I’m a bundle of nerves. I have jewelry orders to fill (!), an accepted article (!) to touch up, and a runway strut (!) to perfect.
Pivoting and oh-so casually placing a hand on a cocked hip is a lot harder than it looks. That I’m doing it in front of a couple hundred people at a hoppin’ joint on a Friday night is, is, is…well, it’s CRAZY, that’s what. I try not to think about it too much.
I am not cooking. I am not blogging. I am not reading. I am not sleeping.
I am buzz-buzz-buzzing.
And I am calling up all my girlfriends to see if any of them have a pair of size 9 black heels (the higher the better) that I might borrow.
Yo-Yo’s etsy shop, Smashing for Pretty, is now open for business!
Over the past week we’ve been smashing, drilling, crafting, photographing, and posting up a blue streak. Jump rings and lobster clasps are en route to our front door. Broken drill bits and miss-smashed coins (yes, it’s possible) litter the basement floor.
We’re on a steep learning curve but most (I hope?) of the kinks are worked out (to the best of our novice abilities) and we’re ready to roll. Er, sell.
Check it out and give us feedback, suggestions, inspiration. We’re all ears.
And bandaged fingers. ‘Cause certain brilliant mamas decide to hold the stinkin’ coin with one hand while hammer-whacking it with the other.
I can’t do it! I just spent too much mucho tiempo (welcome to my world of mutilated Espanglish) trying to put my Thanksgiving pictures into a collage—either I’m super picky or Picasa is way too limited. Or else I’m just clueless about Picasa’s superpowers. In any case, nothing suited my fancy, so instead of slapping a couple pictures up and being done with it, now I have to go and write something. Which is fine, I guess, seeing as I’ve gotten out of the habit over the past few days and need to get back in.
Thanksgiving of 2010 will go down in history as the Thanksgiving where we ate pulled pork instead of turkey, Yo-Yo shot and ate a squirrel, the Baby Nickel knocked the bathroom sink off the wall, we had a desert-only evening meal (except for a few conscientious souls who ate a bit of salad first—I was not one of them), and I documented everything with what my aunt Dr. P refers to as my “phallic camera.”
Reading….
We did a lot of it. Mr. Handsome read a book about Hiroshima. I finished Cherry. Yo-Yo started Watership Down. My dad finished Life of Pi. Etc. (And the kids tried to watch a TV that wasn’t in the house.)
Washing Dishes….
It happened, many times over.
Cozy all over the place…
Votives, red globe lights, hot tea, and toasty fires galore.
Music…
They twanged and tuned.
They wailed and crooned.
There were songs about stinky feet and cleaning the toilets of Grand Central Station. (We are not a pious family.)
The squirrel…
The silly thing sat on a branch for fifteen minutes waiting for everyone to move on out so it could eat its Thanksgiving nut in peace and quiet.
But instead it ended up in the frying pan.
You can’t tell from the photo, but it was consumed with much gusto and clashing of forks.
Its hide now resides in my parents’ freezer. I hope it stays there.
The sun came out…
and the kids (finally) took their energy outside.
The woodpile…
got some stackage.
Target practice…
and nobody got a lead foot. Yay!
No pictures of food. Can you believe it? Words will have to suffice: besides the pulled pork, there was a kick-butt cabbage salad (recipe coming once Mom gets it to me—Mom? Mom? Puh-le-e-e-ase?), spectacular oven fries, hearty whole wheat bread, beet and fresh greens salad, shrimp, corn, skillet sweet potatoes, garlic mashed potatoes, squid, chocolate cake, black raspberry pie, cheesecake with sour cherry sauce, two glorious red raspberry pies, and sky-high pizzas. Among other things.
