Sunday Morning Yawn

The best thing about a lazy Sunday morning is waking up in the sunny patch of the bed.

Other things approaching that level of awesomeness are as follows:

Reading the newspaper over breakfast
The moment you shift from 3rd to 4th
Inside jokes
The little wave you get when you let someone cut in during rush hour traffic
Hearing your favourite song come on while you're stuck in line at the grocery store
Realizing you’re out of shampoo but still managing to squeeze out one more wash
Boarding calls at the airport
When the person at Starbucks knows your name AND your order

Speaking of Starbucks, Ben and I are off to the bookstore for a few hours. Quelle surprise.

Can You Die From Being Tired?

I believe the following illustration accurately represents the tragic events of last night:



Not shown: everyone else in the world sound asleep like normal people.

Aw, Shit (The Redux)

Almost 2 years ago my company punted a few of our departments across the road to an overflow office until they could sort out a more permanent solution. As of tomorrow, we move back across the street into our new digs. Most of us are excited about being reunited with everyone else because while a good ball player could probably toss a ball between the two buildings, we might as well be in Siberia. Inter-company communication is laughable under the best of circumstances. One only needs to look to Dilbert for confirmation of this.

Somehow, probably because baby Jesus hates me, I ended up being a move captain. I figure this is what happens when you make “Stop being such an asshole to everyone” one of your New Year’s Resolutions. Do you have any idea how hard it is to be nice to people while you’re coaxing them through the ins and outs of …packing your desk? It also means that I get the thrilling opportunity to work late while everyone else gets to leave early so they can *cough, cough* WORK FROM HOME. Of course with the Haber’s on vacation, this leaves me childcareless. Not a real word, but whatever. Obviously, I called my newly retired mom and asked her to fill in for me.

“Filling in” also means, “Come move into my tiny cramped apartment for two days.”

The only glitch to my otherwise PERFECT plan is snow and the fact that my mom doesn’t like to drive anywhere if there aren’t palm trees and a nice ocean breeze. Of course we don’t actually HAVE any snow but my mother says WE MIGHT. So yeah, glitch. Yesterday I phoned her and suggested she come down a day early. She hemmed and hawed a little bit so I figured that suggestion was dead in the water. Then today, she emailed and said, “Hey your dad had this great idea! Why don’t I come down a day early?”

“Sure, mom” I deadpanned. “That’s a great idea.”

So yeah. This post is just to say my mom is now on the road, in route to my place and I’m 99% certain that I’ve left scads of personal shit lying everywhere. It would appear that I have no choice but to hide in my mental cave and assume the fetal position.

Also? Can anyone get me a lead on some sort of kitschy placard that reads: Don’t look for shit you can’t handle finding. And also, please ignore the dirty dishes in the sink.

Caution: Adorable Child Ahead. Proceed With Caution.

Saturday Darlene came over and we made soup. I use the term "we" very loosely here because I haven't grocery shopped in over three weeks, which means the only things in my fridge are a container of spinach, a jug of cranberry juice, two sticks of butter, one container of greek yogurt and (inexplicably) three bottles of poppy seed dressing. Also, I didn't do anything outside of chop a few onions. I spent the rest of my time chilling out with Evan who has very serious thoughts on Batman, dinosaurs and how many Smarties he can cram into his mouth at one time.

The soup turned out to be awesome, however I'm sad to report that Darlene insisted on taking her son home with her when she left. Oh well. At least I got a tube of lemongrass paste out of it.

TFC: And I Don't Mean The Football Club

Since I brought the cat home, I've been really good about keeping Bex on a leash so the poor animal isn't terrorized. Turns out, I think the animal to watch for is that fucking cat. She's totally sweet about 97% of the time however, if the dog is even skirting around the edges of her radar (read: breathing) all bets are off.

Sev likes to spend most of her day sleeping in the window of my bedroom and I'm happy to oblige. Towards the end of the day, I kick her out and force her to socialize with us in the main room. Bex is kept on a leash while the cat resentfully pokes around. Eventually, she'll settle on the back of the sofa where it's pretty clear that she tries to become invisible.

However, the second the dog so much as thinks about farting, back go the ears. I like to call it, Sev's Horned Owl Impression. So far nothing has come of it because the dog doesn't even acknowledge her existence. So much so, that today, as Bex walked past the cat on her way to me, she got a sound bopping on the head. In another day or two, I'll start leaving Bex off the leash for short periods of time and we'll see how it goes.

But honestly, at this point? I think Sev's the burdening career criminal in the family. Bex isn't going to amount to much more than a shitty getaway driver.

Ah, Shit.

Without getting into any humiliating details, this is our new cat. She's basically adorable and currently camped out in my room waiting for Bex to die. Ben is smitten and I'm still trying to figure out how a "visit" to Grandma Cheese's netted me a cat.

We Wish You A Merry Wisers

In a few minutes, Ben and I will be loading into the car and heading up north to visit with our family. But before we left, I forced Ben to sit for a few photos. I was going for something dignified. Instead, I got this:




Hope everyone has a safe and drunken holiday. See you next year.
M

Once Every 5 Years

I'm a drunk hugger. I'm a sober hugger too, but drunk? There is no limit to the number of times I will bear hug you and declare you, "THE BEST PERSON EVER, OMG. I LOOOOOOVE YOU!"

Occasionally, I will also make drunk phone calls. And occasionally those friends record the calls and then forward them back to you the next day.

It's good to have friends.

Blue Berry Fritter, Bitch

Derek and I have a weird relationship, in that we're like siblings who really like each other while at the same time, fighting constantly. We bicker almost non stop and most of our conversations are completely inane. On top of that, we have 18 years worth of inside jokes that we continually add to.

One of fall backs is "Blueberry fritter, bitch" which is the text message that we'll send to each other whenever one of us caves and orders a blueberry fritter from Tim Hortons.

This morning, Derek took it to a whole new level by sending me this series of illustrated text messages:



Blue


Berry



Fritter


Bitch



Obviously this called for immediate retaliation:






I'm fairly certain that at some point our one upmanship is eventually going to lead to a dead hooker in Vegas. But until then, game on.

Tripping Hazard

At my office there is a “Workplace Hazard Inspection Report” posted on the bulletin board near the photocopier. In six months, we’ve only had a single safety hazard to document. The report reads as follows:

Infraction: Box beside desk
Recommendation: Move box
Outcome: Box moved

Ah. The sweet smell of bureaucracy.

Milestones

Dear Ben,

This past weekend you spent some time with your dad. When I picked you up on Sunday afternoon, it was raining. For a minute the three of us stood in the drizzle making small talk about the weather in Labrador.

"It was raining when we brought you home from the hospital," I told you. "I wore flip flops and your dad drove like a grandpa. We both felt like we'd gotten away with robbing a bank."

You laughed. You know this story already because we re-tell it every year. Still, I think you like the repetition of it.

Your dad handed you the last of your things from the backseat of his car. We've been doing this trade off for years now and it still feels odd. I don't know that I'll ever become used to the strangeness of it. Honestly, I don't think we're supposed to get used to it.

Once we got back on road and headed for home, you filled me in on your weekend. A few hours later, we were snuggled up on the couch. The music was playing and we both had a book open. The dog sighed and curled up for a nap.

"It's good to have you home," I said.

You lifted your head from where it was rested against my arm.

"It's good to be home," you agreed. I smiled at you.

"I can't believe you're going to be ten soon."

"In two more days," you said.

Two more days or ten years. Either way, it slides by fast.

Love,
Mommy.

Sunday

If You’re Not Outraged, You’re Not Paying Attention

My drive to work was quiet yesterday morning. Quiet in that I drove along with the music loud enough to rattle the windows. Oh. And also the bass made my teeth vibrate; that was fun. On my drive I looked out for my regulars: a blue pick-up truck with local fencing logo, an old white passenger van with black, spray-paint graffiti on the side and the Moe’s Cartage transport truck with the dent in the door. I used to do the same thing when Ben’s dad and I commuted together. Back then it was a biker dude with Carpe Diem written on the back of his jean jacket. Sometimes I still wonder if he’s out there, carpe-ing the fuck out of his diem.

Somewhere past Milton, I noticed two new cars. A midnight blue Mercedes with vanity plates that read, “Peace4Me” and a white Ford Focus plastered with bumper stickers. I secretly love bumper stickers. Among the mix, this lady had a Darwin fish, a Farmers Feed Cities and a marijuana leaf. In the middle of her bumper was a faded red and white “IF YOU’RE NOT OUTRAGED, YOU’RE NOT PAYING ATTENTION.”

Three days ago I took an online quiz to measure how many slaves I have working for me. I have 47.

*

Ben’s school is a Tribe school. Most of the parents I meet haven’t got a clue what that means. I suspect a fair amount of them think it’s a little too new-age for their liking. Today the kids are having an empathy day. No logos allowed. Tell Nike to say home; give the kids in Indonesia the day off. They’re wearing mismatched shoes to remind them that they should consider walking a mile in someone else's steps. I doubt many of them will want to give up their iPods though. I know I don’t.

47 slaves.

It’s hard to be outraged when you want so much.

*

It’s Movember too, so I penciled a mustache onto Ben’s face with eyeliner. He stood preening in the mirror for a minute admiring it.

“Do you like it?” I asked him.

“I want my goatee to be a little more pointy,” he said.

I sat back down, tipped his chin upwards and sketched a few more bristles onto his chin.

“There. Is that better?”

It was, Ben agreed.

On the way down the stairs to the car, he walked like a gangster. “I’m a hobo,” he said.

“A hobo?” I asked. “Why’s that?”

“My shoes don’t match and I look like a hobo.”

I shut the door behind us and hefted my laptop back up higher against my shoulder. “You’re missing the point,” I said. “You’re not pretending to be a hobo. You’re supposed to be thinking about all the people out there who have less than you.”

*

47 slaves, but am I outraged enough to change anything?

Weird Magnet

I got together for coffee with Darlene a few days ago. Darlene, as you know, is my arch nemesis in pottery. Every week we sit side by side and compete for Lisa’s attention. As if that’s not enough, we constantly put Lisa on the spot, demanding to know who she likes better. For every compliment she hands out, we’re quick to inject, “But you like my bowl best, right? RIGHT, Lisa, RIGHT?”

Lisa, of course, always looks slightly confused. Like she can’t quite tell if we’re joking or not.

Truth be told, I can’t tell if we’re joking anymore either.

Anyway, while we were having coffee, in walked a woman who I can only assume was auditioning for the local circus. She was wearing bright red rubber boots to match her equally bright red jacket. The jacket, by the way, weirdly resembled what I would imagine fornicating feather boas might look like. (Totally not kidding here) Added to that was a white, ballerina skirt – the puffy, swan lake kind – that had red hearts stitched on it. Her hair can only be described as….pinkish.

As we were leaving, Darlene shook her head and blamed me. She contends that she never sees weird people unless she’s with me. I argued with her, because that’s what we do. “Sure you do! You just probably don’t notice them.”

Darlene argued right back. “No. I people watch too and I never see weird people.”

What can I say. Maybe I really am a weird magnet. But that’s cool with me, I like weird.

Yes. But For The Love Of God, Shut Up.

Wake me up at 5:30 am, and I'll likely let you do whatever you damn well please.

Refresher Course

At 20, Josh still introduces me to his friends as his babysitter.

I met him when he was 2 and over the next 4 years, I taught him to tie his shoes, print his name, and add/subtract with pistachio nuts. When other kids were writing about Terry Fox and Wayne Gretzky for school assignments, Josh wrote about me and how I taught him to skate. Years later, I taught him how to drive stick and lectured him on the importance of designated drivers and condoms.

Yesterday I took him out so he could brush up on driving a standard before bringing home his first vehicle. We drove to a hilly spot near the subdivision where he grew up and pulled over. It only took a few minutes for him to get the hang of it again. “There,” I said. “See? You’re fine! And don’t worry, everybody panics the first time a car stops behind them on a hill.”

Josh laughed. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

When he pulled over to try it again, I jumped out and walked around behind the car. “Pretend I’m a car.” I grinned at him through the rear window. “Now try it. And don’t break my legs!”

Josh stuck his head out the window, shouting at me. “Shelly, are you serious?”

“Totally! Now go! Go!” I stuck my hands in my pockets and waited. A few seconds later the tires chirped and he took off forward. He tried it like that a few more times before we headed back home; easy on the clutch, easy on the gas. In no time flat, he was pulling away as smooth and quiet as you please and I still had all my limbs intact.

It’s funny how life is a balance like that too; easy on the clutch, easy on the gas and you’re good to go.

Grant-Season

After a few weeks of feeling emotionally threadbare, I took some time off work. I spent it mostly at Starbucks, ironically working. It was a much needed break though. For some reason, it’s more enjoyable to answer emails while you’re kicking back with a latte and some David Grey. In between that, I had lunch out with a few different friends and I indulged in a manicure. I still don’t feel 100% yet, which is tough and irritating and definitely not really worth getting into.

But! In other news! It’s grant-season.

Monday’s deadline marks the fourth year for the grant, which in a lot of ways shocks me a little. (Okay, a lot) Last night, Carolyn and I took the kids and met up with Matt Austin and a few of his friends while they were in Toronto for the day. Matt’s brother, Jeff, nicely tolerated the barrage of attention that Carolyn’s daughter, Sam, threw at him while at the same time, engaging Ben with some conversation about werewolf zombies. I think? It’s honestly hard to say because by then I’d started getting a headache and half checked out. A few hours later, the headache had me hanging over the toilet hoping to die. But my point is, Matt Austin.

Matt won the grant in its second year and this year is sitting as a judge. Typically, I receive all the applications and then spend a week or two short-listing the contenders down to a manageable size for the judging panel. Short-listing always turns out to be a lot harder than I expect, so I’ve taken to getting together with a group of friends to look over my favourites. In 2009, Matt’s application generated a lot of discussion within our group and ultimately ended up being a hands-down favourite with the official judges panel.

At the time though, I really didn’t trust my gut feeling. My dad was still dealing with the complications from his cancer treatments and financially, I was still tentatively finding my own feet. In hindsight, it’s funny how closely my dad’s illness and my own tailspin are linked. So many of my favourite conversations with dad took place in the parking lot of the lodge he was staying at for his radiation treatments. Back then, we spoke in bald metaphors. We’d talk in code over Ben’s head, cursing ex-husbands, prostate exams, lawyers and radiologists. We made horrible jokes because sometimes they were the only thing that kept us moving forward. Then, I was living in a constant state of stress. I never knew how I was going to pay for groceries, let alone have enough gas in my car in order to get to work. Before I’d leave for home, my dad would force money into my hand and slip Ben some peppermints. I’d leave my dad behind and then spend the first five minutes of my drive white-knucking the steering wheel in a vain effort not to cry.

Reading Matt’s essay only two years later and looking at the images he’d assembled from Wake brought a lot of that back. I remember putting his essay down, half way through, feeling very raw. While I knew I was holding the winning application in my hand, I was still worried I was giving too much weight to my personal feelings. But here we are a few years later, and I still react strongly to Wake; it’s consistently remained one of my favourite collections and I know for certain that his work won for all the right reasons. Art is supposed to strike you in personal ways. It’s supposed to be something you feel a little too viscerally at times.

Over dinner, Matt’s friend wanted to know if I was an artist too. “No,” I said. “I just like giving my money away.”

In hindsight, it’s exactly the glib, defensive sort of answer I always hand out. The truth behind why the grant exists is uncomfortable. The fact is, I’m not an artist and I can’t speak with much intelligence in terms of art history. But I do know what I like, and I know what I react to. Appreciating art has always been something I can retreat to when everything else feels too loud. The simple fact is, this world is a much better place because of people who create art or make their own work. And I guess that’s why, four years later, the grant is still going. Because there are people out there like Matt who create work worth supporting.

All of this is just to say that this year’s submissions have started arriving and I’m already thrilled with some of the work that’s been assembled. Whew!

Back When We Were Kids

Always Gold, Radical Face.

Um, hi?

You may not remember me. My name is Michelle. I used to have a blog or something?

Last night was pottery. I’ve made 18 bowls this time and not one of them is smaller than a large(ish) cereal bowl. I’m pretty proud of this, to be honest. I’m working with around 4lbs of clay each time and I’ve only irreparably fucked up a few of them. While this doesn’t sound that impressive, trust me. It is.

Here are most of my pots:


This is the foot, which I may have mastered this go round.


A few of the bowls have this detail inside.


Size matters, boys.




Girth is important too.


I'm not 100% certain I like the lip on this one.


But I definitely like the detail on this one.


C'est fin!

Hindsight is 20/20

This weekend I took the kids to the Elora Gorge for a hike. The Haberkids aren’t quite a seasoned as Ben when it comes to making car trips, but they survived. Mark, by falling asleep and Rachel by working on her bored teenage-glare. (She’s very good!) Once we got there though, the kids took off screaming through the woods. In hindsight, it was my perfect opportunity to abandon them for dead and I missed it.

We spent about an hour walking the trails before we headed down into the gorge. For awhile they explored the small caves, then they moved onto rock hopping. It didn’t take them long to spot a big rock about four feet out into the river. That’s when they got the brilliant idea to build a rock bridge so they could climb onto it. It took them about 30 minutes, but they eventually threw enough rocks into the river that they were able to build a stepping path.

Cue victory dance.

Genetics 101

As an infant and toddler, Ben overwhelmingly looked like his dad. In a lot of ways, he still does. I don't see it much in our day-to-day activities because his personality is 100% Ben. But every now and then when I'm uploading photos, I can't help but think, "Holy shit, kid. You look like your dad."

Hello!

First things first: I totally dropped the ball on my last face. YOU’RE SHOCKED, I CAN TELL.

Moving on:

Friday night, after mowing down on Chinese food at the Habers, Ben and I went out and bought his Halloween costume. This marks the first year he’s been interested (read: obsessed) in all sorts of scary, gorefest costumes; the bloodier, the better as luck would have it. We finally settled on his being the Grim Reaper, complete with soul-slaying scythe which is sure to violate a few provincial laws, no doubt.

I don’t mind telling you that I miss the good old days when he dressed up as a cute little monkey and then hid his face in my thigh anytime someone would come to the door. Ben, of course, is totally enamored with his costume. The second we walked in the door, he quickly ran to put on his creepy skeleton gloves and then proceeded to spend the next fifteen minutes posing in front of the mirror. Which reminds me! I think puberty is going to be all kinds of hilarious, and I’m sorely tempted to start up an anonymous blog in order to chronicle all the things that I don’t share here, because OMG, WE’VE GOT SOME HILARIOUS SHIT HAPPENING AND IT KILLS ME THAT DECORUM FORBIDS ME FROM BLOGGING ABOUT IT.

Saturday we went shopping and mama bought a new pair of shoes. No really, that is not a euphuism for sex toys. I really did buy new shoes. They were insanely expensive and almost in line with a car payment (or two) but I SWEAR TO YOU, WEARING THEM IS LIKE WALTZING AROUND IN GODS SLIPPERS. I also bought Ben a pair of Bogs because apparently Bogs are indestructible. Ben needs indestructible because every time I outfit him with new footwear, he makes it his personal mission to destroy them in 30 days or less. It’s like fucking Nike has him on retainer, or something.

So! Bogs it is.

Sunday, we baked a lot of shit which unfortunately resulted in a lot of fucking dishes. Pumpkin squares! More pumpkin squares! Banana muffins! Oatmeal muffins! And soup! Okay, the soup wasn’t exactly baking, but it was fucking delicious and totally homemade so what the fuck ever, it totally belongs on the list and I will fight you if you say otherwise.

Afterwards, we got cozy on the couch (in our new boots, no less) and watched African Cats as narrated by Samuel L Jackson. I kept expecting Mr. Jackson to bust out with a nice string of cursing when Sita was being attacked by a pack of hyenas, but alas, I’m sad to report it was not to be.

Somewhere in between all of this, we found time for Starbucks and some new reading material.

All of this is just to say, Hello! I’m officially a bazillion K in debt right now, but all signs point to a successful weekend.

Up next: MUMFORD & SONS.

Five Faces In Five Days: Take Four

What? She totally has a face.

Five Faces In Five Days: Take Three

To hear Derek talk, I'm doing Ben some huge genetic disservice by not watching football with him. While I highly doubt that's true, there is something about a boy and his team colours.

1998, Comic Sans Edition

I’ve kept a journal, in some form or another, my entire life. Weirdly, the only time I didn’t journal (much) was the 10+ years I was with Ben’s dad.

Today, I finally managed to force myself through the last box of our marriage which has been sitting in my bedroom closet all this time. Mostly, it was bank records and the sort of documents that get generated when you build a new house together. In the mix were notes we scribbled to each other on the backs of whatever happened to be handy at the time: Rogers envelopes with reminders to pick up cat food after work, hydro bills with smiley faced I love you’s written on the back, cards, and receipts with goofy faces doodled on them.

Eventually, I found a floppy disc from 1998 (Journal 1994-95). During my first year of college I transitioned from paper journals to electronic. It was something I quickly embraced given that I a) hate my handwriting and b) can't spell for shit.

Regardless, I can’t even begin to imagine what’s on this disc. Although, given the font on the label, I’m fairly certain it’s full of angst I never thought I’d be able to get through. Of course, I did make it through 1995 and I made it through 2005 too.

Life goes on either way and since then, I’ve learned the most important lesson: there’s no need to add insult to injury by using Comic Sans.

Five Faces In Five Days: Take Two

It feels like cheating to use Ben's mug in these 5 days, but I figured screw it. He's got a face and I have to see it all the goddamn time. You might as well too.

Five Faces In Five Days: Take One

This is Jenn. She's very accommodating when you force her to sit down after pottery so you can snap 50 million photos of her. Which is just to say that Day of 1 of 5 is officially under my belt.

Booyah motherfuckers.

I'm Starting Tonight (Again)

So a week ago (or probably more, who’s keeping score anyway?) I emailed my dear friends, Agatha & Carolyn and said, “Okay SERIOUSLY. One photo, per day, for five days straight. I can’t possibly set the bar any lower. And……go!”

They were quickly game. Agatha went to a music festival and shot her ass off. Carolyn went to Utah and shot some cactus plants in addition to having a fabulous vacation. And me? Well I did jack shit…although I did finally crack the spine on my camera’s manual, so that’s something.

Yesterday I swore I was going to start my five days.

Shockingly, I didn’t.

Loan Shark

This morning, having left my wallet and its entire contents (including 300 in cash, don’t ask) at my office the night before, I raided Ben’s piggy bank. The rattling of change outed me so Ben came shuffling out of the bathroom, spitting toothpaste everywhere, in order to ask me (and I’m paraphrasing here), “What the fuck, woman?”

“I’m borrowing some money from you,” I told him.

“Wuhy?”

“Because I neeeeeeeeed coffee this morning. And I forgot my wallet at work yesterday, remember?”

“Howb buch are woo boowing?”

“Five bucks,” I said. I twisted two fingers up into the pigs blue plastic guts and wrestled for a folded up bill. “I’ll pay you back tonight,” I told him.

Ben pulled his toothbrush out of his mouth and pointed at me with it. “Ten bucks.”

I stopped what I was doing. “Excuse me?”

Ben fought the smile off his face. “Interest. Remember? You told me that when you borrow money, you have to pay interest – so, ten bucks!”

“But I’m family! And that’s, like, 200% interest!”

“It’s just business,” Ben said.

For a few seconds, I just stared at him. Then I sighed, giving in. “Okay, fine. I’ll give you a dollar interest. That’s 20%, kid. Take it or leave it.”

Ben grinned a toothy, loan-shark grin. “Deal,” he said.

Then we shook on it and I secretly vowed to send him to bed early.

Touché Google

From Great Neck, New York, United States:
if your reading this you owe me a blowjob

Pottery, Bitches.

Pottery is back in full swing, which is just to say that Darlene and I are once again competitively vying for the affection of our instructor. Speaking of Darlene, it only took her a few minutes to remember how infuriating the whole process can be. I, on the other hand, am a totally motherfuckin' zen potter and if Darlene wants to tell you otherwise, she’ll have to get her own blog.

This session we're throwing on Thursday nights instead of Wednesday. This means that every week we miss our Scientist Potter Melissa. [Insert traitorous sad faces here] Also, that's how I think of her. In all caps. She's cool like that, and TOTALLY deserving of all caps. Most scientists are, you know.

Anyway, we somehow conned our friends Jenn and Deanne into joining us. While they’re no scientists, they’re still pretty cool to have around. Jenn sits in Melissa’s space (Melissa, if you’re not happy with how clean your wheel is being left, you can totally take it up with Jenn) which means I get to see a lot of boob.

I think Jenn and I are locked in some sort of cleavage war. Which is insane on her part, because obviously: I WILL WIN.

Anywho, photos!

Where the MAGIC happens.


Boobs!


Tools of the trade.


Artsy tools of the trade!


Darlene trimming her pot.


Darlene taught me a new way to foot my pots last night.


Jenn looking like a pro already. (Boobs not included)


Person who sits beside me who is not Darlene?


I did not make this, but I'm willing to lie about it on the internet.


Jenn's finished bowl.


I own the prototype of this candle holder! And I use it all the TIME, Darlene.

...hmmm...for some reason, I don't have any photos of Deanne uploaded. Trust me though. She was there and she was awesome.