"New" Digs

A couple of months ago Bruce got a bee in his bonnet (besides the acting bee, I mean...  This was a completely different bee!). He thought we should rearrange our bedroom. Well, our room is on the second floor of the house; it has a sloped ceiling and one gable. Our bed sits in the gable part of the room, which is just big enough to hold a queen-size bed. The rest of our stuff  is just fitted in however we could do it––and I thought we managed it pretty cleverly, too, considering how little standing-up space there is. I was pretty sure we could not rearrange our furniture.

This is what our room has looked like for the past year.

But Bruce said, what if we put our bed into the small nook under the eave–where my (Loralee's) dresser is now? Well, that sounded kind of claustrophobic! Nevertheless, I put it to simmer on a back-burner in my mind and finally it cooked enough that I decided to try it out. We figured if we hated sleeping under there, we would just move everything back to where it was. ('Cause doesn't that sound like a lot of fun?)

So after a perfunctory pre-cleaning, Bruce moved my dresser in front of the closet (left of the computer), and we pulled all the stuff we had stored behind both our dressers and piled it on and around that same space. We thought our bed might be too tall to go under the eave if we left the box-spring under the mattress (forget about the bed-frames!). So we tried to store the box-spring under the west eave. But it was too long.

The look on his face says it all...
Bruce loves rearranging the room!
(But it was his idea.)

On second thought, maybe the best place for the box-spring really would be under the mattress.

Here's how the room turned out:

(You may notice the mirror got replaced with a picture.)

This looks promising...  (and there's the mirror!)

nice...

And this looks cozy!
But the question remains, what will it be like to sleep in there?

And the answer is...
It is just fine to sleep under there. Lovely, in fact.
(Although it is really hard to make the bed.)

And guess what? We like it. A lot.

And this is what Bruce was after in the first place—
some floor-space (and some head-space, too), and a place to sit down. :-)

It feels so spacious! Room to stand, room to walk around, room to change our clothes, a place to sit... Fabulous!

Long Overdue

This is old news now—two weeks old! But I have to post pictures anyway.

I have been wanting to do something new with my hair for ages, but since my cousin switched from hair-stylist to dental-assistant I can hardly get anyone to touch it. I want to go to a salon and say, "Make it different," or, "Make it shorter," or, "Make it look really cute," and then have them do something cool. They want to know exactly what I want to do with it—what style, how much to cut off, layered or not, etc, etc, etc. How unreasonable! They are the professionals; not me! Not only that, but they invariably say what great, curly hair I have, and I should leave it long. >sigh< What they don't seem to get is that I have never been unhappy with a new hairstyle or color, and I have every reason to believe that my hair will grow back—just as curly as ever, and quickly, too––even if I did hate what they did to it (which is not likely). 

This is the most recent picture of me before the blessed event
(of cutting my hair).

Anyway, the last haircut I got, I just asked to have it layered to take some weight off the bottom of it. The girl might have cut off half an inch. I told her to cut more, and got more of the same. I finally gave up, paid her and left, vowing to myself to not get my hair done again until I could find someone brave enough to actually play with it.

And I finally did find someone! Patti, of Beehive Waxing and Hair (in Vernal), was the hair and makeup lady for Camelot. She told Bruce how to do his hair and beard for the show, and I had a feeling she might be just the person I was looking for. And she was! First she cut my hair shorter all over, and as she was finishing she said that it would be super cute to trim the back up into a little bit of an A-line—maybe I'd like to try that next time. So I said, "Let's do it!" She said, "Sure?" Yep. So she did. And she was super excited to do it, and really happy with the result. 

Here is what happens when I tell Bruce to take pictures of my new haircut from every angle . . .

Yes, when he starts taking my picture, I start to get a little silly:

I am almost as hot as Bruce's truck. ;-)

Anyway, I am super happy with my new look.

A new hairstyle works wonders for the soul!

A Little Too Much Love

When I was about six or seven, I was going to have a birthday party! My cousin, Wendy, (the double-cousin who is only one month older than I am) called me on the phone one day to ask me if I'd rather have a doll or . . .

hmm . . . something else. A game, maybe? I really don't remember.

Anyway, I didn't know what to tell her. I had been taught that it was not polite to ask someone for a present, but Wendy was asking me what I wanted. So I asked my mom what I should say, and she said to tell my cousin to get whatever she thought was best. And I did.

But after we hung up I instantly had a change of heart. I called Wendy right back and asked her for a doll (which made my mom tell me I had very bad manners).

On the day of the birthday party Wendy showed up with a big, prettily-wrapped box. And inside was the only present I remember getting that day: an orange-haired, green-eyed, boy doll called "Georgie." (I just called him George.)

George and Georgette
It looks like someone cut this Georgie's hair.

George was my very favorite, most played-with doll of all time. And that's saying something because I loved my dolls. Wendy had George's twin, Georgette, and when I slept over at Wendy's house George went with me; when she slept over at my house Georgette came along so we could play "George and Georgette."  I played with George almost every time I had friends over to my house. A couple years later my mom got me the blond-haired, blue-eyed version of Georgette—then my friends and I played "George and Georgette" too. But even though I loved my new Georgette, George was still my favorite.

This is what my George looked like when I pulled
him out of storage a few months ago.

After I learned to ride a bike, George went on a ride with me (tied to the back of the seat by his legs). Some of his premature hair-loss is due to a fall from the bike and the short dragging that followed. More of his hair—and his eyelashes—fell out when I tried to clean up his road-rash.

I remember watching in distress and horror as his eyelashes 
slid over his face and ran down the drain!

When his soft body started tearing from all the love it got, I stitched it back together.

When I was about ten or eleven I took apart his worn-out clothes and used them as a pattern to make him a new outfit.

 Not bad, but if you look at it closely it does kind of 
look like a ten-year-old made it.
The gingham ribbon at the neck was too frayed to 
replace, and I had a thing against buttons, 
so I never sewed them back on either.

When I got too big to play with dolls George (and Georgette) sat in the place of honor, on my pillow, every day for years and years—maybe even until I got married.

I loved them!

So what would ever possess me to take this best-beloved doll, the favorite toy of my childhood, whom I've kept safe (if you don't count all the childish rough-housing) for over forty years, and tear him limb from limb and yank out all his hair?

Was it the morbid pleasure of taking macabre pictures?

Was it just sheer ghoulishness?

What ever came over me?

Well . . . I blame it on the internet and YouTube.

I recently discovered (while searching for an orange wig for George) that I could actually re-root his hair, and I learned where to buy the hair too. And I am so excited! I have high, high hopes of restoring George to all of his original cuteness. And then he will be here for my grandbabies to love to death, too. (Note to my kids: get married and start having babies!)

And so, soon, very soon, I will complete the rehabilitation of George. Yay!

Terror on the Streets!

OK. Well, I do live in Utah's Dinosaurland, but there are no dinosaurs running down our street wreaking havoc.
Still, it's a great picture, yes? 

Actually, today I am talking about that dirty E-word—the one that is eight letters long and, therefore, the equivalent of two four-letter words. ;-)

Well, no. I am not talking about exercise after all.
Instead I will talk about FUN!

As I considered the dilemma of how to get myself moving without paying a monthly fee, and doing something that would be fun to do by myself—but also fun to do with other people, something I would enjoy, and that wouldn't give me shin-splints, the obvious choice was...

...BIKE-RIDING! 

Yaaaayyyyy!

So I talked Bruce into getting a couple of bikes for him and for me—it wasn't a hard-sell. Last Friday we went bike-shopping. Now my friends who are bike-snobs (which is OK... I, myself, am a music-snob, and a cooking snob...) might poo-poo the places we looked for bikes:  a pawn shop, a thrift store, K-mart, and, finally, Walmart. Walmart won because they had some bikes that had been returned and so were on an excellent markdown. (Bike-snob friends, skip to the next paragraph...)
We paid less for both bikes and two helmets than we would have for one bike at regular Walmart prices. Good deal! Maybe on a future day, after lots and lots of riding, I too will become a bike-snob. ;-) But for now I'm very happy to have the equivalent of a little girls' ride-around-the-neighborhood bike.

We took our two little bikes home, and that evening we had to try them out. My very first bike-ride in twenty-five years—since before anyone even thought about wearing bike-helmets!

Frankly, I was a little terrified.

I learned to ride a bike when I was between eight and ten years old; all my parents' assistance did me no good. It was my cousin, Wendy, who wouldn't let me not know how to ride, who got me biking all on my own. And once I realized I could do it, I could do it! I used to ride up to the top of my mom's street then turn around and pedal just long enough to get going really fast, then put both feet up on the crossbar, stick my arms straight out to the side and speed down the road. (I would kill my kids if I saw them doing that. My mom might have killed me too if she'd ever seen me doing it.) No fear.

But not now!

Bruce adjusted my seat for me then, while he adjusted his own bike seat, I took my second drive around the neighborhood all by myself—soooo brave!

I have discovered that it really is true that once you learn to ride a bike you never forget.The scary part was getting on to the bike and getting it started. I stood there looking at my new bicycle for a good two minutes, contemplating how to mount it; finally I took it to the curb where my short, little legs could have some help. It turns out that for the first ride my seat was higher than I was comfortable with; once Bruce lowered it (as far as it would go—which made him roll his eyes at me) getting on wasn't such a big problem.

Once astride the bicycle, I was a little nervous and shaky. I wobbled up and down the streets, hands tightly squeezing the handle-grips, feeling the air through my helmet-vents.

Check out my posture! I look like one of those Victorian ladies. If I wore a corset while I was riding, my figure might be closer to hers too. Or maybe not...

But the truly terrifying part was stopping! And trying to get off of the bike again without breaking myself and the bike! As I rode around, I thought and thought about how to do it and couldn't get the idea in my head for the life me. I started to imagine myself  riding around in circles for eternity—until I starved to death or fell down from exhaustion. Had I not been thinking about it so hard it might not have been a problem. But I have faith that, after a few more rides, it will all be as natural as it ever was.

Bruce looks totally natural; I look pretty darn stiff. But it'll come back to me, you wait and see. And it will come back quick, too!

Well, on Friday evening we took three spins around our neighborhood. I got pretty winded pedaling up the slight, slight inclines of our roads. And my whole body—legs, arms, and back—felt like jello when we were done. But with each ride I got a little more comfortable on the bike. And guess what?

It was FUN!

What's in a name?

"That which we call a rose. By any other name would smell as sweet."

Shakespeare had something there.

I've been thinking—for ages—that I need to get more exercise. But, oh, yuck! Exercise. It dredges up pictures of walking (or worse, running) for at least 30 minutes a day, often by myself. Or doing weight-training, or using a treadmill, or doing workout videos. Exercise. Then I, too, can lower my BMI and be healthy and I can look and feel like the latest, hottest, cute thing. (Or so they say.) But, oh yuck! Must it be exercise?

Exercise. A word that says "get off your butt," or "you need to shape up," or "your BMI is too high and you're going to have a heart attack and die—after you struggle with diabetes for a while." A word that is equivalent to hard work, or chore.

All these people who want to make us be less fat and more healthy ought to come up with a different word—or phrase. Instead of saying we need to get more exercise, they ought to suggest going out and having fun, don't you think? I mean, say the words out loud: "EXERCISE."
Now say, "FUN." Which one sounds better to you?

Here, I'll say them to you: "You need to go out and get more exercise."

Ponder that for a minute.

Now: "You need to go out and have more fun."

Which would you rather do?

Now, I've been wanting to get my body moving for a long, long while. Not just so I can lose weight (which I do want), but because my brain is tired of being sedentary (another ugly word). When I am swamped in, and laden with inactivity my mind turns to mush, and it gets more irritable too. But what is fun for me?

So my problem is finding something that is fun for me.

I have friends who love running every day; they enter marathons and everything. I could actually go out walking or running every day, but to me that feels tedious. Exercise: not fun. Also it gives me shin-splints which is extra not fun-ness.  But I love taking ballet classes—FUN! But I can't afford to go out and take a ballet class. Also I would feel guilty taking ballet classes unless I put my girls in dance classes too, which would be even more expensive. :-/

Some people get workout videos and enjoy doing them in the privacy of their own home. To me that is exercise, not fun. I tried doing my very own ballet classes in the privacy of my own home, but that was only fun for two or three times. But going out and taking a belly-dance class? —that would be fun. But there's the money thing—and the guilt thing—again.

I might be able to get a group of friends (or my kids) to play basketball with me, but flying balls are scary. And I have no idea of the rules. And I get shin-splints. Scary exercise; not fun.

But, but, but... Too many "buts."

So I had to think of something FUN to do, that I really could do. And I think I've got it! I'm sure of it, even. But that is for the next post. In the meantime, what do you think about exercise vs. fun? And what is your idea of a fun, not-exercising ;-) activity? I'd like to know. :-)