Back to the basics.

I am happy to report, that everything is back to normal in the Darling house.
We are sleeping through the night and waking up well rested, happy people.
Let me tell you friends, this is a massive change from previous weeks.
Darling Hubby is still recovering from surgery, but is feeling progressively better with each passing day, and for that, I am quite thankful.

The truly interesting news is that Darling Hubby is off work for the next week and a half, and home with me. At first, I was a bit apprehensive about how this would change our day to day dynamics, but to be honest, I am very much enjoying our free time together.
We aren’t terribly exciting, I’m afraid, but it’s a comforting thought to know that he won’t be rushing off to work in the wee hours of the morning.

I am quickly learning that with being a military wife, one learns some very important life lessons.
What is the first lesson, you ask?
It’s fairly simple, actually.
Cherish the time you have with your spouse.

Living in the age of social media, it’s so easy to allow things like TV, the internet, or cell phones that are chirping away eat up precious time that you could be spending making real memories with your darling.
Don’t believe me?

Today, when you’re around someone, turn off the TV, step away from the computer, and silence your cell…you’ll be amazed to realize that you actually do have a life beyond them.
It’s a little disturbing to think about how much we rave about the way that tethering ourselves to so many devices allows us to be ‘instantly updated’ to what’s going on in the world.
How did we manage to forget that the most instant form of interaction is face to face, and person to person?
So, I urge you to free yourself from the restraints, if just for one day, and allow yourself to remember what it was like to have real quality time.

Till then…

Hospital Visit.

I’m sitting alone in the hospital.

Darling Hubby is in surgery.
Tonsillectomy, trimming down his uvula, and repairing a deviated septum.
All in the name of getting a full night of sleep again.
 Since Darling Hubby and I married, neither one of us has gotten our full 8 hours.
Me, because of the grizzly bear snoring radiating from Darling Hubby.
Him, because of this evil thing called sleep apnea.

To be completely honest, he and I haven’t slept at the same time for the few weeks.
No, we aren’t mad at each other or anything crazy like that.
It’s just…that with his snoring growing louder, and louder…I can’t sleep.


We’ve tried it all…
Nose strips for him. Ear plugs for me. Change of sleeping position for him. Sleeping pills for me.
And nothing, is working for us.
So, after sleepless nights, sleep studies, countless doctor’s visits…he is in surgery.


What about me, you ask?
Friends, I am exhausted.
And nervous, and scared.
Nervous, because he is in surgery.
Scared, because he is in surgery, and I have to spend tonight away from him.
Please keep us in your thoughts & prayers.

Till then…

Upcycle.

I am oh-so obsessed with the idea of upcycling.

What is upcycling you ask?
It’s taking things that you would normally trash and turning it into something new.
That’s right folks, turning everyday trash into treasure.

My project this week involves one thing that I promise you have on hand:
Plastic bags.

I created this beauty.

Wanna make your own?

      This is what you will need:

• A dozen or so plastic bags
• A wire coat hanger

      This is how:

• Shape your wire hanger into a circle.
• Cut your plastic bags into strips.
• Tie the strips to the wire.
                                              It’s really as simple as that!

And now, for your listening pleasure, I offer you these smashing Beatles covers by a few surprising artists.

Ella...



Ray...

 
Joan...

 
Till Then...

Happy.

Today, I have been musing on the idea of being happy in life, in love, and in general.
So often, the day to day wears down on my soul, and I forget how blessed, how loved, and how lucky I am.
I think that more than anything, I just need to be reminded.
To do this, I asked myself these questions:

• What does it take to make me happy?
• What makes me laugh?
• What makes me smile?
• What makes my soul soar?
• What gives me the warm fuzzies?

These are the answers that I came up with...

Why, Darling Hubby is what always makes me happy!

          And silly things like this always make me laugh...

         

And our crazy fur-baby is always making me smile...

And knowing that I have Darling Hubby to share my life with is what makes my soul soar...

And being oh-so loved by my lovely friends, family & Darling Hubby is what gives me the warm fuzzies.

When I think about the way my life is, I can't help but be blessed.

Our home is cozy.

I am loved & happy.

I have all that I need.

Share with me the little things that make your life beautiful, loves.

 

It's that time again, loves!

These Musical stairs...

Clever, eh?

You and I by Ingrid

This gem from 'Make Me Laugh'...


Silly little things like these...

giggles to self...

Tehe.



Till Then...

Random Things Thursday.

Because it is Thursday, and I have too many things floating through my brain, I’ve decided that today…will be six, dandy, and oh-so random things Thursday.

Number One:

Remember the original Max? Yeah, he rocked.

Number Two:

This is my new mantra...

Number Three:
I found this lovely gem...

Upcycle.

One of my many favorites happen to be trunks.

As of today, we have 4 in our home serving as coffee tables, a custom record case, and TV stand.
Perhaps I will repurpose one of them to be as darling as this.

Number Four:
I adore books. And libraries. And bookstores. And Bookman’s ingenious video. Watch it.



Number Five:

I started a new vinyl wall decal project.
With some luck, it will look something like this…

I want a cricut so badly. Perhaps Darling Hubby will indulge me…

Number Six:

I just adore Darling Hubby.

Till Then...

Skinny Jeans.

It is high time to tell the truth. The cold, hard, oh-so brutal truth.
My skinny jeans no longer fit.
After 75 days of being happily married, my skinny jeans have gone and given up on me.
Hold on, loves, because it gets worse.


Upon discovering this fact, I plodded into the bathroom to take an inventory of myself:

• Unruly eyebrows -Check.
• Ponytail full of split ends and an inch of root showing -Check. Check.
• Fingernails that haven’t seen a manicurist- Check.
• Tootsies with remnants of old nail polish -Check.

It’s official. I have become the poster child for life after the wedding, and lemme tell you…it isn’t pretty.


So today, I will be fierce.
    I will tie on my cute, new tennis shoes.
    I will go to the gym.
    I will make a hair appointment.
    I will throw out the Ben & Jerry’s.
    I will get back into my skinny jeans.
                 I WILL.

Living with Darling Hubby has been a glorious 75 days of love, happiness, and lots and lots of delicious food.

Newlyweds, listen closely, you CANNOT eat whatever your hubby eats.

Trust me.

In other news…

• If you love John Lennon as much as I do, you will adore this:
  
• Superman & Wonder Woman have undergone some serious make-overs…does this remind anyone else of a certain group of teenaged vampires?
• Oh, and I finally finshed my DIY wall decal project!

Till then...

Get some Southern in ya.

It was grocery day.

Darling Hubby was sitting on the couch in his jammies, watching ESPN.
I, in the bathroom getting ready.

Me: Darling, will you please get up and get dressed?

Him: Are you ready?
Me: Five minutes and I will be.
He laughs, knowing that five minutes could mean anywhere from five minutes to half an hour.
Me: Seriously, get ready.

Darling Hubby walks into the bathroom where I am busy teasing my hair into submission.


Him: Alright, Snookie. Is your hair big enough yet?
Me: Oh hush, and for the record, this is not Jersey Shore hair. This is Southern hair. Big difference.
 I am a Southern belle.

That is a title I was born into, live up to daily, and am very proud of.

Darling Hubby just doesn’t understand. He really, really doesn’t.
 The funny thing is, most people don’t get it either.

Sure, just about everyone knows the stereotype of being Southern, but with that stereotype comes the stigma of being backwoods, or a redneck. It just isn’t so anymore.


There is a new breed of Southern women; a strong, proud, sassy, and modern version, if you will.

The women that raised me, the girls I grew up with…never once did I see a single one of them faint onto a chaise lounge.

Truth be told, they were about as dainty and fragile as a Mac truck.


That being said, I think it is necessary to divulge a bit of the wisdom, and a few of the sayings that have been passed down to me from some of my favorite, modern Southern belles.

• “Tease it to Jesus!” Because big hair is the norm in the South.
• “Put some color on, you look like death!” Wearing lipstick is something my Momma swears by.
• “A real man will always hold the door.” It isn’t that we aren’t capable of doing it for ourselves, it is merely a sign of respect.
• “Everything you need to know about anything and anyone can be gathered from your beautician, the grocery store, or your momma’s house.” Because we do love to gossip.
• “You have three things that not every girl has: a winning smile, clean skin, and a sweet Southern draw.”

I would just love to hear any stories or sayings that y’all heard growing up…share them with me?

Till Then…

Favorite Things Friday.

In honor of Friday...

To inspire you:

To teach you:

How To Be A Woman. 

To make you smile:

To make you jealous:

Till Then...

There Is A Monster In My Closet.

We Have One.

3 AM:

       I am lying awake in our bed. Scared.

I hear a noise.

       Now I am really, really scared.

My imagination takes off and comes up with this:

Closet Monster.

There is a monster in my closet. It wants to get me. I am sure.

I glance over at Darling Hubby.

He is peacefully sleeping. He has no idea of the danger. I have to warn him.

I poke him.

Repeatedly.

  Him:  What? What?

Me: Wake up!

  Him: Whaaa?

Me: Wake up!

  Him: I'm awake. What's wrong?

Me: I'm scared.

  Him: Of?

Me: There's something in the closet.

He sits up slightly. Glances at me. Glances at the closet. Then back at me.

  Him: Fine, I'll go check.

Me: No!! It will get you!

  Him: What exactly will get me?

Me: The monster!

He throws the covers back. Begins to get up out of our bed.

I pull him back down.

He is just a silly man. He doesn't know the danger. I have to protect him.

 Him: Just let me check it so we can go back to sleep.

Me: It will get you! Then it will get me!

 Him: There isn't anything there to get either of us!

Me: I know there is!

We banter back and forth about the dangers of checking for monsters.

I plead with him not to.

He lays back down.

I poke him again.

Me: Can we go to the living room?

  Him: No. Go to sleep.

Me: But...I'm still scared.

Thirty seconds later...

  I grab Vladimir and dash into the living room. Darling Hubby follows me.

We snuggle together on the couch. I am happy and we are safe.

In the morning, Darling Hubby goes to investigate the closet.

  Him: It was just a shirt, babe.

Me: No! There really is a monster!

  Him: You just let your imagination get the best of you is all.

There is a monster in my closet and only I can see it.

In other news...

Day Two.

Finished Branch.

Tree in progress.

Till then...

To Be Happy.

Picture it:
             A normal day. Darling Hubby is off to work. I am left to my own devices.
Thirty seconds later.
               I have run out of said devices.
                         Now, I am bored.
  I pitter patter around the apartment.
 Our dog, Vladimir, is watching me with vague amusement.

       A list runs through my head of tasks yet to be accomplished.

• Wash clothes.
• Do dishes.
• Write a book.
• Make bed.
• Save the world.
• Go to the gym.

This list proves to be too daunting so, I slump down on the couch in defeat.

      I stare at the wall.

          Blank. Boring. Undecorated. Wall.           

 When a crafty, artsy idea in all its do-it-yourself glory pops into my head.

                 And that, my loves, is when all the trouble began.           

You see, I have a wild obsession with the sticky wall art fad.

 (Don't scoff at me, I can't help it.)

I troll the web to see what I could possibly fill the space with and I find these lovely trees...

stick tree.

big tree.

Like I said, lovely, lovely trees.

But...they cost $75.00 and $200.00, respectively.

        Look, I loved Lisa Frank stickers as much as any girl, but as a grown girl, there is nooo way that I would ever spend that much for a darn sticker.

        No. Darn. Way.

     Fear not, for I found a way to beat the system!

 That's right, I am making my very own tree for under 15 dollars.

       Here's how:

• one roll of black con-tact paper-$6
• one exacto knife-$5
• this handy video from Thread Banger.



Let me just say, Thread Banger makes it look super simple, and I'm sure it is...if you are doing a small project.  I, on the other hand, am free handing it, and also working towards making something quite large.

Day One:

                                           

   Darling Hubby came home and inspected it.

   Me: It almost looks like I just painted the wall.

Him: Indeed it does.

  Me: What would you do if I did paint it?

Him: Paint over it when we move.

  Darling Hubby walks away. Seconds later from the bedroom, a voice emerges...

Him: That doesn't mean that you allowed to paint them!

Giggles. He is adorable.

Till Then...

I Have A Hot Date.

I promised myself that I would wait until tomorrow afternoon to share my victory with y'all, but...that's not going to happen because I am just sparklers-on-the-fourth-of-July excited right now.
Why, you ask?
Because, loves, I have a hot date with a hot man on Thursday night.
Oh, and did I tell you that I asked him out? And made the plans? Because I totally did!
That's right, I will be taking Darling Hubby on a hot date.

Sounds pretty darn amazing, I know, but wait...there's more!

Darling Hubby and I are going to watch a movie at a drive-in movie theater that has been doing business since 1950!
Like I said, sparklers-on-the-fourth-of-July excited.
My grand plan for the evening will go as follows:

• Fix an amazing picnic basket full of all of Darlings favorite things. i.e. mashed potatoes, fried chicken, green beans, biscuits, sweet tea. (I realize that those aren't typical things to bring, but this is a special date. Geez.)
• Pack the Jeep with a quilt, and said picnic basket.
• Put on an adorable dress. (This is weather-pending, really.)
• Doll myself up.
• Escort Darling Hubby to the drive-in.
• Have a simply lovely-throw-back-rare-bird-hot-date-night.

I. Am. So. Darn. Excited.

Oh, one more thing...

Darling Hubby and I were having dinner on the balcony, as we do every night, (not because it's overly cheesy, but because we have no where else to put our dinner table. Seriously.) when a dirty, little thought crossed my mind.

Me: Darling, are we boring now that we are newlyweded and all?

Him: I think that to other people we may be, but this is the most exciting thing I've ever done.

Sigh...I am just the luckiest.

Till then...

Newlywed and all.

It's 4:30 AM...and I am exhausted.
This mornings events have included making breakfast, packing said breakfast along with a lunch, and seeing Darling Husband off to work.
Sounds crazy, I know. Alas, this seems to be the norm for the wife of a military man.
Before I fall back into bed, and because I know every single one of y'all are just dying to know all the dirty details, I will hammer out the woes of life after the wedding.

• We now life in Tampa, Florida. (That's right, a thousandee miles away from sweet Texas.)
• We are the proud parents of an insane dog named, Vladimir.
• I have exactly one friend thus far.
• Darling Hubby works 80+ hours a week for 'The Man.'
• My current occupation: HOUSE-WIFE.

It's all exciting stuff, right? Okay, okay, maybe not so exciting, but to tell the truth, I completely adore this new life. Darling Hubby is just amazing...if you don't count the facts that he leaves the toilet seat up, thinks the proper place for dirty clothes is the floor, and somehow manages to lose everything. Florida is just as sun-shiney, and warm beach as you dream it is. And I...I am just as smitten, and happy as I had hoped I would be.

The funny thing is...as I try to think back to how difficult it was to adjust living with Darling Hubby...I can't. Don't think that the first two months of married life were sheer bliss every single second of every single day because, not every single second of every single day was. A lot of it was actually quite difficult, but when I think about it, all I get are the warm-fuzzies from remembering all of the happy moments we had. Gag worthy, lovey dovey stuff that I dare not bore you with, I promise.

Don't worry my dear friends, Darling Hubby will surely do something that causes me to yank my hair out soon.

Till then...

“If I ever see you with a boy like that, it’s going to be your hide." -Momma

Boys are a touchy subject if you are a female in the South. While I would imagine that it is safe to bet that the majority of girls in the world grew up living by "The Rules
and some kind of parental opinion of how dating would go, they aren't from down here, and haven't ever experienced "Mommas Rules."
They begin with the break down of what types of boys are acceptable to date.

• Good ole' boy: he is acceptable to date; he comes from a good family, he attends church on a regular basis, he doesn't act out, or behave in a way that would embarass his momma.
• Redneck boy: he is on the cusp of what is and what isn't acceptable; while he comes from a good family , and attends church on a regular basis, he also has a bit of a wild streak. What dictates whether or not you are allowed to date him hinges on one thing; how he behaves when he meets your momma.
• Po' white trash boy: he is completely unacceptable to date; he may or may not come from a good family; he may or may not attend church on a regular basis, what makes him po' white trash isn't the fact that he is literally poor, it's how he acts. His behavior is typically the rowdy, bar room kind, and he uses fould language in front of ladies

Once you have found a suitor thta falls into one of the appropriate categories, it is time to review the list of Mommas rules before dating him.

Mommas Rules

1. You may not date until you are sixteen.
2. You may not date a boy that isn't in your age bracket.
3. You may not go to a party that doesn't have adult supervision.
4. You may not go out with a boy until your parents have met him and deem him worthy of your time.
5. When you dress to go on a dat, your outfit must be pre-approved. (To quote momma, "If you think you are showing skin or cleavage, you are very wrong, young lady.")
6. When he arrives to pick you up he must come to the door, and speak with your parents. Honking the horn for you isn't acceptable.
7. You date will be questioned on the following: Who are your parents? Which church do you attend? Which denomination is it? What sports do you play? Where will you be attending college? Where will you be taking out daughter? Will it be in a well lit area with plenty of adult supervision? What time will you be bringing our daughter home?
8. You are to return home at the agreed upon time and no later.
9. If you, Heaven forbid, return home later than the agreed upon time, you had better have a darn good reason.
10. When you return home, you may say your good nights until momma flashes the front porch light off on, then it is time to come inside.
11. When you come inside, momma will be waiting up for you and you will tell her what you did, where you were, and who else was there.

Some of my mommas' favorite things to tell me as I was getting ready for a date were, "keep a penny between your legs." (In other words, don't be a hussy and spread your legs for a boy.") And of course, "remember, just because I can't see you doesn't mean Jesus can't."

"Weddings, funerals. amd sickness mean somebody needs a home cooked meal. Just make sure you write your name on the bottom of your casserole dish."

I don't have the slightest clue as to how things work up North as I have never lived there and never plan to, but I do know a few Southern girls that have found themselves transplanted under the big city lights. From what I've been told, you don't know who your neighbors are and people aren't exactly friendly.
I can recall one phone call in particular from a girlfriend that lives in New York that just about breaks my heart.
Melinda rang me up one night and when I answered the phone she was just about in tears.
"What's the matter, doll?"
"My neighbors are just awful! I made a plate of cookies and went up the hall to introduce myself to everyone. I got two doors slammed in my face, one man accused me of trying to solicit him, and everyone else threatened to call the police on me!"

Y'all I was just floored by this. Since when does anyone turn away their neighbor or home-made cookies? I can only conclude that they missed out on some valuable home training, because nothing else makes sense in this case.
Around here, your neighbors are your allies. You might not always like them, you might not agree with their political views, and you might not go to the same church, but you had better believe that when push comes to shove and you need two eggs and a half cup of sugar to finish cupcakes for the bake sale, that your neighbor is going to be more than happy to help you out.
Why do we behave so, you ask? It's simple, momma taught us that it is right to be friendly and give when needed.
For those of you that didn't learn that, I'm going to break it down for you, real nice and pretty like.
When someone needs reassurance that everything is going to be okay and life will go on, you reassure them. When someone is sick and needs a hand keeping up with their yard or picking their kids up from school, you do it for them. When someone has lost a loved one and needs solace, you extend your sympathy and drop off a casserole.
It's the basic principle behind being Southern, a chain of action if you will. You do for someone when they need it, and you had better believe that when your time comes they will be right there to return the favor.
If everyone is good to everyone then things can't help but be a little better, now can they?

"I feel a hissy coming on." -Momma

We have come quite a good ways since wearing corsets and fainting into the arms of a big, strong man, but one thing we have in common with our Southern sisters of days gone by is the quality of our temper.
I'm sure you've heard the old adage, 'hell hath no fury like a woman scorned', well, whatever genius thought that one up had obviously never met a girl from down home Dixie who is having a bad hair day, locked her keys and cell phone in her car, and just found out that her boyfriend is sneaking around with some hussy in the next town. If the so-called genius had experienced this, the adage would read more along the lines of, 'hell hath no fury like a hissy.'
Not so long ago, I was in an aiport, DFW to be exact, getting ready to board an early morning flight to Tampa, a flight that required two layovers, for the record. Now, as I am not an early morning person, I had stayed up all night to get ready and make the three hour drive to Dallas, while avoiding rush hour gridlock, to get my happy rear end on the plane, hopefully, without incident. Apparently, the airline had other plans for me.
As I arrived at the check in counter, I was faced with the unpleasant realization that I would be checking in via kiosk. (Yes, I do realize that it saves both time and money for the airline, but I am one of those people that prefer to do business face to face- blame my momma.)
"Buck up," I told myself, "if you can apply lipstick while driving a standard in Dallas traffic, you can use a darn kiosk."
Wrong. The kiosk cannot find my ticket. Thankfully, a lovely airline worker came to my aid, assisted me at a normal ticket counter then, just when I thought my day was looking up, the lovely airline employee informs me that I will not be able to carry my luggage on boards, and I will have to pay X amount to check it.
Y'all, I was hot. When it comes to airports, I don't mess around. I carefully measure my bags because I refuse to check them, (aka ask for them to go missing) I don't carry liquids, not even hairspray, I don't put my jewelry on until I've gone through security, and I am absolutely not one of the people wearing sweatpants and no make-up. If you ask me, I am practically the poster child for airport rules.
So when this lovely airline employee dares ask me to pay to check my carry on, I saw about eight different shades of red. Let me just take a moment to say that she is very lucky that momma raised me right or else I would've had an epic fit right there at the check in counter.
Instead, I took a deep breath and looked the lovely airline employee dead in the eye.
"Ma'am," I said, "I feel a hissy coming on."
Y'all she looked confused, obviously, she had no idea what a hissy was, what she should do, or if the only option she had was to call security.
"I don't want to cause a scene or talk to your supervisor, but I haven't slept in twenty-four hours, I'm not in the best of moods, and I need to be on a plane in about thirty minutes so, I'm going to need you to click-clack on your keyboard and arrange for me to carry on my luggage as I had planned, that way you don't have to explain why some lady is throwing a hissy in your lobby, and you never have to see me again. Trust me, ma'am. it would benefit both of us."
I smiled sweetly and squared my shoulders, waiting to see what her reaction would be. Wouldn't you know it, she click-clacked on her keyboard, and mere seconds later I was on my way, carry on in one hand and my newly upgraded to first class ticket in the other.
While I am quite pleased with my airport incident, it made me realize two things.
One: The world at large doesn't know about Southern temper tantrums.
Two: Even though the world at large doesn't know, they still fear and respect them.
This leads me to believe that it is my duty to inform the masses on behalf of Dixie.
Y'all pay attention now; this just might save your skin someday.

There are two distinct types of temper tantrums: a hissy fit and a conniption fit.

A hissy fit is more of a slow burn type of affair that builds up over time, and by time it can be a matter of years, months, days, or hours. When a series of events occur, one on top of the other and each progressively worse, a hissy fit is bound to happen. Now, a hissy fit is typically what the younger generation of Southern girls will have, and when a hissy is brewing it is reffered to in an exact manner. "I feel a hissy coming on."
When a hissy is being had it can produce tears, screams, objects being thrown, and other general mayhem, but this is only if the person at the recieving end of the hissy doesn't comply with our wishes. For example, the lovely airline employee click-clacked on her keyboard and nipped it at the bud.

A conniption fit is something that you earn with age, as in at the age of 18 one is not able to throw a conniption fit because one lacks the wisodm of a momma that has seen what the world is about and raised a pack of kids in spite of it all. It's a privilege, really.
Speaking from my own personal experiences, when a conniption fit is occurring, you had better hope that you are:
One: not the cause of it.
Two: not related to the cause of it.
Three: aren't in a five mile radius of it.
Four: it isn't your momma having it.
When referring to a conniption fit, one might say something along the lines of, "Momma is going to have a conniption fit when she hears about this."
Or, "My momma just about had a conniption fit when she saw what I was wearing."

Y'all remember, you can have, throw, or pitch a fit, and you had better stay out of the way if some Southern Belle feels one coming on.

"Just because it fits doesn't mean you ought to wear it." -Momma

I don't care who you ask or what they tell you, being Southern is a birthright. When someone tells me. "Well, I wasn't born in the South, but I got here as fast as I could." I simply smile at them and say, "Then darlin', you ain't Southern."
Of course, I really draw on my words and say 'ain't' when I make that statement, which isn't how I typically speak, but sometimes you just have to get your point across.
It has recently occurred to me that while life in the South has progressed just as much as it has else where across the Mason-Dixon line, some people, notice I didn't call y'all Yankees, still think that we ride our horses to work and name all of our sons Junior. It just isn't so, and I aim to clear up some of the mystery that causes this confusion. So go on and pour yourself a glass of sweet tea, have a seat on the front porch, and allow me to share with you just what it means to be a Southern lady in these modern times.