Evidently, I would grab the plant. No, my house has never been on fire. But almost as bad, I did one day get a call from my sister stating that she and a friend were on their way over to "see how cute the twins room is!" It was like someone yelled "Fire!" in a crowded building because, let me assure you, their room was in no condition for an open house. It was a wreck. So what did I do? Make the beds? Pick up toys? Vacuum? Of course not. True to my inability to properly prioritize, I quickly decided the single most important thing to do between the phone call and the doorbell was to line the inside of their drawers with scrapbook paper.The girls have this used-to-be-changing-table-now-a-dresser dresser in their room. When they were babies, these drawers were so cute with the see through window in them. I would fold fuzzy burp cloths and proudly display them in neat rows of yellows and pinks. And then they turned 3 and the dresser became the toy chest and all of a sudden, it wasn't so cute anymore.

So I cut paper. And scotch taped it to the inside of the drawers. The girls were fighting in the background and I stuffed toys under the bed with my feet. But that dresser, it looked so cute when I was done. I finished with time to spare. Boy, do I know how to prioritize.
It definitely wasn't perfect. I had actually planned to get some fabric for this project. But seeing as how I kind of hyperventilate when I go into a fabric store (unless The Nester is there to talk me through it), that was not to be. The paper was only 12x12 but my drawers are wider than that. I had to piece them together. Lucky for me, toile just looks all toiley from far away, so it's hard to see where one paper stops and the other begins.Can you tell? Bet you can't. It's been over a year since I did this little project and now the tape is beginning to fail, as you can see from this inside shot.
My sister recently posted about lining the back of her dish hutch (what do you call that thing, anyway?) which kind of reminded me of this little project. She also used scrapbook paper, but she used a glue gun. Evidently tape is for amateurs. Seeing as how mine is falling apart, I guess I agree with that.

So now, instead of seeing this...I get to see this...
It fits in nicely with my cleaning habits.

We are so different, she and I. But not so much that we don't thoroughly enjoy each others company and perspective. I make her laugh. She makes things funny. I go to bed late. She turns in early. I like my coffee hot. She'd rather have it over ice. We both love chocolate cake and Pushing Daisies and laughing. Hard. At nearly everything. She helps me not take myself too seriously. I think I do the same for her.

I spent this weekend with her. The men were out of town, so we decided to join forces. Otherwise, we would be in our prospective houses not sleeping, listening for all the killers who were targeting our man-less households. But with all of us together under one roof, we were so much safer. We had each other and all of our six kids ages 10 and under to protect us, after all.

She spent a lot of time this weekend doing what she does...namely, nesting.
She pulled ribbons from cabinets like this to wrap gifts. There are several of them.

She wrapped up some tassels she made and is selling. But first she took photos of them. Then she said goodbye. Then she cried a little. She gets very attached.

She also spent time putting together this centerpiece for a shower. Why all this nesting? No, she's not pregnant. She's the Nester (or haven't you heard?) I kept busy helping her. I worked real hard on this.
There's something so special about having another person in the world who has the same parents as you. We stayed up talking late one night about growing up memories. It always surprises me that I am surprised when we talk about those days. Because even though we lived in the same house with the same parents and ate the same food, we turned out so different from one another. And we remember it all differently as well.

Family history is becoming increasingly important to me. We don't have any surviving grandparents so any stories that exist remain with our parents, aunts and uncles. I want to remember to ask them to remember. Because I don't know what I don't know so I don't know what to ask. In other words, it was good to hang with my big sister. Because she has stories, too. Different from mine...they overlap, certainly. But they are different. Just like us.

And I'm happy to report, no killers. The whole weekend.

And completely irrelevant to anything in this post (or in my life, for that matter), Ryan Seacrest just asked Jessica Alba if she'll be breastfeeding her baby. Live. On the red carpet. At the Oscars. I just don't think I can handle hearing Ryan Seacrest say "breastfeeding". From the looks of it, neither could Jessica Alba.

The split-level house smelled of cigarette smoke, Chanel No. 5 and burnt cinnamon rolls. It was the home where my grandparents lived. Familiar. Comfortable. It was the house where I had celebrated every Christmas, birthday and fourth of July since I could remember. Predictable. Safe. I was in the bathroom and I didn't want to come out. It was the summer of 1987.

Standing there that morning, I remember wishing I could crawl under the sink and not come out. Maybe they'll just leave without me. I can stay here. Under the sink. With Grandma. But I knew that couldn't happen. Because we were moving...from our small, Indiana town, where I had lived all my life, where my parents had met and gone to high school, where our cousins and aunts and grandparents lived...we were leaving all things right and familiar and heading to Iowa, the land of all things different. One last trip to the bathroom, and it was time to make the 6 hour drive to what would be our new home. I was 11. And I didn't want to go.

And so began my personal life-long journey of learning to accept change. I've been thinking a lot about change lately. Not even the worst kind of change, like from divorce or sickness or death. Just regular, life-stage change. It isn't as scary as it was that day in my grandmother's bathroom. But it is still definitely not my favorite. I find myself looking at women who are pregnant for the first time or high school seniors or friends who are preparing to move far away and I think about all that is ahead for them...exciting days for sure. But also unknown, unpredictable days. Long days. Lonely days.

I tend to want to avoid the long and lonely, the unknown and unpredictable. I find unhealthy comfort in believing in the illusion that I have control over my future. But the more I live, the more I see that not only do I not have control, but I don't think I want to. Not really. It's too much pressure. Because though the days can be lonely and crazy-scary to anticipate, they are also dependent days...days of knowing that I can't so He must. Days of resting in His provision because that's all I really can do anyway. And many times, days of waiting for all of those words that I know are true to become true in my experience.

Sometimes I wish character and patience and growth could happen without all the change. So far I haven't found a successful way to avoid it. But I'll keep you posted.

You know how people say bigger isn't always better? I guess I agree with that. Consider a nose, for example. Or a wart. But if we're talking diamonds, in my humble opinion, bigger is better. Or chocolate, for that matter. But that's not the point. I think my love for all things diamond was acquired honestly. After all, it is my birthstone. In light of this fact, its no wonder that my eye was drawn to this fine piece of ge-u-ine, sparkly goodness.
I know, what is it, right? I had to zoom in to get a clear look at its authenticity.
But here it is from far away. That's right, its Ross's diamond studded collar. Chandler has one, too. And Rachel has a pink rhinestone necklace. These friends are just so cool.
Look, there's the rest of the gang! Hi, gang. Phoebe, your earrings are to die for.
What a great photo. Look how happy they all are. Lucky for me that I can carry around the mid-90s wherever I want.Hello, Friends. Aren't you glad that freaks like me can't resist paying real money for paraphernalia with your photo on it no matter how unacceptable? You were in desperate need of rescuing. I just couldn't pass you up, what with all those eyes watching me as I tried to pass you by. Not to mention the shiny, blinding bling.

Warning to all you people I know in real life: you may be seeing this again. In a gift bag. Addressed to you. On your birthday. Don't say I didn't warn you.

And for what it's worth, turns out Ross and I have more in common than a love for diamonds, as my 71% celebrity look-alike match is David Schwimmer. Not kidding. Wish I were.

Let me just say if it smells like a dirty diaper while steaming, chances are it will taste like poop in your eggs.

I just got that cookbook by Jessica Seinfield (Deceptively Delicious) where you steam, puree and hide veggies in foods your kids will eat. But cauliflower eggs? Even I couldn't convince myself they were good. I thought it was just because I knew there was cauliflower in them so maybe that's why they were gross.

Bracing for the worst, I told the girls "Your eggs might taste different today because they have cheese in them." Not a lie. They did have cheese.

But one bite and 13 gags later, the man was in the kitchen making "normal eggs".

Please don't take offense, Jessica. You are so pretty. And your husband is so funny. And I totally believe you that your didn't copy your book idea from that other girl. As for the recipes, so far the turkey chili and couscous with pureed red pepper and carrots were both really good. And even the cauliflower banana bread was a hit (so I added chocolate chips to it. Sue me.) But eggs and cauliflower will never be okay. Never. I know you said that you tested out these recipes many times on your kids. Seriously? The throw up eggs? Come on.

I'm not giving up, though. There is a mac and cheese recipe that I can't wait to try. And the little pizzas with hidden spinach might pass the test, too. Besides, I can't stop now. I have 47 little packages of liquid veggies in my fridge.

Walking along the greens across from the harbor last summer while on vacation with my family, my plan was to capture the lighthouse during sunset with my new low-light lens. As it turns out, the sun hid behind the clouds, casting mediocre light at best. I put the lens cap on my camera and turned my attention inward.

I became aware of a deep sadness while standing there in the wind...a longing left unmet. The word “hopeless” darted across the screen of my mind and the feeling that followed was just that. So I sat, and told the Lord what I had so many times fully expecting to get up and walk away feeling a sense of defeat and fear of unmet need.

This time, though, I spoke out loud, my voice carried quickly away on the wind. And somehow, a change...slight and almost unnoticeable. If I hadn’t been looking for it, I may have missed it. But I continued to repeat the truth about God…He is good, He has good things planned for me, He is with me, His loving-kindness endures forever. In that moment, light began to make its way through the darkness and the heaviness began to lift. It wasn't drastic or immediate, but it was life-giving to hear my own voice speak what is true.

God did it, too. He said, "Let there be light." And there was light (Genesis 1:3). He could have thought about light in His head, and light would have come. But He chose to speak and He tells us to speak as well. Jesus told His disciples that if they had faith the size of a mustard seed "you will say to this mountain, 'move from here to there,' and it will move; and nothing will be impossible to you." (Matthew 17:20). He didn't tell them to think at the mountain. He told them to speak to the mountain.

I've thought about that day often in the past eight months. And I am becoming convinced of the creative, healing power of speaking truth out loud. To think, say, and hear the words said in my own voice forces me to stop and get out of my own head...which if I'm honest, can be the scariest place of all to get stuck in.

This is my blog translated into French. I can't think of a more important way for Google to spend their time...I mean, really. Don't you just picture a long line of desks in a blue-lit room with a bunch of people from different countries sitting at computers, frantically translating blogs into their native languages? I think I like my site better in French. See what i mean? I feel so smart, so cultured. It looks like I've got lots and lots of important things to say. I even look better in French.
I guess those French people aren't as self-focused as we are over here. They apparently have no translation for 'about me'.

It makes me think of the time I was interpreting for a student (have I mentioned I use to work as a sign language interpreter? Well, I did. Before I had all these kids, that is). Anyway, I was interpreting for a high school student who asked me if 56 and fifty-six sounded the same when spoken out loud. Wha.....t? But then I thought more about it and realized what a legitimate question it was. In sign language, the number 56 is signed 5 - 6. And if you spell it out, well, you spell it out. But when you say the number or the word in English, it's the same.

I really do love languages. I'll have to share more about my life as an interpreter. There are many wonderful tales to be told. In the meantime, check out your blog translated into French. It's cool. And it will make all those people in the blue-lit room feel as though their work has purpose. It could help to off set the excruciating pain they experience from the carpal tunnel syndrome.

*10:20 pm: It has just been brought to my attention that my blog name has been translated "sky cat". The real French translators must be on a writer's strike. Consider my name changed from chatty to catty. Thank you and have a nice day.

Hi. I am being forced against my will to introduce myself. I requested a close up because, well, a full-length photo is too vulnerable for me right now. You see, I'm a bit shy. Understandable, as I have been spending my days in the midst of other disregarded, unwanted...things. And it does a number on a girls self-esteem.
Oh. Oh no. There she goes, backing up. Fine. I can do this. Ok, so I am blue. I have brown trim. I am clean and sturdy and perfect...or so I thought. Evidently, someone else did not think as much, as they sent me off with their ugly pillows and broken radios to the Goodwill. But there is nothing wrong with me. I am not wrong. I am right. Right?
Oh, geez whiz. I'm blushing, can you tell? I guess it's good to be wanted again. Even if it was for the low, low price of $3. Still, I am wanted. And that is good. But my heart is torn as I consider the friends I left behind. So please. I beg you. Do not forget the tossed-aside and rejected at your local Goodwill.

Ever find yourself wishing you could eat a really big lunch and then not have to make dinner? Better yet, let's make our huge breakfast be the only meal we have to eat all day. I do that sometimes, when it's just me. I've yet to convince the rest of the fam what a good plan it is.

Don't get me wrong. I really do like to eat. And I like to cook, too. I just don't like to HAVE to eat. Or cook. It would be so much better if, on those days when we are tired and unmotivated, we could just eat once and have it last.

But we can't. That's just not how it works.

Sometimes I think the same way about time with the Lord. I wish on an exhausting, no-good day, I could pull out a 2 hour bible study I had back in '98. Like a quiet-time filing cabinet that was stocked before I had kids. But that is me trying to be all checklist-y, as if time with the Lord were equivalent to cutting the tomato and roasting the chicken (as if I ever roast a chicken).

In my head, I used to be really great. That is, before I had kids. Even better before I got married. I was patient, sweet, organized and practically perfect in every way. I remember being so depressed those first few months of marriage. Who is this crazy, emotional, needy woman and what did she do with patient, sweet, amazing me? And I was sure my new husband was thinking the same thing. Until I realized there was really never such a thing as patient, sweet me and I had certainly never been amazing. At least not in the way I thought. It's just now that I was married, there was someone always there to reflect the reality of my lack.

And to graciously remind me of my need for a Savior without saying a word. No more hiding. No more faking it.

And so, after a few more years of life under my belt, time with the Lord is looking different now than it used to. I think it is messy, desperate, sweet, frustrating. And sometimes it is dry, quiet, non-existent. But it is more real than it used to be. He is more real than He use to be. And that can't be pulled out of a filing cabinet.

*sigh* Now I gotta go make dinner.

Well, the winner has been chosen. Congratulations to Denise!! You are the lucky winner of the Growing Pains DVD. I hope you enjoy watching Mike and his Dad at the Springsteen concert and Carol go to work with her mom and Ben making Mike his slave as much as I did. And don't forget to watch the Seaver family reunion with S'mores and more...they sing the theme song together accapella lead by Alan Thicke. You don't wanna miss that. Thanks for entering everyone. It was great to discover I'm not alone in my love for this 80s show.