- Recipes are helpful. Like telling me to use large eggs when making a Bundt cake. I was just about to grab those tiny little quail eggs that I keep in my refrigerator when I had the forethought to double check. Large eggs. Wheh. That was a close one.
- I abhor having to type in those random letter combinations when I comment on another blog. The caption always says something like “Prove to use you’re not a robot!” Who came up with that phrase? If a robot is smart enough to surf the web, come up with an email address, and put snarky comments on someone’s blog post, shouldn’t we be encouraging it? Wouldn’t that be utterly awesome? The phrase should instead read, “prove to me you’re not an internet scammer who wants to download a virus and steal my bank password.” Or, “enter in this stupid combination of letters because it’s automatic and I don’t know how to disable the damn thing.”
- To prove my point about eggs, I went to the grocery store. They have large and extra-large, and they are all the same price. I think we can quit referring to egg sizes, recipe people. For those who actually live on a farm where the small ones are common, figure it out.
- My sweet son is running a fever. I feel just awful because he was extra cranky a few nights ago and I just might have made statements at dinner with friends similar to “that is so annoying” and “seriously, kiddo. Deal with it. Just let me finish eating already.” I am heartless.
- Tonight, our daughter came into our bedroom an hour after we thought she was asleep, lost in hysterical tears. “I love my last name,” she sobs. “I love the way it sounds when you say it all together, and someday when I get married I’ll have to change it.” Uh, okay. You’re five years old. Most kids worry about getting a new backpack, and my daughter worries about losing her identity to her future spouse. “You don’t have to change it,” my husband says, as if he’s disclosing some big secret. “It can always be yours. Love’s not found in a name, anyway.” She is thrilled. All is well again in the universe.
- Last weekend, when we were working in the yard, my husband asked me if I’d seen the garden hoe. I told him we shouldn’t discuss her in public, and especially around the children, for crying out loud. Show some respect.
- I get so excited when I hear the little ding on my iphone because I just know it’s the sound of an email – THE email – from the one literary agent who loves my novel and thinks it’s a bestseller in the making. But it’s from Shutterfly, stating that they have new portrait mugs. Well then.
- I thought about changing my blog name today to something whimsical like “graceful waters” or “she who runs with kitchen shears” instead of the super lame hill + pen. It’s like I am a caveman, beating my chest. I am hill. I use pen. I don’t even use a pen since I type everything. But I was lazy and had laundry to fold.
- Writing can be torture. It’s lonely and sad, and you feel at times that it has no meaning. But then you start envisioning someone laughing, or crying, or changing their behavior after reading your words, and you feel like a superhero. At least that’s what you tell yourself to keep on writing.
- This afternoon as I went to check the mail, I saw my neighbor and his wife standing in their front yard. “Nice weather,” I shouted. It’s what you say to be cordial. It’s the neighborly thing to do. “Not if you’re digging a hole,” she yelled back. I smiled and waived. Yup, it’s no fun digging a – what? Huh? Should I be concerned?
And it’s just Monday. . .