That must have been one hell of a birthday because I've been missing for a week! Sadly, the birthday wasn't the cause.

So my Project 365 derailed (or rather came to a crashing halt) right around my birthday. Not that it had anything to do with a birthday party or celebration over indulgence or anything, it had everything to do with me being lazy.

Well, not so much lazy as over-scheduled, over-stimulated, over-extended and just over IT. All of it.

So I spent the long weekend putzing around - not really committed to doing anything.

Meg was in Tennessee for the holiday celebrating the christening of her friends baby which left me home alone to do nothing all by myself.

I watched some hilarious Jeff Dunham comedy.

Took the Matrix in for an overdue 15k service.

Ran errands.

Watched Transformers (love that movie, I think I have a crush on Shia Lebouf movies. Holes, Disturbia, Transformers - love them!).

Did laundry, lots of laundry.

Took a nap, lots of naps.

Went to the Fitzy's for a christening of our own. Timbo got a brand-spankin' new grill that we had to try out. Had an awesome time just shootin' the breeze and playing games (SimplyFun games that is!!)

Took Ali to the Kittery outlets to do some shopping (he got a pair of Puma's for $14 and thought that was the greatest thing EVER!)

Had a hilarious conversation with Ali explaining the difference between beach and bitch - which cleared up a LOT of confusion he was having or causing or you know, whatever.

I finished some homework and took my math test - yuck, but it had to be done. Got an 88 though it should have been a 90 but whatever, I'm not going to beach.

And that is the summary of what I did over Memorial Day weekend.

Now my batteries are recharged and I'm ready, or so I think, to start again!

Also, tonight is the launch of my SimplyFun business where I will be sharing tons of fun games with friends! Seriously, these games are a riot and so much better price and quality that what you find at Walmart or Target. Plus, rather than helping those corporate giants increase their bottom line - you're helping me pay for college!



It's a Win! Win!

So, yeah, view the products online through my consultant site and then email or call me when you're ready to order! www.maouci.simplyfun.com It's that easy. See, It's SIMPLY fun.. the name says it all.

(Project 365 will be back in action on June 1st!)

Project 365: Happy Birthday to meeeee!

Happy 1st birthday to meeeee!
Originally uploaded by Misa Gracie.

And Happy Wordless Wednesday to you!

Project 365: It's Complicated

This is where we were 9 years ago:



Today it's a bit more complicated than it was on this day all those years ago. Life changes each of us and he and I are struggling to find our way, find our path. Neither of us knows if we will cross the finish line of life together or separate. For now we just take life as it comes, one day at a time.

Things aren't as clean cut, black and white, as when I wrote this post, the heart wants what the heart wants no matter what the brain or biological clock says. So things aren't settled, not even close.

The love is still there, and for just today, that is all that matters.

Project 365: iForgot is the precursor for the iPod

I forgot!

I said that quite a bit when I was younger - most particularly between the ages of 12 and 18.

I forgot tons of things.

To do the dishes.

To pick up my clothes off of the bathroom floor.

To do my homework.

To watch my sister.

Oh, yes, that last one was a doozy.

I was invited to see my beloved NKOTB for the very first time with a friend. It was a birthday gift from her to me and the coolest part was that a parent was not going to be attending. Her older sister and a pal were also going to the concert and were old enough to drive.

My 13 year-old butt was so excited I couldn't function.

The concert wasn't until 7pm but the plan was set that we would leave in the afternoon. We had to set aside plenty of time to case the Celebrity Theater and see if they were hanging around before the crowds got there.

Unfortunately, QotU had to run an errand before I could leave. (I was NOT amused by this development in the least.) She left me in charge of Meg while she rushed off to get some stuff done.

Meg was running around the neighborhood with her pack of 5 year-old friends (it was a different time back then, sigh) and had asked to go play at one of their homes.

I, glad to be rid of her, happily said she could go and stay as long as she wanted.

I then proceeded to get ready for the concert and completely forgot about Meg.

I locked up and hopped in the car the instant my friends pulled into the driveway.

When we got home, a little later than curfew, I found out exactly what happened in the two hours that the house was vacant and Meg was presumably playing happily down the street.

Apparently she had wandered home, finished with the games, and found the house empty, the doors locked. She found herself alone for the first time in her life and freak the heck out.

She went next door and I'm fuzzy on whether she actually called the police to report her family as kidnapped or murdered or whatever imaginative scenario her barely older than a toddler brain cooked up.

I am not fuzzy on just exactly how much trouble I was in.

No sir, not fuzzy on that a bit.

This lapse in memory and subsequent punishment didn't keep me from forgetting things - I still forget things.

Actually, as Meg pointed out the other day while we were studying at Panera, I don't just forget, I openly and blatantly ignore.

We were having a conversation and when I was done I just put my earphones in and listened to my iPod.

Completely oblivious to the fact that Meg was in mid-sentence.

Nice.

Project 365: Close Encounters of the Heart-throb kind (alternate title; The time my cousin almost hijacked a plane)

When I was 14 I won a radio contest for two tickets to see New Kids on the Block. LIVE! In Person! However, they wouldn't tell me where the tickets were located at the venue and when a friend, whose father was offered advanced ticket sales through his employer, offered us seats near the front. QotU purchased two as my 15th birthday present. we bought two.

That's how Meg, QotU, Me and my cousin Kristi went to see the NKOTB concert on September 16, 1990.



Also happening on September 16, 1990 was a conference that my cousin Sis was attending with her husband. They brought new baby KJ to see us, and to meet Great-Grandma. They were only in town for a few days, leaving early the morning of the 17th to fly back to Salt Lake.

Mom drove the whole gaggle of gibbering, overly excited, teenage girls to the concert. The free tickets I had won turned out to be located in the nose bleeds; Mom and Meg used those while Kristi and I, along with Angela, Rochelle and Melina made our way to the front. We were about 20 rows from the stage! Excitement! OMG! DYING!!!

We screamed until we were hoarse and then screamed some more. I am sure I damaged my hearing erevocably that night, but I didn't care.

We were witness to greatness! Awesome-gyrating-teenage-hotness! We swooned. We danced. We couldn't believe we were sharing the same air as these fabulous five boys.

Then it was all over.

And we went to the car where we sat until the wee hours of the morning in traffic jam hell. I think I fell asleep at some point and woke when we reached home.

I gratefully crawled into bed. Excited, near deaf and utterly drained.

Then QotU woke me.

"We overslept! We have to take KJ to the airport to make Sis's plane home!!!!"

Holy Crap! We had the baby and just barely enough time to make it to the airport if there wasn't any traffic. I would have to hop out and run the baby to the gate (back when you could go all the way to the gate).

Meg was with me as we rushed through the doors toward the departures area. QotU was going to park and meet us at the gate.

As we were walking through the newly constructed bridge to Terminal 4 and Sky Harbor I noticed a very familiar face rising on the escalator ahead of me. I can still remember it like it was yesterday. He was wearing dark sunglasses, a leather jacket and jeans. It wasn't quite 7am and it looked like Jordan Knight hadn't slept a wink after the conclusion of the concert.

I was in a near panic. My heart was racing and I didn't want to be rude. So I sped my walk to catch up to him and his GINORMOUS body guard (seriously, the dude was HUGE). Faced with meeting my idol I panicked - I tapped his bodyguard on the shoulder and squeaked "Can I speak with him?"

Then was rudely told that No, I couldn't and that I had to leave him alone. Jordan just kind of looked at me, the tiny baby in my arms and my trailing sister and I'm sure wondered how the heck I had two kids and looked like I was 15. He didn't say a word.

He was probably high or drunk or both at the time.

I was torn - take the baby to Sis or follow my dream....

I ended up taking the baby most of the way to the gate where QotU came running up and took over. She said that I could go and try to find him and get an autograph or something if I wanted.

I wanted.

So we split; me retreating to where I had seen Jordan, her making her way to the gate and the frantic mother who was about ready to punch the stewardess who kept saying "You really need to board the plane now ma'am, we can't wait forever".

I never saw Jordan again that day, and didn't for many years.

Melina was green with envy at my close encounter.

A few years ago, she and I attended Donnie Whalberg's birthday bash - before they reunited and started to tour. He was there and so was Jordan. Where Donnie was willing to take pictures with fans, Jordan sat in a group ignoring those who asked or replying with snarky looks of "I'm so much better than this", he came off as a huge snob and that's when I finally got over my near miss. He wasn't worth it and that fact was obvious.



The important part was that Melina got to finally meet Donnie, a life long dream, and he was drunk but nice. We got two photo's but this one, this one shows him smelling her. I don't know why he smelled her, but he said "Mmmmm" when he did. So I think he liked it.

He said a polite thank you for attending and we were on our way.

He was a class act, something his bandmate could learn from.

Project 365: Cluck Cluck

My first job was at KFC, working as a hostess. I don't remember how much money I made, but it wasn't very much. I had just graduated from high school and was excited by the thought of making my very own money.

They issued me the standard uniform of red shirt, navy pants and visor emplazoned with the Colonel's image.

I worked the counter and the drive thru. Then, they changed managers. My title of hostess was going to be taken to a whole new level.

They changed my uniform to this:



My mission was to greet everyone that entered the restaurant or went through the drive thru. Yes, I was supposed to approach strangers in their car as they placed an order at the drive thru to wave and entertain.

One old man, who was a regular, always needed help walking to and from his car. He would show up for dinner each night, in the early evening, and I took him under my wing (pun intended). I would meet him at his car and walk him to the door, make sure he was settled and then go about my horridly humiliating tasks. When I saw that he was finished I'd walk him to his car again. He would tell me stories about his late wife, his kids or grandkids or just life as it was, as it is or how he wished it would be. He was intelligent and funny. I, keeping with the rules, never uttered a word in reply. A nod or a shaking laugh would be enough to encourage him and validate his feelings.

Each day I worked, it was the same routine.

On the day that I informed my managers that I had found another job (as a Carnie at the Arizona State Fair! I was moving up! right?) I saw him arrive. I went to his car and helped him to the door. He stared at me the entire way.

"Is something wrong?" I asked.

"What? Oh, no." he blushed.

We went about our routine as usual, except I was in the standard KFC uniform as my replacement was actively pissing off a car full of high school students in the drive thru.

When he had finished, I walked him to his car.

"This is my last day here, so I won't be seeing you after this. I have a new job." I explained as I said my goodbye.

"Well dear, I will miss you very much. Though, as strong as you are I had no idea you were a girl and so pretty! If I had known that, I would have needed a LOT more help." he winked, a saucy smile on his lips.

He fumbled in his wallet and pulled out the solitary $20 bill inside. He offered it as a tip.

"Thank you, it has been my pleasure to see you each day. I enjoyed our little walks and the words you have shared with me. I hope that you keep coming here and find someone new to talk with, now put this back in your wallet before you lose it!" I handed the tip back to him with a hug. "Take care of yourself and don't get into too much trouble! And, the new chicken is a guy, so don't get any ideas."

We both laughed, he got in his car and drove away. That was the last time I saw him, or the inside of that KFC chicken suit. I have wondered over the years what happened to him, I don't remember his name, and am sure he has passed on by now, but he was a very nice man.

Project 365; Santa doesn't repossess presents. Just so you know.

This is a snapshot of Greg, 2 years old, watching TV around Christmas. (I know that the stamp says May '75 but I don't think that my parents would keep a decorated Christmas tree in the house through the spring. So my superior reasoning powers have determined it just took them 5 months to develop the film. I'm a genius, I know.)

One story that QotU likes to tell us kids each year around Christmas is about how, when she was just a tike, maybe 4ish or so, her dastardly, conniving brothers tricked her into trying to sneak a peak at the Christmas tree in the wee hours of December 25th (or the late hours of December 24th depending on your perspective, parent or child) to see if Santa had visited.

She called down from the sleeping loft the kids shared to her mother, my dear sweet Grandma, that she had to tinkle.

Grandma was no fool and saw right through her claims. The path from the bedroom to the bathroom went right through the living room where, presumably, Santa had deposited all of their loot. She would be able to gaze at the beautiful treasures as she made her way to and from the lavatory and report her findings to her brothers who were waiting eagerly in the loft.

She descended and made her way to the door, excitement filling her little body.

"Okay, Princess of the universe*, let's go" Grandma said as she clutched her daughter tightly to her side effectively burying her head deep in the folds of her voluminous house dress "and make it quick".

QotU's head was held in Grandma's vice like grip all the way to the potty. She knew that, regardless of the fact that she didn't have to pee, she'd better make something tinkle or their daring plan would be discovered.

The return trip was much the same, face firmly planted into Grandma's house dress.

When she ascended to the loft she was pummeled with questions "What did you see?" "Where there lots of presents?" "Did I get a new bike?"

All of which were answered on a sob "I DIDN'T SEE ANYTHING!"

The boys were incredulous. Such an important task and they had left it to a wimpy girl. Pshaw, they would have seen everything. They wouldn't have let their faces be covered. They were strong manly boys.

But alas it was too late. They were being told to hush and go to sleep, however impossible that may be.

Fast forward a few decades, to about 1980. QotU is now the Mom and boy, is she ready for whatever her mischievous little children could possibly think up. She knows that at age 5 and 8 they are old enough to be pretty tricky in their attempts to see what Santa brought.

She has her house dress ready for escorted trips to the bathroom. She's got extra glasses of water at hand. She's not going to let anyone see that tree until the morning, 6am is her deadline and she knows that it will likely kill us to wait that long.

4:30 comes, not a noise from us kids.

5:00 arrives and still not a peep. She's impressed.

5:30 passes, maybe she should check on us to see that we're okay. Yep, confirmed they are sound asleep.

6:00 dawns and it's magic time! Wait, still sound asleep. Huh.

6:30 turns to 7:00 and she just can't stand it anymore. It's Time To Open Presents!

She always broke at 7:00 and would wake us up. Yes, we were the children that didn't wake in the wee hours of Christmas morning to open presents.

The family tradition still stood, no one saw the Christmas tree and presents on Christmas morning without the ENTIRE family (visitors included) present. The adults would go in and make tantalizing, torturous noises like Ewww and Ahhh and OMG! or Wow look at the size of that box!, while the kids were dying in their bedrooms waiting for the call to come and see for yourself.

I remember one year, I may have been a teenager or pre-teen, and QotU came to wake us up, Meg hopped out of bed eagerly.

I however asked "Mom?"

"Yes...."

"What time is it?"

"It's after 7, now get up!"

"I got a question."

"Okay, ask but hurry and get up."

"If we don't get up by 7, does Santa repossess the presents or something? because why get up so early if they're not going anywhere?"

I don't remember her response, but I know I got up to open presents because I knew that "Santa" would make note and my sarcastic butt would be without presents the next year and allowed to sleep in to my hearts content... and really? I wanted to open presents just as much as my little sister, I was just too cool to admit it.

*She was much to young to be the Queen of the Universe at age 4ish, so she's referred to as Princess of the Universe, naturally.

Project 365: Tired

Today I am tired.

My writing juices are lacking. The natural ebb and flow of writing is nearing low tide and I can't come up with anything terribly original for today. So I shall pick on my little sister yet again. (You're welcome.)

I have quite a few favorite Meg storise, but one that still makes me laugh is from when she was about 6 or so, give or take a year. We were living in the house on Hillary at the time. (Hillary was the street name of course.)

We were home one evening, I was babysitting while QotU was out. I don't remember where she was, maybe it was with friends or at the store or who knows, it's not important to the story (see how my writing takes on a whole new level of suckitude when I'm tired? again, You're welcome).

I was in the TV room just off the kitchen watching who-knows-what when Meg walked in at about 9:00ish. She had gone to bed about an hour earlier and I was surprised to see her standing there.

She looked at me, grunted angrilly, stomped her feet and then calmly turned around and went back from wence she had come.

Weird? Um, yeah. So naturally I was curious about this unexpected outburst and followed her tiny, retreating figure.

She went into the hall bathroom, flushed the toilet and then moved her one-woman show into our parents room. There, she went into their bathroom and flushed the toilet. My questions of "What are you doing?" went unacknowledged.

After making sure both toilets were properly flushed, she sauntered over to the linen closet just outside of our bedroom door.

She opened the closet, took out a bathtowel, blew her nose, put the towel back in the closet and went back to bed.

I was dumbfounded.

Had I hallucinated this entire scenario? Or was my little sister really a toilet flushing fairy come to ensure the proper function of our plumbing?

The next morning I asked her about it and she denied remembering any such incident. She said I was lying.

I wasn't. Seriously folks, I'm creative, but I couldn't make that up even if I had tried.

The answer was simple. She was sleep walking.

Project 365: Name Those Faces!

Happy Wordless Wednesday!

(If you need help naming some, check out this post for a more recent photo.)

Project 365: I own a dinky auto

"I own a dinky auto"

"What honey?" my dad asked.

"I OWN A DINKY AUTO!!"

"Baby, I don't know what that means." he'd say in an attempt to pacify my increasingly frustrated 2-year old self.

"I. OWN. A. DINKY. AUTO!!!" I'd wail.

Intervening on his behalf mom would say "Morris, I think she wants a drink of water".

"Yes, dat's wut I sed. I own a dinky auto." I'd sigh as I handed mom my sippy-cup.

Project 365: Pegleg and the Substitute Teacher

Having to cram his 6'1" frame into the rickety desks of 6th period History class was not a favorite experience for my brother. These desks were designed for Oompa-Loompa's, not growing high school boys.

The one consolation that helped abate the misery of confinement was sitting next to his best-friend and cohort, Pegleg. They were like two peas in a pod, two peas with a single twisted sense of humor between them.

Pegleg earned the moniker after the amputation of his right leg which required he wear a prosthetic that attached just below the knee. He also walked with a limp. To call it pronounced would be too harsh. It was more that he had a strange cadence, an uneven gait in his step. But that has little to do with what I am about to share.*

Lounging in History class that fateful day, right leg propped on an adjacent desk, he and my brother fought the boredom that threatened to be their death. A substitute teacher, employing her monotone voice as the Wicked Witch would poppies, had already reduced the majority of her audience to snoring heaps.

The dynamic-duo, seated side-by-side in their customary desks toward the back of the room, had to do something. Time was ticking by at an impossibly slow rate and they knew they had to act fast. They had to act before they too succumbed to the powers of the female Ben Stein.

Greg pushed Pegleg's shoulder proclaiming loudly "Dude! Get off me!"

"What? I wasn't doing anything Stupid!" Pegleg retorted.

He lept from his chair yelling "Who You Calling STUPID?" anger evident as his face turned a mottled red and set his auburn hair on fire.

Pegleg glanced up "You, Stupid. Do you need me to draw you a picture?" a grin threatened his languid expression.

With a cry of rage Greg raised his size 13 foot and stomped on Peglegs knee as it was suspended between the two chairs, breaking the leg in two.

Pegleg grabbed his shattered appendage in apparent agony.

The substitute teacher had watched the scene unfold in horror, knowing that the now broken leg had moments before been suspended between two chairs like a carbon-based suspension bridge and was now on the floor like jean covered kindling.

Her eyes bulged out as a scream escaped her lips seconds before she crumpled to the floor in a faint.

The room erupted in applause as the previously sleeping students, roused by the sounds of brewing entertainment, expressed their pleasure. After all, this they would remember for years to come but the dull facts of the lecture would be forgotten before they left school property.

This was not the first faux-break these two, dear, sick and twisted young men would stage. I recall an incident on the bus heading home that ended in Pegleg's leg being wielded like a mallet. I also remember horrified store clerks as he tried on shoes with the leg on backward.

We had some good laughs with that leg, and with its owner. Pegleg took a potentially horrific amputation and turned it into laughs, memories and an occasional school suspension.

*Mom, if you hadn't already heard this story, well, let's just pretend I made it up. Okay? Okay.

Project 365: Mother's Day

Thirty-four years ago these two yahoo's were getting ready to welcome a bouncing baby girl (moi) into the world. While QotU already had my brother Greg to help her celebrate the day, I like to think that I gave her a break and waited another week before making my screaming entrance into the world. (Which, by the way, I politely timed to happen during waking hours. I was even kind enough to make my appearance after breakfast and before lunch so she could enjoy her day. I was a sweet and kind baby right from the get-go.)



QotU's best friend, we call her Aunt Mary, drove her to the hospital and was present for my debut in lieu of my dad who was away at the time. To this day they both tell just how teeny-tiny my bum was. Seriously, they're both going "But it was! The smallest, teensiest bum I've ever seen. It was only this big."

So, Happy Mother's day to QotU and to Aunt Mary - without you guys I wouldn't be the special brand of crazy I am today. Thank you!

Love you!!

Project 365: Finals are eating my brain

It's another fun filled weekend of finals where keeping track of anything - let alone my insanity - is nearly impossible.

So I leave you this studious nugget from the past. One of my graduation photos that features me with my favorite past-time.. reading and writing. Bet you couldn't have guessed that one, could you?



And to my fellow college students out there - if you're facing the same brain drain as I am, good luck and I'll see you on the flip side.

Project 365: Vacation Wishes

It's beautiful out and I have vacation on the brain. Not that I'm going anywhere anytime soon - but it just feels like the first 72* sunny day of spring should be a vacation day.

So here is my very favorite vacation photo:



I was in the car in front of Screaming Eagle who was followed by Ali and Dezzy in that order.

I stopped and pulled out my camera for a quick photo when Ali, in true cab-driver fashion plowed right into the back of SE's car. Not hard, because he did it on purpose to say "Hello, I'm here!", but she was so surprised she spun around to see what had happened. Then she turned to look at me and that's when I took this shot. (the angle is skewed because it was an over-the-shoulder-quick-like-a-bunny-being-chased-by-a-ravenous-fox-hurry-up-and-take-the-picture-so-the-car-guy-didn't-yell-at-me.)

It was a wonderful vacation. We got some alone time with the big girls to run wild in California and some time to canoodle the babies.

We also saw QotU take one of the parks motor-chair-thingy's for a quick flight. That is another story though...

Project 365: Don't Look Down

When Ali and I got married we took a trip to Arizona as our honeymoon. It made sense because 1) we were broke and 2) Ali had never met any of my family.

We flew into Phoenix in June - I know, June. What was I thinking??

Part of our agenda while there was to visit Sedona and the Grand Canyon. Early one morning the four of us loaded ourselves into the car and drove north.

When we arrived at the Grand Canyon Ali was amazed at just how huge it is. Seriously, if you've never seen it you can't really understand the vastness of it. Pictures just cannot capture the sheer size of it, no matter how talented the photographer.

He was mesmerized and decided that he needed to check it out a little closer.

With a hop, skip and a jump he was poised on the nearest edge peering down. He asked me to take his picture.

I did.

Because I was an awesome wife and made sure insurance premiums were paid like clock work.



I seriously doubt that the little, dried-up, tuft of a shrub he's holding on to would have made any difference had he lost his footing (as so many people do each year).

Mom didn't think it was funny. Not even a little bit.



After, I walked Ali to the next viewing platform and pointed to a delicate looking rock shelf over a sheer clif that ended in a jagged outcropping of rocks and debris about 500 feet below. I then pointed to a tiny speck of green and brown.

"What's that?"

"That little speck is the shrub you held and that flimsy looking shelf is where you were standing."

"Oh."

"You look a little green. Maybe we should just grab some lunch."

"Okay!"

That's where he met the real cowboys - but that's another story for another time.

Project 365: My 1st True Love

Happy Wordless Wednesday!

PSA: Freedom of Choice

Okay - so now I have to spout off about something. (And QotU just cringed.)

Marriage - is it a legal term or a religous one?

If it is a religous term then why do I need to file marital status with the state and federal governments? Why does it change how I file taxes, where my assets go if I should die and how my name appears legally?

If it is a legal term, why is it subjected to religous moral judgement?

This makes me insane.

[begin soap box rant]

When I was little I was taught about the pre-existance. Life in Heaven before life on Earth. In this life we were presented with the plan of salvation, a way for us to return to live with our Heavenly Father. God knew that we would need help and that a savior would be needed to pay for our sins. He asked for ideas.

Two of our spiritual brothers stood and presented plans for the salvation and return of our souls.

The first brother, Jesus, was willing to come to Earth, give his life for us, and take upon himself our sins. He, like our Heavenly Father, wanted us to choose whether we would obey Heavenly Father’s commandments. He knew we must be free to choose in order to prove ourselves worthy of exaltation.

The second brother, Lucifer, wanted to force us all to do his will. Under his plan, we would not be allowed to choose. He would take away the freedom of choice that our Father had given us. Satan wanted to have all the honor for our salvation.

So by what right does one group of people have the right to make moral judgements for another?

I grew up Mormon. Would I like it if suddenly the Catholic, Jewish or Islamic community forced laws upon me that I didn't agree with? Sure they could influence my behavior if I belonged to that faith. That is the price of membership. But I don't. I'm not going to attend an Ash Wednesday service, renounce my belief that Jesus is the son of God or wear a hijab because I don't agree with or believe in those things.

How can organizations like the National Organization for Marriage say that it is illegal for same-sex couples to be married but they can be in civil unions? Either it is right or it is wrong. All they are doing is denying civil rights by means of segregation. Which, if I remember correctly is illegal.

Has NOM checked out the divorce rate lately? Because there aren't too many heterosexuals that are taking their marriage 'vows' seriously (myself included aparently).

If they want to protect the 'institution of marriage' great - it's your religous right to deny participating in a marriage that you don't agree with or condone. It is NOT your religous right to prevent another religon from condoning and celebrating that which you protest.

It's that simple.

The law cannot determine moral rightness - the law can protect the basic freedoms of individuals. It cannot overstep my rights because they don't coincide with yours.

As my dad used to say "Your rights stop where my rights begin".

I vote for the total abolishment of marriage and the establishment of civil unions as the legal joining of couples. If you want to be 'married' in your church, fine, go ahead, but the legal privliges will not change.

Civil Unions for Everyone!

[/end soap box rant]

Project 365: Butter Fingers

"Hey Misa, you wanna make some cookies?" QotU would ask. Of course I would agree. What kid didn't want to eat cookie dough while making cookies to eat?

We would line up the ingredients on the peninsula like counter that separated the kitchen from the dining area. Butter, check. Flour, check. Vanilla, check. Eggs, check.

All was good to go.

QotU would read off the ingredients as I measured and poured.

"First the flour, salt and baking soda get sifted into a bowl. Be careful not to spill the flour all over!" she would advise as I covered the counter, myself and the bowl with white powder.

"Now, measure out the sugar into the mixing bowl and then we'll add the butter."

"Where's the butter?"

"Did it fall on the floor? It's odd that we wouldn't have noticed!" QotU would say as she searched the counter, floor and fridge for the missing cubes of creamy dairy goodness.

Then she would stop and look around as realization dawned.

"Where's Meggie?"

"I don't know?" I'd shrug as I began searching the house while QotU moved to cover the backyard.

Upon returning from the deserted bedrooms, hands empty, I found QotU sitting at the dining table with tears of laughter streaming down her face.

Cuddled in her lap was Meggie, covered head to toe in butter. Her chubby little hands caked in yellow, a wide grin on her face.

For reasons unknown, and still not understood, Meg would swipe butter at any given opportunity and eat it. This particular time she had absconded with two sticks that were set out to reach room temperature. She had one in each hand, licking them like ice cream cones, as she hid behind the curtain that covered the dining room's sliding-glass door.

From that moment on, butter wasn't left unattended for long because the task of making cookies was far more important than a toddlers addiction to dairy products.

Project 365: Bike Wars

While I'm reminiscing about our time in Tucson, shortly before and after Meg was born, I have to mention the bike war.

This war was epic and continues on to this day. Seriously. We're like pit-bulls with lockjaw on some issues.

It all started with the gift of a shiny, silver BMX diamondback. It had iridescent stickers and big black tires.

It was awesome to my 8 year-old eyes and Greg held nothing back in the taunting department. I wasn't allowed to touch it and was barely permitted to drool in it's general vicinity.




I had something along the lines of this:



Is it any wonder Greg and his friends didn't take my biker status seriously?

So he would zoom around the complex and I would pursue with my pink sparkly plumes a-flyin'.

Then the unthinkable happened.

The dearly beloved and equally coveted BMX was stolen.

GASP!

Some unthinking youngster (ehem, HIM) left the bike unattended and it disappeared never to be seen again.

Fast-forward to Phoenix, a few years later.

I had graduated from the pink barbie bike to this majestic cruiser:



Greg also had a new bike, though I don't remember what kind it was. I do remember that it was another big, black bad-ass bike.

Something like this, only, you know, for a 12 year-old boy:



We were on more equal footing now that I had an adult sized bike, but his still seemed faster and better. Not that I am bemoaning my pink bike phase in life, I loved my bike. I just loved his more.

So we spent the summer cruising around town. We even had a paper route. Okay, HE had the paper route and I would go along on Sunday mornings to help with the big papers. Then we would head over to Michael's Market at 32nd Street and Thunderbird for a donut and orange juice. He paid, because I was just slave labor at that point and it was the least he could do.

I remember those mornings, when the sun had yet to crack the horizon. The night air still cool against my face as we zipped up and down neighborhood streets flinging newspapers hither, thither and yon.

We'd meet at the newspaper drop off area and collate inserts, ads, comics and news into the neat tube-like papers we would be hurling at doors, gates and a few unkind dogs.

He astride his bike and me astride mine; baskets brimming with information to be absorbed by our customers as they drank their morning coffee.

One day, after the days of our paper-route had passed, Greg's bike met a gruesome fate. As we ran wild with our friends, house hopping from TV to pool to kitchen to yard in search of summer fun, his beloved bike was carelessly discarded behind the menacing wheels of my dad's big yellow construction truck.

CRUNCH

You'd have thought someone had ripped his arm off. The moaning and wailing and gnashing of teeth could be heard for miles.

To hear him tell the story, I had borrowed his bike to run to a friends house and, in my haste to play, left it where it couldn't be seen from the driver's side or in the mirrors.

The accurate version is that HE left the bike in the driveway to meet its death all without my assistance.

To this day he claims I owe him a new bike.

I say that our parents replaced the bike and all is well.

It is a still a matter of much debate, finger pointing and accusations.

Though it has been a long time since I have flung papers for a living, I hope we never, really, grow out of our bike wars phase.

Project 365: Fencing

I have many scars on my hands. Most come from floral work or other craft projects that require sharp instruments. I can remember where most of them come from and what I was doing (or trying to do) at the time.

When I look at my imperfect hands I don't always think about the scars that I can see, I think about how lucky I am that the worst hand injury I can remember having left me without one single scar. It's amazing really. I should have a maze work of little white lines along my wrists and palms, but I don't.

When I was about 8 years-old, we lived in Tucson. The apartment was part of a larger complex and had a small fenced backyard that separated our home from the parking area.

I remember spending days tagging along after my brother, trying to keep up. I wanted to be just like him. If he jumped into the deep end of the pool, so did I. If he wanted to ride his bike to McDonald's well then I was going too. (I don't think we told our parents about those little trips, where we would pretend to be a car in the drive through until the manager came out and yelled at us. Good times. Good times.)

One day he was wanting to go somewhere or do something with his friends and scaled the rough-wood fence with ease. He was 10 and could do lots of cool stuff like that. I made my approach and tried to vault over the fence, mimicking his every move, and failed.

My legs weren't strong enough or long enough to make the jump and despite his help to pull me over, and I slid back down. All. The. Way. Down.

I had splinters and chunks of wood embedded in any flesh my t-shirt had left exposed.

My dad was away and Mom was at work - we called and I was instructed to soak my arms in warm water until she could get there.

I remember bawling as Greg filled the bathroom sink with warm water. I remember the sting.

I don't, thankfully, remember the wood extraction that took place shortly thereafter.

I do remember watching my hands as my body healed itself and seeing the little pieces of wood and rock as time and biology helped them make their own way out of my flesh.

It was kind of gross, but kind of cool at the same time. Cool in an 8 year-old's mind anyway.

Project 365: Wild Cats and Curtains

There wasn't a shortage of feral cats in Hyder. They may have actually out numbered the people by as much as 5 to 1. The food supply of rats, snakes, lizards and other less savory creepy-crawlies was abundant.

While we lived there we managed to inherit a feral cat affectionately named Sugar. She was beautiful and the color of lightly brewed tea. She was also accompanied by her litter of very young kittens. I think it was somewhere around 5 kittens though I could be wrong.

It seems that spaying or neutering a pet wasn't something that the farm community really thought about. I don't know why, it's not very politically correct, not that they cared about being overly-PC back then.

I remember that there was a calico we named Mr. Mustachio (she was a she, not a he, but had the unfortunate luck to have a very Burt Reynolds vibe and so the male moniker), there was a white I named Snowy and an orange tiger we named Sam. The other kitten's names have escaped me.

When it was time to move Sugar and her brood out of the cat house where they lived on my father's friend's farm, we had to find a way to get her into a cage and then out when we reached home.

We had a little cat shelter beneath our trailer near the steps that would be her new home. With her kittens safely inside the house (to protect until they were older and able to fend for themselves) she certainly wasn't going anywhere.

I'm not sure whose idea it was to let her out of the cage while inside the living room, but that's what happened.

It's also how I know what a demon cat looks like.

Much more frightening than a hell-hound any day.

Tea colored fur erupted from the opened door and shot like a bullet around the room. She circled so fast and with such expert claw use that she managed to make her way around the living area and kitchen without touching the floor.

Had there been crown-molding it would have splintered to bits beneath her talons of death.

She was wicked pissed.

About the move.

About being separated from her babies. (Which I really can't hold against her.)

I think she knocked down the curtain rods in her flight.

Eventually she calmed down enough when she saw that her kittens were alright and then when she relocated beneath my brother's bed.

I remember crawling under the bed so that only the backs of my knees and feet were visible to play with the tiny, furry creatures.

I would often fall asleep in the warm darkness and wake from my nap to a few curled up mounds of fur against my face.

I don't remember what happened to Sugar or Mr. Mustachio; we moved and gave them to the care of another farming family that remained. Snowy and Sam were selected to move with us to Phoenix.

Snowy passed away shortly after we arrived and Sam followed suit not long after his sister. I think it was due to the lack of vaccinations when they were young that they both became fatally ill.

They were good, gentle pets and I think they are a large part of why I have become a 'cat person'.

(No, not a crazy cat-lady, not yet at least.)

Project 365: Somewhere over the rainbow

Each year when we were kids, the Wizard of Oz would play on local TV. One year, thinking to record a favorite show, we recorded it. Diligently, I hit pause and record during commercial breaks to maintain the continuous feel of a movie during playback.

Oh how I wish I'd recorded the commercials.

You see, the Wizard of Oz quickly became Meg's favorite movie. One that she still loves.

When she was about 3 years old, she would gather her stuffed animals, dolls and the cat (if he'd cooperate) and arrange them into an audience.

Perched on her stage of a red and white cooler, she would sing her heart out.

"Somewhere, over a rainbow.... Somewhere in a rainbow... Birds and rainbows..."

With the big finish:

"Sooommmeeeewhheeerrrreee!"

Then she would bow to the applause only her ears could perceive. Not knowing the exact words meant nothing in her performance. It was all about lifting her arm during the long notes or at the beginning of a refrain while looking wistfully off into the distance.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat. For hours on end.

It got to the point that when the annual broadcast of the Wizard took place, we would avoid that channel like the plague for fear that she would see it and start yelling "Wizard of Oz is on!" and demanding to watch it again.

The upside to this is that we always have a 'go to' gift for her. Anything "Oz" related is a sure fire hit. heh.

I only wish I had a picture to show you of her performance. I can see it in my minds eye - her auditorium existed beneath the awning directly in front of the sliding glass doors leading from the kitchen to the backyard. I know a picture exists - I just have to find it.