight to my face in that moment.  I went to the office where a couple of police officers met me and said that they'd like me to escort them to the parking lot.  The dogs apparently "picked something up" on my car and therefore they would need to investigate.

I walked down to the parking lot, knowing full well that my classmates' faces were plastered to the gym windows watching this all go down.  I nervously unlocked my car, and they searched everything.  I knew there were no drugs to be found, but I still shook like a leaf.  My only suggestion was, "Maybe it's that onion ring we couldn't find?  It's somewhere in there and my car reeks."  The cop politely informed me that his canines were highly trained to pick up the scent of drug paraphernalia only.  Then I thought, "Oh shoot…now he's gonna think I'm making up excuses to hide something!".    I really needed to brush up on my dealings with the law, watch more Night Court or something.  When their search finally resulted in nothing, they sent me on my way with a firm reprimand to "thoroughly clean and vacuum" my car.  I think it was the onion ring stench that got them in the end.