Roses and Whine

This is not the post I had planned for today. But then yesterday happened. Yesterday, my body was inhabited by the Beelzebub of Pinterest. I’m hesitant to share this because I’m afraid everyone who reads this has never experienced what I’m about to tell you. That I am the only person who can become demon possessed.

It started innocently enough, a week ago, when I had access to HGTV. I got sucked into the vortex of home makeovers and fixer uppers, and flipping, and it took me through a week of obsession before I flopped.

Almost six years ago, Brent and I bought a fixer upper, and we’ve done many an upgrade. But they haven’t been the totally fun upgrades. You know, the upgrades that provide real aesthetic and make you want to show off your home. “Oh, hello, Susan, check out our new roof! Just ignore the stained carpet below your feet, the seasick cabinets in our kitchen and bathrooms, and the linoleum and chipped tile. We like to play ‘name that shape’.” The things we want to fix come with hefty price tags, and when you’re saving for a pool, you can’t justify bleeding a few grand here and a few grand there.

Oh dear, sweet, ever-loving Pinterest. Did you know there’s a DIY for just about ANYTHING in your home? You can even paint your vinyl flooring for about $50. But here’s the thing with Pinterest. You search for one idea and it leads to another and to another and to another. It’s a black hole that leaves you floating in space unable to find your grounding. You know your oxygen is running out, but you want to see if you can make it just a liiiiitle bit longer. And, pretty soon, you’re sure Pinterest’s mission is not to help you DIY, but to help you DIE…a slow, painful death.

I must have easily logged 30 hours of DIY research in the past week. I was OBSESSED. All of the other times I’ve said I’m obsessed over something are a complete joke compared to what I experienced. I allowed it to turn me into a different person. I was so inundated with different project ideas, I didn’t know where to start. I was all over the board, and a lot of the projects would require Brent’s assistance. But he’s not home during the day, and my patience can’t be found with a magnifying glass when I have a project set in my mind. I want to start NOW!

I was sending my husband text after text asking questions about what I’d need to do in certain situations, and what he thought we could get for our leather couches and anything else I could sell in our home (because I need money to do projects, right?) After a while, he just quit responding. I was trying to list things on ebay and my computer kept freezing, and I was so frustrated and irritated, and overwhelmed, I finally had a melt down. Whoa! Houston, we have a problem. Yep. I had become a bona fide crazy lady. I needed to take a chill pill on top of my chill pill. (Is that frowned upon? Asking for a friend.)

This is the outward manifestation of how I felt on the inside.

Sometimes Jesus needs to take the wheel AND deliver a chocolate milkshake. I knew I had to remove myself from the situation just to clear my head. So I loaded up and headed to my nearest Chickfila. After wolfing down a shake and fries, I headed on to Costco just to walk around. Getting out of the toxic environment I had created for myself was the remedy I needed. I was then able to clearly see how my discontent mixed with excitement made me go kaboom! And my poor husband was collateral damage.

Once I re-centered myself (and bought 2 dozen roses because that’s the easiest way to lighten up any area in the home), I called my husband and apologized that he’d met my evil twin. He laughed, but I was serious. It wasn’t an empty apology. I genuinely felt sorry that he had to live through that crazy, because WHO WAS THAT LADY?



Nothing quite light Costco’s 24 roses for $13.99 deal!

But my husband is so wise. Last night we sat down and talked about what our goals are and what’s the best way to tackle them. So, for now, I’m just going to get my fix by painting the master bedroom (the walls are currently purple… don’t ask).

Every night, Brent and I tell each other what our favorite part of the day was. Brent shared that his favorite part of yesterday was my apology. Whaaaaaa? I told him he must have had a pretty crummy day if that was the highlight.

But he said it’s because I don’t apologize that often. (Doesn’t he know that it’s because I’m almost always right?)

Before my vacation, I knew in the back of my mind I wanted to gradually fix things up around the house, but once I saw some awesome transformations on TV, I became fixated on doing it NOW. I’ve read statistics that people who don’t log a lot of cable and social media hours are often happier than their counterparts. I think they’re on to something.

Let’s just say we won’t be ordering cable anytime soon. Oh, and if the paint job turns out all right, I’ll share with you my small victory.


Make Up

Without warning, she was shot.
Somewhere between plastic tiaras and name-brand cosmetics
A fabled word had been whispered.
People chose sides and the venomous artillery fired.
It took her two days to remove the artificial fingernails from her skin
And rinse the hairspray from her eyes.
When the dust cleared, a stalemate ensued for another twenty-four.
Beady eyes stared each other down during passing.
In the end, neither of them took the blame, but they agreed.
Yes, yes, surely this must have been a miscommunication.

He walloped the other boy.
All was solved.



**I wrote the following tongue-in-cheek blog post several years ago, but didn’t publish it here. I don’t typically attempt humor, but hopefully you get a giggle or two from it. Or at least a smirk. And if not, you can join my husband in believing I’m not funny at all. 😉 **

I cut someone loose from my life. Okay, not really. I mean, I did cut the fishing line, but the creepy thing is, I suspect the fish is still swimming near the surface of the water staring at me. I can’t see it anymore, but I know it’s there. And yes, that’s quite unnatural.

Let me explain.

Instagram is an interesting beast. When it comes to awarding hearts, there are different kinds of Instagrammers out there:

Some like to spread the love. They will heart anything and everything you post. A scenic walk through Yellowstone? Love! A picture of a pet goat? Love! A picture of a dirty diaper asking if the contents look normal? Love! You can do no wrong in their eyes.

Then you have the eye-for-an-eye people. They treat Instagram like kids treat Valentine’s Day. “If you give me one, I’ll give you one.” And thus they keep score.

Of course, there’s always stingy hearters. They’ll throw one your way, but you’ve really gotta earn it.

Don’t forget the ones who hand out hearts because they are making fun of that person. They eat up the fact she just posted a picture of her supposed boyfriend who looks like his picture is being taken against his will. It’s more of an, “I’m laughing at you” heart.

Then there’s a few, mostly those who have become Instagram popular, who keep their hearts all to themselves (you know who you are).

But then there’s my absolute favorite: The Instagram creeper. The bottom feeder of social media.

Surely you know people like this. And that’s key to a real creeper. It’s gotta be someone you know. The scenario goes something like this.

Oh, look. Smitty Smitherson followed me on Instagram. I don’t get to see him that often, so it will be totally cool to keep up with what’s new in his life through some picture sharing. So you follow him back. And in roll the pictures. Oh, look. It’s Smitty feeding a donkey! Love! There’s Smitty on a spelunking adventure! Love! There’s Smitty’s third selfie in a row! Love! Love! Love! And then you love all these things about him because either they are cool pictures, or you like what he’s doing, or you just like him and want to be supportive! And you can’t help yourself. And you go along for a while like this until you realize something. Smitty is active on Instagram. Smitty has not loved one of my pictures. I know I’m not a professional photographer, and I don’t do anything too crazy, but I know there are at least a few gems among my rock collection.

Then comes the moment of crisis. The next time you see a Smitty picture, you hesitate, remembering that Smitty doesn’t love you back. Not even after you helped resuscitate a sugar glider who had choked on a cheese doodle and almost drowned in your Aunt Mona’s backyard pool. And you feel heartbroken and crushed because Smitty is the one who followed you FIRST! Smitty is the one who asked YOU to dance!! And you think, “What the Heelys! I’m tangoing by myself!”

Ah yes, then you must decide. Am I going to become an eye-for-an-eyer or am I going to continue loving pictures because I, quite honestly, love them, regardless of Smitty’s stingy string-cheese attitude.

So, you love the picture but at the same time, you are telling Smitty, “You are dead to me,” under your breath.

And so your relationship continues, but it becomes burdensome because it’s a fact: Smitty doesn’t love you. Smitty never did.

You connect it to the fact that Smitty added you first, and that’s when you realize you have a hot and heavy creeper on your hands. Because why else would Smitty follow you but not interact with a few of your freaking amazing pictures?

Creeper, creeper,
Bottom feeder!

Oh, yes. Smitty knocked on your door, but he refused to come in. And for forty days and forty nights (more like three years), Smitty has remained standing outside your door. You say good morning every time you leave for work, but there is no response. Yet, there he stands. Binoculars in hand.

You have never considered yourself a petty person, but that’s when you realize how creepy a creeper really is.

So, I cut the fishing line. I can’t bear to look at and love Smitty’s pictures anymore. It just reminds me that he’s standing outside my window peeping through my Instagram blinds. And that just makes me uncomfortable.

I’m hoping over time, after no longer seeing Smitty pictures, I’ll forget he’s camped out in my flowerbed, staring at me and my family through yellowy lamplight. Hopefully he’ll just turn into a garden gnome. Somebody that I used to know.