For All the CRAFTY Women, Holla!

Ever since I was little (and by that, I mean thinner--not shorter), I’ve been crafty.

Flashback:

[Scene: Shannon, Little Sister, and Little Brother are in the driveway playing 3-Square]

Shannon hits the red bouncy ball with a sleight of hand, yet the ball manages to strike the top corner of Sister's square and then leap out of bounds, and start to roll away. Sister pouts. Sister walks after ball. Shannon motions for Brother to come over to her.

Shannon speaks to Brother just above a whisper; looks to make sure Sister is out of audible range; she is, three feet away.

Zoom in on Brother's face after Shannon speaks to Brother.

Brother [confused]: ...but we don't have that kind of soda.

Zoom out.

Shannon [gives an exaggerated wink into the camera]: Oh, yes we do.

---

[Scene: Shannon and Brother sitting in time-out on the stairway landing]

Mom [sternly]: I am ashamed of you two. Brother, why would you ever punch Sister in the face?

Brother [defensively]: Shannon told me to!

Shannon [defensively]: No, I didn't!

Mom [reasonably]: Well, Shannon, don't you know you have an influence on Brother? What did you do to make him punch Sister?

Shannon: All Brother did was ask Sister if she wanted a Hawaiian Punch...and he gave her one. Seems to me that she should be grateful that she got what she wanted.

---

[Scene: Hour later, Brother and Sister playing merrily outside. Shannon's eyes are red from crying, she's still sitting in time-out, and she's still wondering how she could get in trouble for telling Brother to give Sister a real "Hawaiian Punch"]


The End

craft·y/ˈkraftē/

Adjective:

Clever at achieving one's aims by indirect or deceitful methods. Of, involving, or relating to indirect or deceitful methods.

...but I’ve never been into arts and crafts.

...BUT look what I just made!

T-Shirt Design

You see, I used this digital scrapbooking software called My Memories Suite. Usually, when I *try* and create a t-shirt design, I don't have the tools necessary to slant any words or photos I may use. However, since I've had this program I've been able to do that, and with ease.

But...wait...there's more!

My design may seem plain. But that's only because I made it. What's great about this program is that there are many colorful and bright pre-made scrapbook page layouts. Yes, my t-shirt design has nothing to do with scrapbooking. This program offers a plethora of possibilities to help you create whatever project is on your mind.

One of many scrapbook page layouts (photos of gorgeous children not included)

I have never, ever enjoyed scrapbooking with paper and hard-copy photos. Too girly(?) for me. However, I did enjoy placing selective photos into the already-laid-out slots. (See above)

...but here's the best part:

This is a 

GIVEAWAY

for one lucky (crafty or non-crafty) reader to receive their own My Memories Suite V3 (value: $39.97)

To enter, follow the instructions below.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Thanks, and good luck!

(PS: If you just can't wait to snag this cool software, you can use this code to purchase the software for yourself:

STMMMS93957

and, guess what! This code will give you $10 off your My Memories Suite V3 purchase AND it'll give you a $10 coupon towards the MyMemories.com store.)

Balloons

We all have fears. Some are scared of failure, spiders, or heights, while others are scared of pickles, cotton balls, or chickens. I have a lot of fears, but I guess my number one phobia would be coulrophobia: the fear of clowns. Not really. But let's pretend here, okay? My cat, Truffles, on the other hand, is deathly afraid of balloons. Phobias just can't be explained.

Well...actually, they can, because right now I'm about to trace back to how my cat came to shudder at the sight of balloons...

It was a nice, summer day, when my best friend came to my house to celebrate my sister's birthday. Truffles was only a few months old (9 years ago), still very much impressionable.

My best friend loved ladybugs, and appropriately, gave my sister a huge helium-filled ladybug balloon to help spread cheer on my sister's special day. But for Truffles, it became known as The Day That Went Down Like a Lead Balloon. Apparently, ladybugs represent luck. And luck is the exact opposite of what happened to Truffles on that fateful day.

The ladybug was out to get Truffles (or, in other words, my friend was chasing my cat around with the balloon).

Can you imagine being chased around by a creature thingy that is three times the size of you? Oh wait, I can. It's called my older brother (if you're reading this, I'm only kidding, bro). He would chase me after I'd knock on his door and runaway when he had friends over. Typical brother-sister relationship, heh. Truffles was probably thinking Why in the heck is this bug following me? Probably because it wanted to be her friend...right? (This is what I tell myself to justify the unforgivable [lack of] action I took to prevent my cat from having an irrational fear of a big, mean, floaty thing). Yes, the ladybug just wanted to be friends.

And the ladybug would not settle. She was going to gain a new friend; preferably, a cute, fluffy one. Unfortunately, I was overlooked.

Truffles tried hiding everywhere.

Under the table.

Under the bed.

Behind the desk.

In the occupied litterbox--next to her arch nemesis, Kudos, no less.

Unsuccessfully, Truffles tried camouflaging herself within the hoards of stuffed animals on my bed. The ladybug was just too smart. She (he?) could tell the difference between a replica of E.T. and a cute, fluffy living organism. Once again...I was overlooked. Are you noticing a pattern here?

I don't remember how this cat-and-mouse chase ended. Maybe Truffles gave up trying to run away and gave in to the little bugger of a beetle. Maybe she got away by running out the cat door. Maybe she finally outran the creepy-crawly my friend. But all that matters at the end of the day is that Truffles cannot be in the same room as a balloon.

So, how do you think she reacted two months ago when she saw Grandma's Valentine's balloons?

Like this, of course:


I'll tell you what, though, I think I'd be scared of balloons, too--especially if they're strung along by a clown...

...like Heidi Montag.

Ahem. Back to Truffles.

The only advice I can give her is: Life's a Circus. So, sit back, relax, and enjoy the show--especially when a clown falls on its face.

Happy Feet's Replacement

After learning a ton from this article, I've come to the conclusion that I have mostly healthy (and happy) feet. Oh, and that I'm pretty healthy, too. Pshh, I only experience one of those symptoms listed in 18 Things Your Feet Say About Your Health. One. Out of 18. That means I'm ONLY 5.55% messed up. Therefore, I'm declaring myself to be the new happy feet spokesperson. How do you like my slogan:

Forget gellin' like a felon,
how about gettin' jiggy wit it
like a midget?

Let's see here, 100-5.55=94.45. I'm 94.45% good, people! I think this means that when I was in elementary school and on crutches, and a girl started a rumor to her class that I was faking the whole "having bad feet" thing, she was right. I guess I really didn't have feet problems! What joyous news that I've only just uncovered.

Now that I've realized how happy and healthy my feet are, I can't help but wonder if I only had 6 foot surgeries because the podiatrist has a foot fetish and just wanted alone time--with my feet--while I laid unconscious on the operating table for seven hours each time. Hmm. If that's the case, it's not any of my business, really.

Man, I'm starting to think deeply now. Are articles supposed to make you reflect on past experiences in your life?

As I reflect on my numerous surgeries, I'm now starting to wonder why I had that grueling back surgery that left me in a back brace for months--the same surgery that stunted my ability to grow taller. I could've been 5'4". 5'4"! Life changing.

Do you think that back specialist just wanted alone time to sneak a peek at my feet, too (rush Shannon to the operating table!...eh, let's knock her out for 8 hours this time)? I don't care. He could've messed with my feet and I wouldn't have known the difference. My feet already look like Fred Flintstone's feet--how much more could they get screwed up? Oh, that's right, they got screwed up on my fourth surgery when many screws and pins were meticulously placed inside each of my feet, only to have the screws removed from one foot on my sixth surgery.

At least I was able to write a fifth grade award-winning autobiographical incident about my back surgery. I guess my teacher loved reading about me being under the influence of anesthesia, all the while using my bunny stuffed animal to play Peek-a-Boo with the doctors and nurses. The darndest things those kids do.

...but I didn't have the foot surgeries for nothing! I have actually benefited from these apparently not-needed surgeries, believe it or not. Without them, how in the world would I be privileged enough to park in a handicapped spot for sixth months (besides stealing my grandma's sign...which I don't do...)? How else would I be able to go through the exits of Disneyland rides--waiting 5 minutes instead of 90--without having a wheelchair? How else could I have the excuse to race my grandma in one of those motorized carts at Wal-Mart? If you look helpless, remember, people are scared to approach you and tell you NOT to be doing something (Excuse me, ma'am, but you probably shouldn't be going more than 5 miles per hour on that wheelchair. You might hit someone. [Reminder to self: NEVER let Grandma drive a motorized cart in Disneyland again]). And, lastly, how in the heck would I be able to get out of mowing the lawn for 2 weeks?

Do you think that girl dressed as a nerd at that last Halloween dance, who complimented me on my feet, rather than my costume ("I just want to tell you that you have the cutest feet!") was really telling me that my feet look healthy, and therefore, happy?

My Frankenstein foot.

I wonder.

Fartin' Margaret

You’re back in eighth grade and your mom makes you sign up for Spanish so that you can be prepared to take Spanish I/Spanish II in high school, complete your foreign language requirement, and move on with your life. When I was in high school, I was the top student in my Spanish classes. Languages came naturally to me. But unlike his super talented foreign-language-learner sister, my brother despised Spanish. In fact, the only phrase he remembers years later from his invaluable Spanish classes is “callate la boca.” Also known as “shut your mouth.” I’m guessing he has heard this phrase one too many times.

There my brother is sitting in his eighth grade Espanol class, learning about flan and how people eat this nasty excuse for a dessert in Spanish cultures. Only 2 minutes ‘til the bell rings, yet time seems to be standing still.

“Flan doesn’t only come in vanilla.”

Tick tock.

“There is also chocolate flavored flan.”

Tick tooooooooooooooock.

“Personally, my favorite is vanilla, though. The texture of it is kind of like a custardy Jell-O. Hey, in fact, I think Jell-O has an instant mix of flan that even comes with caramel sauce!”

Tick toooooooooooooooooooooooooooock.

“I encourage you all to go home tonight and beg your mom to make you flan for dessert. Have her drop what she’s doing, have her go to the store, and buy instant flan mix. But…don’t tell her I told you to say that. Tell her that your education is very important to you and that if you try it you’ll get extra credit. TWO points extra credit!! Also, don’t forget, but your paragraph about your family is due tomorrow. Use your best Spanish.”

Brrrrrrrriiiiiiiiinnnnnnnng!

“Don’t forget, but you also need to include a drawing of your family!”

--------------------------------------------------------------

Here’s a drawing not dissimilar to what my brother turned in:

A few days after turning in his masterpiece, the flan-loving teacher asked to speak to my brother after class.

She probably just wants to congratulate me on how life-like my drawing looks. Or, worse, what if she found out I don't really have a dog?? Dang it, I should have said I have a pot-belly pig, that would've been more believable!

“El Niño, I have a question about your project. In your About My Family paragraph, it says here, ‘Fartin’ Margaret is mi perro. Ella es fea y vieja. Ella no stop yapping. Ella is smelly a tambien. We want to put her down.’”

I bet she’s wondering whether I’m having a hard time at home because I have to put my “ugly and old” dog down. That’s gotta be--she's probably a very sensitive person and wants to know how she can help--what else could it be?

“Now, son, did you know that my first name is Margaret?”

“Uh…no…wow, hmm...what a coincidence."

Yes, but I didn't think YOU'D know the dog was a symbolism for you.

“Here’s your hall pass. The principal’s expecting you.”

True story. My brother hated Spanish and his teacher so he decided to bring the passive-aggressive approach into his homework. Yes, he turned in a picture of a hecka (we Californians use this word sometimes) ugly dog, named it Fartin’ Margaret (after her), and handed it in as part of his “Mi Familia” project, not thinking that she would notice the subtle attack. I guess he was probably thinking she would react in a fashion where she would be overjoyed to know that one of her student’s dogs shared the same name as her. I don’t know. All I know is that my brother is witty. So, if you want to pass your eighth grade Spanish class, you can add an imaginary dog/pig/cow/rat/whatever to your family. Just make sure its name is Loveable Margaret—NOT Fartin’ Margaret. You don’t want to get into a stinky situation.

The Brownie Incident

I'm four years old in the living room crawling around on my hands and knees pretending to be a cat.

Meow.

Meeeeooowww.

I'm out prowling for prey. Then I spot it from across the room. Under the small wooden table in front of the windows is a perfect brownie. What? I've never come upon a brownie in the living room before. A brownie just sitting there under the table on the beige carpet. What a nice surprise.

I crawl myself right up to it. Dare I touch it? What if this brownie isn't for me? Whose brownie is sitting here on the carpet in the living room? Do cats even eat brownies? Did Mom decide to bake brownies and disperse them throughout the house as like, a scavenger hunt for her children's pure enjoyment? Would I get in trouble for eating it? What if my brother or sister hid their brownie here for a later occasion? (I'm sure this wasn't my thought process at four years of age. Most likely I was just like, Brownie!! For me!)

I couldn't take the temptation any longer. Gazing at this wonder that I accidentally happened upon, I stick my finger into the warm brownie and bring it towards my mouth. The ooziness and warmth of the brownie felt just right on my finger that I shut out any doubts from my mind that this brownie could belong to anyone but me. I slide my brownie-tipped finger into my mouth expecting nothing but chocolate goodness and a warm feeling of satisfaction throughout my body.

The brownie touched my tongue and immediately I felt a warm sensation thoughout my body...but not one of satisfaction. More of, like, vomit rising through my throat making its way to the cavity that had just encompassed what I had now figured to be cat poop. A nice, warm pile of cat poop.

I was in shock. How could this warm, gooey, chocolate-looking thing not be a brownie? I had opened my mouth expecting Ghirardelli chocolate chips scattered throughout a brownie, but I definitely had the taste of sheer disappointment plaguing my mouth, not to mention crappy-smelling breath. I shouldn't complain, though. Afterall, I did just happen to eat pie. Not chocolate Ghirardelli pie, but a very special homemade pie from a loving feline.

Looking back, I'm guessing Mom didn't get any brownie points from me for the supposed scavenger hunt she had planned. Needless to say, I will never eat brownies that I spot on the floor ever again, thanks to this brownie incident.

I Swear

I just heard a bad song on the '90's radio station:

I swear by the moon
And the stars in the sky I'll be there
I swear like the shadow that's by your side I'll be there
For better or worse
Till death do us part
I'll love you with every beat of my heart
And I swear

I actually really like this song by All-4-One. It brings back memories from my childhood, I guess in 1994. I remember, for some reason, that my older brother received this album by All-4-One for Easter. It was his first CD (I think his second CD was Aquarium by Aqua. MY first CD was better--The Backstreet Boys! Anyways...).

So, what makes this a bad song if I like it so much? Well, my mom has always taught me a few things ever since I was a child. No screaming. No kicking. No selling your little brother old rotten Halloween candy. No swearing. No lying. No jumping on the bed. No doorbell ditching. No giving your sister Hawaiian punches...or making your little brother give 'em to her, either. So, you can understand my confusion as a child as to why my mom would give my brother a song that is clearly in conflict with our values. A song called I Swear? What the h-e-double hockey sticks, Mom? Why are you buying us an album with a song on it that is ALL about swearing and then we're not allowed to swear?

To me, the bad words (such as Dang, Heck, Freak, Crap) were known as cussing, not swearing. Swearing was totally different from cussing, but still, both were bad. So, the lyrics to this song confused me a little. I mean, swearing by the moon and the stars in the sky? Sounds pretty pansy to me. If you're going to swear, make it something that actually fits into the bad mode. Like, I swear by the knife and the glass pieces in your hand. It just seems to fit the "wrong" sense more. My mind could not comprehend that you could say I swear I love you and have that sentence be good. I thought that you had to say I promise I love you.

Everytime I hear I Swear I think about the conflict I experienced with my morals as a nine year old: to listen to a song I like (because it's [so] good), or obey my mom and not listen to the song because of its swearing? I chose the latter option, I swear...

PS: Okay, I swear I haven't actually ever sworn in my life. Mom, on the All-4-One CD you gave your eldest son, there's a song on there called (She's Got) Skillz. Yeah, it's not (She's Got) Skittles like you once thought, nor is it about tasting the rainbow through colored candy. Just thought I'd get that out in the open after having just sweared in the previous paragraph.