psychic winning. word.

pretty sure i'm psychic.

we spent the evening playing games with a couple of the husband's cousins and their spouses. it was quite enjoyable.

we played quelf. it's one of those games you hate because you have to make an epic fool of yourself pretending to be a cowgirl ostrich rider who rides around beached whales while your opponents laugh and make fun of you- if that's the card you draw. but, then it's ok, because you do the same to them when it is their turn and they draw the card where they have to perform the ridiculous task of acting like they are stuck in a tree with 5 attacking lobsters and an elf. but, seriously, you hate the game.

i know i am psychic, though, because as we were playing, i was eating german chocolate cake. and i got some of the fudgey frosting way on my upper lip- i'm talking mustache territory, if i were a man. which i am not. but, i had no napkin. so i licked it off- and my tongue had to stretch a lot. and then i remembered how good i am at touching my nose with my tongue. and i began to hope there was a card where i had to touch my tongue to my nose instead of a card where i had to interpretive dance waking up in the morning and going to work only to realize i had forgotten my pants.

sure enough, not two turns later, i drew the tongue-to-nose card! and as a bonus, if i could also roll my tongue, then i could move my biscuit farmer playing piece 2 extra spaces. and there was my moment. i had foreseen this! and i could do both! and i moved my biscuit farmer the additional spaces. FOR THE WIN!

i won the game. probably because of my psychic abilities.

i guess it was worth the impromptu rap all about the word, word. because, really, don't all raps say word, and shawty? who is this shawty person anyway? i suppose that's a question for another day...

Pssst

I'll tell you something: Whenever I see a tall man, I check him out. Always.

I'll tell you something else: I always check out the tall men because I am married to one.

You wanna know another thing?: I never knew how difficult it is to outfit a tall person, until I married one.

One more thing I need to tell you: If you are a tall man who is wearing something that fits you well and looks nice on you, I will look even more closely. Perhaps even stare at your chest or your bum to see if I can figure out what brand your shirt or your pants are.

One last thing: If I like what you're wearing and I can figure out the brand, I will make a mental note and when I get to my computer, I will usually google your outfit. And then if it is still being sold, it is quite possible that I may purchase it.

Because, I'll tell you this: It is hard to find clothes that fit a tall man. So, if I see it on a real, live, walking, talking tall man then I know it is ok for my tall man.

Pretty sure the husband is glad I check out other men. Or maybe he's not. I think I'd better ask him.

Tell me this: Does this make me a creeper?

Tuesdays with Mrs. Mix

I took piano lessons when I was a kid. I had a few different teachers.

My first teacher was my oldest sister. It didn't work out so well. The whole respect thing. I really didn't give her any. Because, well, she was just my sister. But she was a great pianist.

My third teacher (did you notice how I skipped the second teacher? That's because that's where the real story is. I'll get around to that in a minute.) was a nice lady. When we went to piano lessons at her house, it was a process. Both of my older sisters and a couple of our neighbors took lessons from her, so we all went to lessons together. One of my friends was the piano teacher's next door neighbor, so all I wanted to do was go over to Jesse's house and play. Forget piano. And we would jump on her trampoline and play tether ball while I was waiting for my sisters and neighbors to finish their lessons.

But my second teacher, oh my second teacher. Here's where it gets good. I have already confessed to my mom, so I feel like I can share this now without too many repercussions. I hope.

Anyway, Mrs Mix. She was my second piano teacher. I was eight years old. I don't even know how my mom found Mrs. Mix. She was the pianist / organist for a local church, I'm not sure what denomination-- in Rifle, Colorado. I've talked about Rifle before here, here, here, and here. I grew up there. It was a small town. Very cozy, hugged on all sides by friendly mountains that our family explored regularly.

My piano lessons from Mrs. Mix took place at her church. The church creeped me out. This church was dark and musty and as soon as I walked through the deeply stained, intricately carved wood doors with their substantial iron handles, the soaring ceilings seemed to press in on me. The towering, heavily-draped windows let in narrow beams of lazy light, that were choked out by the overwhelming haziness of the place.

I would walk down the aisle to the front of the church, past the pews, the carvings, the statues of an anguished Christ that were foreign to me. I could pick up the scent of ancient hymn books, resting on the cold, hard benches, patiently waiting for Sunday's congregation. My ears heard the voices of ghostly choirs and the organ pipes with their hauntingly silent melodies and goose bump-inducing absence.

The piano at which my lessons were taught was old, dark, smelled of damp wood. And the bench moaned when I shifted on it. Mrs. Mix sat beside me in a high-backed, ornately chiseled wooden chair, listening to my offering on the piano with which she was so familiar. My eight year old fingers clumsily danced across those keys, presenting the fruits of a week's practice as fast as they could so that I would not have to spend any more time in that place of worship than was absolutely necessary.

I dreaded Tuesdays. Tuesdays were piano lessons with Mrs. Mix at the church. My sisters didn't take lessons with me at the church and I was supposed to walk directly to the church by myself after school for my lesson.

Usually, I would enjoy a leisurely stroll home from school with my friend Mindy where we would typically stop by The Corner Store for a treat. But not on Tuesday. Tuesday was a sprint. A sprint to the church. I ran as fast as I could so that I could get to the church before Mrs. Mix. Because getting to the church before Mrs. Mix meant that I avoided entering the cold, damp church. I loved those Tuesdays that I rounded the corner and saw no orange Ford Bronco parked on the tree-lined street in front of the towering place of worship. Those were the days I secretly prayed for. Those lucky Tuesdays I would run home and tell my mom that Mrs. Mix never showed up for lessons.

I can't recall how long my lessons with Mrs. Mix lasted. But certainly long enough for that church to make an impression on an eight year old girl. But not long enough to turn me into a career sprinter.

Rotten Potatoes in Hiding

There is a rotten potato in my pantry. Somewhere. And it's stinking up the place.

I know it's a potato because I recognize the earthy, stale, rotten smell.

I have searched and searched and can't find it. It is really bugging me. So I have been keeping the pantry door closed.

I have to brace myself every time I go to the pantry to retrieve something. I take a big breath before I open the door, and pray I can hold it until I have finished my purpose in the pantry. I know it's in there- in some dark hiding place. Like, it's probably behind some obscure can of diced tomatoes. Potato- Potahhhto, Tomato- Tomahhhto, and all that. I have a few more nooks and crannies to search before I can call off the effort.

Which, to be honest, I won't call off the effort til I find the stinking spud. And I hope people can overlook the smell when they come into my home. But I wonder if there is a point where it will stop stinking if it has been in there too long?

I know I'll find it. After all, the world finally found their rotten potato and got rid of it. I know I'll find mine.

I just hope it doesn't take ten years.

Second Peeks

As I was trying to fall asleep last night, my mind would not rest. It was a sprinter, dashing through a topical obstacle course. Racing over, under, around and through various topics until it finally crossed the finish line, resting on a topic I rather enjoyed thinking about.

I realized that it has been 15 years since I have experienced a proper doorstep scene.

15 years.

That is a long time. I believe I am quite overdue. This is what my racing mind concluded late last evening.

I decided that I must admit I kinda miss all the innocence and the awkwardness of the doorstep scene and the butterflies and sweaty palms it entails.

In the interest of re-creating a little butterfly magic for myself, I plan on having a doorstep scene tonight- a second peek at the doorstep scene, if you will. I just now sent a text message to the husband this very morning, inviting him to join me in a doorstep scene to rival no other this evening.

It's a good thing the house across the street is currently vacant. This doorstep scene would have the neighbors pulling their children away from their windows and drawing their blinds. And it might possibly conjure a blush or two.

And once their children are properly whisked away, perhaps a second peek.