Soap Box Brin

I was deciding between paint colors called "Cat's Whiskers" and "Aspic" yesterday morning when I heard it....

"We can't take back custom-mixed paint," the clerk at Sherwin Williams barked into her phone.Silence. Then, "Well, I don't know. I heard Habitat for Humanity takes paint and uses it in the homes they're building around here."

I was instantly excited. Having already learned that Sherwin Williams definitely does NOT offer any kind of 'sorry-you-hate-your-paint-and-it-reminds-you-of-kid-puke' exchange, I too have buckets of paint I can't (won't) ever use. (Unless I decide to get underneath my house and do some painting. And even I don't get that bored.) Anyway, it got my mind racing. Wonder what else is hiding in Freeman House that Habitat could use?

I drove home quickly and paced the house. There was the washing machine my Mom gave me. I have a new one being delivered today, and there's no reason I should let Lowe's haul it off. Someone could use it. Oh! And then there's the sink I bought that I can't stand now. (Really, somedays I have poor taste.) Oh! And over there....

A huge pile is accumulating. But I've noticed that it's not just sinks and paint. It's clothes. And shoes I never wear. And lamps and dishes and....

Wow. I really wish I could take all this stuff to the Christian Service Center here in town. But I refuse. In order for anyone to get any help - or clothes, food, etc. - the person must first trot down to a local church and ask for a voucher. Sure, the churches say it gets people in the doors... gets them in contact with a pastor or deacon. Whatever. The Service Center is nearly busting with Baptist hand-me-downs that people need but no one claims.

The longer I considered my pile, the angrier I got. It made me remember. Remember that when Jesus sent out His disciples, He coached them somewhat like this:

1. Go to the 'lost sheep'.
2. Preach this message: the kingdom of heaven is near.
3. Heal the sick. Raise the dead, etc.
4. FREELY YOU HAVE RECEIVED, FREELY GIVE.

I wonder if my church's altar Bible is accidentally missing that page. I'm not seeing much giving going on. And I certainly wouldn't characterize it as the "freely" sort of giving, either.

I wish I could say that I'm sorry if this is offending local church friends, but the truth is - I'm not. I'm not a bit sorry. The average American eats nearly 14 POUNDS of bread a year. (Yeah.) I read this past week that if you slept under a roof last night, you're better off than over 90% of people in this world. My heart is breaking. Certainly we as Christians could do more. Certainly Jesus told us to do more.

I don't know where this soap box appeared from today. (I guess that phone call at Sherwin Williams.) Before I hop off this box, however, I leave you with this quote a friend emailed me yesterday. It's from Irish playwright and Nobel Prize winner George Bernard Shaw. It reads:

This is the one true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being a force of nature instead of a feverish, selfish little clod of ailments and grievances, complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy....

I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the whole community and as long as I live it is my privilege to do for it whatever I can.... I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work, the more I live. I rejoice in life for its own sake. Life is no `brief candle' to me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations.

God Bless America!

(I read this today, and wished I had written it first! The following was recently published in a Tampa newspaper, and it reminded me that my country - my United States of America - was founded by Christians men and women. Christians who probably weren't afraid of offending someone by wishing them a "Merry Christmas". Christians who weren't worried about stamping "In God We Trust" on our national currency. Christians who fought for the right to voice audible prayers - to a Sovereign God - in our nation's schools. Christians who wouldn't have hesitated to belt out a few stanzas of "God Bless America" in public. If only today's Christians were so frank... so unintimidated! - Brin)

IMMIGRANTS, NOT AMERICANS, MUST ADAPT.

"I am tired of this nation worrying about whether we are offending some individual or their culture. Since the terrorist attacks on Sept. 11, we have experienced a surge in patriotism by the majority of Americans. However, the dust from the attacks had barely settled when the politically correct crowd began complaining about the possibility that our patriotism was offending others. I am not against immigration, nor do I hold a grudge against anyone who is seeking a better life by coming to America. Our population is almost entirely made up of descendants of immigrants. However, there are a few things that those who have recently come to our country, and apparently some born here, need to understand.

"This idea of America being a multicultural community has served only to dilute our sovereignty and our national identity. As Americans...... we have our own culture, our own society, our own language and our own lifestyle. This culture has been developed over centuries of struggles, trials, and victories by millions of men and women who have sought freedom.

"We speak ENGLISH, not Spanish, Portuguese, Arabic, Chinese, Japanese, Russian, or any other language. Therefore, if you wish to become part of our society, learn the language!

"In God We Trust" is our national motto. This is not some Christian, right wing, political slogan. We adopted this motto because Christian men and women... on Christian principles... founded this nation... and this is clearly documented. It is certainly appropriate to display it on the walls of our schools. If God offends you, then I suggest you consider another part of the world as your new home........because God is part of our culture. If Stars and Stripes offend you, or you don't like Uncle Sam, then you should seriously consider a move to another part of this planet. We are happy with our culture and have no desire to change, and we really don't care how you did things where you came from. This is OUR COUNTRY, our land, and our lifestyle.

"Our First Amendment gives every citizen the right to express his opinion and we will allow you every opportunity to do so! But once you are done complaining....... whining...... and griping...... about our flag....... our pledge...... our national motto........or our way of life.... I highly encourage you to take advantage of one other Great American Freedom......

THE RIGHT TO LEAVE.

Introducing... Knit Together!

It's a little weird, I know, but I LOVE to knit. Love it. My aunt taught me last year, and since then my social life has seriously suffered. I can't seem to put the stinkin' needles down!

But no worries. I think I've come up with an excuse to knit even more - without regret! I'd like to introduce you to something I'm calling Knit Together. As in Psalm 139 ... "You knit me together in my mother's womb". Check it out soon at www.knittogether.org. Knit Together is a little Christian grassroots project that will provide children and families with hand-made knitted, crocheted, and quilted clothing and personal items - blankets, sweaters, toys, etc. - along with the message that they were created by a God who loves them so much he "knitted" together their inmost beings! Plus, it will give us needle holders an excuse to buy fun new yarn or material!

We need everything - people who knit, crochet, or quilt. We need yarn, thread, and needles. We could use patterns and advice. It's my hope that eventually we can organize a few groups -friends and church members, etc. - to teach knitting or invite folks over to work on projects together.

Again, this is still in the planning stages, so any help you could provide would be appreciated. I'll keep you posted!

An Open (Birthday) Letter

Happiness,... not in another place but this place, not for another hour but this hour.

- Walt Whitman

This weekend marked my 27th birthday - another year of being me. It was such a great day!

I couldn't have asked for a better celebration. Really! (Well... hang on. Tyler Florence could have made it a little better. So could Luke Wilson. ;)

Anyway, my friends and I loaded up and headed to Jefferson, Texas. Omgosh... the fun! There was, in brief: a horse named Prince, the weirdest game of checkers ever (long story, right Lisa?), vanilla peanut butter fudge (yum!), a mishap with a lily pad, a brick, and a creaky old 1850s hotel that all played a part in the day. (See Lacy, I told you the Excelsior wasn't haunted!) I'll remember it forever! And for those who were there, I have only one word: cuckoo! cuckoo!

I couldn't ask for better friends. Nor would I. My house is old and ... needs help, but I love it. My family isn't perfect, but we are family. There's a lot of love there. Standing back and taking it all in on Saturday, I realized: I'm happy. Today. Here. Now. I am happy.

Seems like we always sit around waiting... waiting for payday or Friday or someday. We wait for those days to be happy, while this day - with all its hope and promise and blessings- ticks by....

We've all heard it - the old: "Count your life in smiles, not tears. Count your life in moments, not years." Well, I'm doing that. Starting this birthday.

Special thanks to all of you who were there to help with the smiling bit! You bless me more than you know! -B

April's Fool is Circus Bound

Follow Maebelline and me around for the day and you'll see her act up or do something completely asinine. And soon thereafter, I promise you'll hear me threaten to send her off to the circus.

Guess what? This morning - this blessed April Fool's morning - I think I heard her tell me (from underneath a sea of blankets, so I can't be sure) - that I belong in a circus.

Of course, it could just be today. I have always been a little ... different ... on this day. I mean, my birthday is April 8. A week after April Fool's. When I was (a little) younger I wondered if April Fool's was invented a week before my birthday to warn the world I was coming. Teh heh. Now I KNOW April Fool's was invented to warn the world its prize fool was coming.

It didn't work out with the lawyer. At all. Not that I'm surprised. (Admit it. You aren't either. ) I've always said that I have the worst luck with guys, but last night, amid packing my circus bags, it hit me. Maybe I don't have the worst luck with guys. Maybe I'm like a circus mime in a glass dating box - I'm stuck here despite my efforts to break out. Or maybe I'm like the tight-rope walker. Question my single's position in life, and I'm dead. Or maybe I'm like the guy who takes care of the fancy elephants - doomed to get crapped on BIG TIME... forever.

April Fool's Sigh.

He had a lot going for him. Good job, good hair, cool house, similar values, etc., etc. But the first week we dated I fixated on something about him that bugged the living circus out of me. I tried to ignore it, but the longer I did the more wishy-washy and irritable I got. And before you know it, I was calling him last night to say that it just didn't... I just couldn't... maybe he could...

Sob. Sigh.

He was cool about it. I mean, he did say that I was "annoying". And he did allude to the fact that he's not over his ex-girlfriend (whom he dated nearly 2 YEARS ago). But hey. This "annoying" girl only cried for about an hour after the call. Then I spent several minutes practicing my best circus smile and trying to find a copy of Juggling for Dummies online.

I really hate dating. I hate the emotional circus that tags along with it. I hate the margarita and french fry binge that will inevitably come sometime today. And I hate pulling out my post-breakup waterproof mascara that only sees the light of day when my heart's been broken.

But enough self-pity and self-loathing. I have my holiday to celebrate today. And circus training to finish. Before all that, though, please excuse me while April's Fool makes a french fry run....

Me, You and the Pretty Pink Shoe

I saw one again today. You see them too, I'll bet. (Only I'm sure your mind is bigger and your day is fuller, so you probably don't get haunted by it all day.) You see them, right? The shoes on the highway?

Usually it's a dirty sneaker. Or a chewed-up work boot. You typically see the gently-used footwear as you're driving along, rocking out to an old American Idol. How do they get there, anyway? (The shoes - not the American Idols. I know how they get there.) Surely all these shoes don't just fall out of cars. And surely there aren't so many hit-and-runs that our American streets are littered with the former shoes of our hit-and-run fallen. And surely Dr. Phil isn't advising that couples work through aggression by taking off their shoes and beating each other while operating motor vehicles. Although...

No seriously - I saw one today. Only it wasn't an old basketball sneaker or a muddy work boot. It was a pink stiletto heel. Like maybe a Jimmy Choo or something. Had it had a twin, I would have stopped to check and make sure they weren't 7 1/2. (I mean, we stop and rescue kittens, so it's only fair that a Good Samaritan would occasionally happen upon pink 7 1/2 Jimmy Choos that needed a good home, too.)

Of course, the shoe made me think. First, I thought about the pretty, lonely, single shoe and the journey that likely brought it to its resting place on Maple Avenue. I wondered if it was distressed over being tossed - about someone not appreciating it or its usefulness. I wondered if it played the Lauren Graham line over and over in its little shoe head ... you know... "It's all any of us want - to find a nice person to hang out with until we drop dead". I wondered if it stressed over finding its mate.

Then I wondered if it felt like it wasn't beautiful - now that it was discarded and all. Surely we all could sympathize. I've been reading a book lately called Captivating by Stasi Eldredge. She writes, "Sometimes between the dreams of your youth and yesterday, something precious has been lost. And that treasure is your heart, your priceless feminine heart. God has set within you a femininity that is powerful and tender, fierce and alluring. No doubt it has been misunderstood. Surely it has been assaulted. But it is there.... Every woman has a beauty to unveil. Every woman. Because she bears the image of God. Beauty is an essence that is given to every woman at her creation."

It's not just the pretty shoe. I think it's us, too. We have days we feel discarded. Passed-over. Left for dead. Stressed over not having a mate. Under-valued. Ugly.

It helps - helps me, anyway - to remember. Remember that God's very essence is beauty. That we, as women, bear the very image of God. That we - the discarded, lonely pretty pink heels - are beautiful. Not because we're part of a pair. Not because we're flawless. Not because we haven't been thrown out... or tossed aside... or traded in. But simply because. We just are. You are. You are beautiful because every one of us was made that way. Like the shoe.

And yes, if you're wondering, I checked. The pretty pink shoe didn't have a mate nearby. But it was, mysteriously, gone the next time I drove by.

Snow's Spring Symphony

Begin doing what you want to do now. We are not living in eternity. We have only this moment, sparkling like a star in our hand and melting like a snowflake. Let us use it before it is too late.

-Marie Beyon Ray

I love winter. Always have. I like blankets and hot chocolate with whipped cream and comfort food and good, long books that I've been saving for a cold winter day.

I really do like winter. But come mid-March, I'm eager for spring. The anticipation of daffodils and new potatoes and fresh herbs and hanging my cup-towels on the clothes line (stretched between two budding trees in my backyard) nearly overtakes me.

Guess that's why I've been surprised - all week - at the weather. It's snowed every day in Wichita since spring began. EVERY day. The children are on Spring Break this week, but even as I write, it looks like Snow Falling on Cedars outside my window. The soft powder is blowing, bouncing... beautiful, even, as it falls. It makes me think of the Christopher Pearce Cranch poem I studied as a kid:

If there comes a little thaw,

Still the air is chill and raw,

Here and there a patch of snow,

Dirtier than the ground below,

Dribbles down a marshy flood;

Ankle-deep you stick in the mud

In the meadows while you sing,

"This is spring".

So tonight I pulled my chair up to the window, lit a few candles, and watched it snow. I found my thoughts swirling, much like the flakes on the other side of the window pane. And I wonder. I wonder if someday - when I'm as old as my ailing Grandfather - if I'll ever look back on days like this. I wonder if I'll remember these moments... remember these feelings... when I'm 70. Or 80. I wonder if what bothered me or delighted me today will even be a distant memory in 50 years.

I close my eyes and try to freeze the moment for all of time. And as I do, I realize how... how... QUIET... it is. Absolutely still. And then, I hear it. The snow. It's like snow's own quiet little symphony. Just in time for spring. And somehow, I know. I know that when I'm old I'll remember this moment....

Ode to an Eyelash Curler

A friend of mine is convinced - beyond all reason - that she was a princess in another life. I, however, have no idea how people who believe in such things can keep up with what they did a lifetime or two ago. I cannot remember where I park my car. And yesterday, I found the pair of socks I'd intended to slide on my chilly feet in the refrigerator. I'm sure at the time I put them there it seemed a good idea to chill them....

It's exactly this sort of absent-mindedness that makes me laugh about getting even older. I can only imagine how crazy I'll be in another 26 years. As it is, I'm already seeing things go south, dry out, and get wrinkly-crinkly. No wonder girls used to get married at 12. By about 15, we've peaked! (Unless you're Sheryl Crow or Heather Locklear. They were terribly unfortunate-looking in junior high. You've seen them, right?)

I wonder about all this as I get dressed for a date. With the lawyer. Tonight. I usually enjoy getting ready for dates (especially with cute lawyers), but today is different somehow. Here it is... an hour before I expect his knock on the door, and I have 2,759 outfits littering my hotel suite. Nearly as many shoes have surfaced as well. My hair is in multi-colored velcro rollers, which some gay hairdresser in In Style magazine assured me would create bouncy, sexy waves. I have "lip plump" on my lips, whitener on my teeth, tanner on my legs, fingernail polish on 20 semi-dry nails, and an eyelash curler in hand.

(I figure he warrants the eyelash curler. I'd hate for this to fizzle only to later hear that he left me for a girl with curlier eyelashes. I don't think I could go on.)

So I bravely go where normal girls only go whenever they have dates. I shave, wax, drink 11 bottles of water, and practice sucking in. I try on outfits and hurl myself in front of the full-length mirror. Hmmm... that one works, as long as I don't sit down - or sneeze. Another one looks dashing - as long as he's looking at me from the boobs up... from across the table... while seated.

Crap. Maybe I'll fake fatigue and put on baggy jeans and suggest take-out. But I guess that isn't entirely appropriate for the second or third date, though, huh?

Sigh.

If these poor, unsuspecting guys even had a clue. If this sweet darling had any idea that I've starved myself for two days straight and tried to sleep with ice-cold eye baggies over my puffy, circled peepers, I'd die.

It's just like last time. Our first date, I labored through the most lengthy, freaky beauty routine EVER. And I guessed it paid off, because once we got in his car and he started it up, he looked over at me shyly and said, "You're very pretty. Naturally pretty. Ashley Judd pretty."

Awh. I tried not to laugh.

So... as I get ready to dash back to the mirror - eyelash curler in hand - it hits me. Maybe I wasn't a princess in my last life. Maybe, just maybe, I could be one in this life.

Or at last my eyelash curler and I can pretend.

Would The Real PRIM Shady Please Step Forward?

C'mon!

I mean, enough already!

Perhaps you recall me mentioning a week or two ago that my life is lots of things - but rarely normal. Guess what? It happened again today.

Email is usually a happy place for me. I go there, catch up with friends, read about sales at the Container Store, and keep up with what's going on within the Dallas County Republican Party. You know, the usual. So the last thing I expected to see early this morning was 1.) a disturbing epistle from a person of questionable moral character who formerly resided in the town I grew up, and 2.) an email from the Dr. Phil show.

Seriously.

First, the epistle. It was written by this slimy guy I worked with for a total of 8 hours one summer in junior high before he got fired from the blueberry farm where we picked berries. Freak. I immediately responded to his ridiculous email with a response that would have struck fear in the heart of any morally inept, perv/psycho:

"What? Where in the world did you get my personal email address?".

He obligingly responded that it, along with some of my other personal information (unlisted cell phone number!) had been posted online.

Wonderful.

I contacted the site administrator and threw a dignified fit. (A Laura Bush-ish fit. Not a Billary Rodham-Clinton-ish fit.) They had the information down by 6 p.m. Whew! I was pulling through... recovering nicely... from the email encounter with the psycho, when ... ah! A new email!

It read:

Hi Brin,

We are working on an upcoming episode called "Settle This Dispute" where Dr. Phil will be helping people settle one specific issue once & for all! We're interested in seeing if you would be willing to join us on the show as someone would like to resolve an issue with you.

Is this something you would be interested in? If you would like to be considered as potential guests on our show, please send a recent photo of yourself to my email address right away. Send your recent photo(s) as jpg files (or copy/paste them into the body of an email). After receiving picture(s) we will call for pre-interviews over the phone.

NOTE: This show is taping in Los Angeles on Thurs. March 9th. Would your schedule permit you to be considered to participate in this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to get your situation answered by Dr. Phil? (we pay expenses for all our guests including airfare, transportation in L.A., hotel & food but you would need to arrange your schedule accordingly!)

Thanks!
Jaime G******

Associate Producer

Dr. Phil Show

Seriously.

So... I guess it's official. Hunting season has begun. And I think I'm in season. I am apparently despised. Despised by someone SO BADLY that they would undoubtedly like to hit me over the head with a chair. Dr. Phil's chair. While Dr. Phil looked on. On national television.

I called one of my best friends, Lacy. "Lacy... who?? Do you know??? Would you have any idea?" I blurted into the phone. It wasn't her, she assured me. And to my dismay, my sweet friend, (whom no one would ever invite on the Dr. Phil show to "settle a dispute") started helping me guess. We threw out names. Yeah. I said namesssss. Even better, after we got off the phone she called me a few minutes later with another name.

On behalf of my despised self, let me offer a formal apology. To everyone - slimy former blueberry farm co-workers included - I'm terribly sorry for hurting your feelings so badly you would resort to calling Dr. Phil before looking up my unlisted cell phone number on the internet and calling me yourself.

And by the way, who are you? (Friends theorize it HAS to be someone who watches Dr. Phil. A guy I'm dating says that means it's either a bored girl or gay guy. Likely a girl. ) So I'm thinking... who do I know that's boring and depends on Dr. Phil to resolve relationship disputes??

Will the real Prim Shady please step forward?

99 Onions and 2 Burly Bailiffs

(Let me begin by thanking my charming and beautiful friend Traci for bugging the heck out of me to resume blogging! She's a pistol, that one! :)

I might have typed earlier, but I've been in hibernation, you know. Working... reading... sleeping... dating... typing... talking.... the last few weeks have been a blur. (Of course, there was also that intentionally-induced coma the week of Valentine's Day. Or, as Traci likes to call it, "Singles' Awareness Day".) Hehe.

Needless to say, it's easy to fall into a chronic case of winter doldrums this time of year. That's probably why Max Lucado's book Cure for the Common Life catapulted itself from the store shelf into my hands last night. (I snatched that puppy up like a chocoholic does Chunky Monkey.) I was riveted by the title. There's a CURE for a common life? Really??

Let me preface this next ditty by saying I never before had a "common" life. I'm probably not what my friends would call a "common" girl. When I was 9, I took great pleasure in planting 99 onions. For fun. When I was 18, I got hauled into court by two very burly court bailiffs because I had illegally taped courtroom proceedings and aired them in 6 counties without the court's permission. (That was a fun day, too.) When I was 27.... oh, wait. I'm not 27 yet. But I'm sure I'll do something horrifically idiotic when I'm 27 that will trump the 99 onions and two burly bailiffs.

But that was before, and this is now. In the last year or two, my life has slowed dramatically. It's become - common. I do ordinary things now that result in ordinary stories. I suddenly find myself caught in the ebb and flow of a common life....

"What to do, Max Lucado?" I cried. "What to do??!!"

I cracked open the book last night after an exhilarating round of internet dating. (That's a whole 'nother blog!) The first thing my common eyes fell upon was this verse:

Each person is given something to do that shows who God is. - 1 Cor. 12:7 MSG

Oh no. Oh crap. "Who God is?" I read further, hoping I'd catch a disclaimer or misprint. But no, Lucado ventures boldly on. "God endows us with gifts so we can make Him known. Period.... Exhibit God with your uniqueness.... And to really dulcify your world, use your uniqueness to make a big deal about God.... every day of your life."

I sat there. I just sat. For some reason, that half-page of text floored me unlike any common reading has done in some time. So I guess that I was made... and my life was fashioned... to exhibit a character trait of none other than God Himself?

Wow.

WOW.

I am living proof that God has the most humorous, hilarious, and patient 'My-ways-are-higher-than-your-ways' personality. I mean, come on! A 9 year-old girl that gets a kick out of planting 99 onions? Who would make a kid like that?

I guess "common" is relative. And probably all in your head, too. And speaking from this particular head, I'll probably never really have a common life! But maybe, just maybe, that's the whole point after all....

Epicurus on Square One

I'm back there again. You know, back to the proverbial 'square one' that leaves you cognizant that you spend half your life going in circles.

Oh... wait. Maybe that's just me. :)

Regardless, it's frustrating to devote time and effort to something that bares no fruit. Or leaves. Or slimy sap that ruins your car's paint job. Especially when it's a circumstance or person beyond your control.

Oh... wait. EVERY circumstance and person is beyond my control....

You have me. Guy troubles again. Love them. Hate them. (Mostly love-hate them.) Some days I have no idea why I even brush my hair or buy cute shoes.

I read this today, however, and it left me with a B.C. buzz:

"Do not spoil what you have

By desiring what you have not;

But remember that what you now have

Was once among things only hoped for."

- Epicurus

(Not that I'm in the habit of reading Epicurus over my Bible, but the little ditty did resonate with me today.)

Anyway, if you're back to your own proverbial square one, maybe this will help. And heck, while you're here, bring your coffee over and sit with me.

The Connor Library

Your library is your paradise.

-Desiderius Erasmus

Welcome to the Connor Library at Freeman House. Kick your shoes off and come on in!

What is it about a personal library that appeals to us so? For me, the fascination with library rooms can be credited to two childhood masterpieces: the book The Velvet Room and the Disney movie Beauty and the Beast. Ever since reading/seeing those stories I wanted to be either Robin or Belle. It is, I suppose, the dream of many small, bookish girls - to be taken in and loved by someone with a cozy library alive with far-off lives and places.

So this will be my library. This dark, substantially anchored, European salon, cigar-and-newspaper, book-lined room is on its way toward complete restoration as I keep a close eye on its past. The room has an interesting history. Originally a bedroom, this room is now called the "Connor Library" in honor of the family who owned the home at the turn of the century. And while I've been unable to confirm tales and hunches, I believe the Connor family may have built the original portion of this home in 1892. (Regardless, I personally know of two people who were born in this room around the time the Titanic sank. Their stories, as told to me by children and grandchildren, are hauntingly incredible.)

To give you a bit of placement, the library is to your right once you're standing in the entry hall of Freeman House. The space is square, has three doors and four enormous windows, and faces east. Beautiful morning light. It all sits about 5 feet off the ground, so peering out of the thick, wavy-glassed windows you glimpse hydrangeas and various tangles of green things below.


The room is painted rather darkly, isn't it? I wanted it that way. I wanted us to think of a Jane Austen film or an English castle's library when we entered: big, dark wood... dusty volumes... old maps... heavy furniture... lined drapes. No fairies or girly flowers in here. No sir. This is a cozy, safe, cuddle-in-and-stay-the-afternoon world strewn with puffy chairs and ottomans and blankets and rugs.

(And books. Don't forget the books. The shelves and the rolling ladder have yet to be (re)installed, so they're piled and standing around everywhere.)

The room has nooks and wide baseboards and creaky doors. The enormous fireplace is anchored directly across from you as you enter the room. Although it takes a bit of imagination, I can already see it sparking and crackling with dancing flames and a heavily-laid table before it. Perhaps it's a winter night and we're having roast tenderloin and mashed potatoes and chocolate tart. After dinner, you can climb the ladder and pull down a book or pick up a paper as I sit at the piano and play Beethoven. When the fire dies and the old room grows quiet and dark, we'll trudge off to quilted beds, heavy as we are with home-cooked food and a treasury of words and sounds.

One day soon. Right now, it's a jumble of a hundred details to complete. But it's come so far. Here's an idea of what it looked like the day I began to clean it out:

And here it is cleaned out and almost ready to paint. Gosh, it took forever to paint this room and an eternity to restore that original mantle. To give you an idea of scale, that fireplace surround is nearly as tall as I am. (The scaffolding is 6 feet tall.) And allow me to come clean right now: many, many bad words were said during the stripping, scraping, sanding, and staining of that darn mantle. If I could dig up and re-die the people who painted it 247 times - with lead-based paint - I would.

Moving on. Here's a before glance at the left wall of the library. (Don't tell, but there's a tiny hidden room behind the little door's closet.) And the open doorway leads to the study/television room. I'm eager to get going on that space.

But for now it's all about the library. The dark, cozy room in which childhood dreams are realized and remembered.

This could be your adopted library space too, you know. I would be honored. So would the generations of folks who began and lived out their lives within these walls....

Welcome to the Connor Library at Freeman House.

The Irvin Room

Welcome to the first renovated bedroom in Freeman House. Welcome to the Irvin Room.

Located on the far north east corner of the home, the Irvin Room is comprised of two spaces - a sitting space and a larger, sleeping room. Shown here is the sleeping room - a cozy, rectangular room with tall ceilings and two tall windows. Inside the room lives an old iron bed, an antique chair and ottoman, two nightstands, and an armoire. It used to house a fireplace, but sometime after 1920 the decision was made to board it up. All that remains of the chimney is about four feet of crumbling brick outside the east wall.

The Irvin Room is a bright, golden space that seems to glow in the morning sun. I suppose that's why I chose to put so many creams and khakis and antique golds/bronzes in this room; it seems to lend itself toward cozy, understated luxury. All of the muted colors are anchored by wood and iron - heavy, solid, able materials. Even the floors are wooden. Pine, to be exact. The trim is too, of course, and is original to the home. It's nailed up with square nails. In the baseboard just behind the door is a half-oval shaped hole. It looks just like the mouse holes on a Tom & Jerry cartoon. (Don't worry. Jerry isn't using it. I made sure of that.)

I adore the Irvin Room. It's named after the family who bought the home in 1911. Reverend Richard Irvin was the town's Methodist minister. His wife, Ella, was known by some as a demanding, hateful woman. Perhaps the Reverend knew her that way, too, because inside the wall between this bedroom and the next we found numerous letters and cards addressed to Reverend Richard. All of them were from women. One lady in particular, who always signed her correspondence "The Girl Who Feeds Chickens", wrote often. A birthday note she wrote him in 1914 is now on display in the house.

The Irvins lived here until the 1920s, and were responsible for moving this house to its current location. Old legend has it that Ella Irvin decided she'd rather have a brick home on the hill instead of this wooden one, so she had men lower the home onto logs and roll it to where it stands today. And she got her house on the hill.

Soon after the Irvins' brick house was completed, Miss Freeman took up residence in this house and, in exchange for room and board, ran it as a three-apartment complex for the Irvins. This bedroom was converted into a kitchen - complete with a pantry - and remained a kitchen until I purchased the home in 2005. Here's a glimpse of what it looked like after we removed the old table, oven, and pantry, but before we ripped out the linoleum and cabinets:

And here she is just after a good scrub, some sheet rock, and hours and hours of sanding and painting:

She's not finished yet, the Irvin Room. She likely won't be for several months. But the transformation is almost as touching as the room's history. And it's hard not to wonder, as I close my eyes at night, who used to sit at the kitchen table - feet away from where I sleep - and eat their early breakfast or make their midnight snack.

It's a charming place. You'll have to come by and stay someday. You'll have to catch the golden sun bathing this room. You'll have to open the windows and smell the roses and hydrangeas. You'll have to read the birthday note found in the wall. And you'll have to wonder why in the world Ella Irvin would give up a place like this.

At least I do.

Welcome to the Irvin Room.

The Back Hall Bath

All a woman needs is a good bath.
- Hedy Lamarr

Welcome to the best... and only... bath completed thus far in Freeman House. Welcome to the Back Hall Bath!

For those of you contemplating the renovation of an old house, know this: bathroom arrangements during renovation are... tricky. Heck. They're downright scary. During the two months this bathroom was gutted and restored, I brushed my teeth with a bottle of water at the screen door. I used the facilities at a nearby McDonald's. And I showered outdoors. In November. Gosh, I was stupid. But I learned an important This Old House lesson: always, always start with the bath. Always.

This small, rectangular room was terrifying when I bought Freeman House. There were layers of curled, cracked linoleum covering rotten hardwood floors. There was a stained, grimy sink. There was a window over the tub and an extra doorway, both of which were destined to be framed in and sheetrocked. There was an ancient, cracked toilet. And there was a clawfoot tub. It was the only thing worth saving in this disgusting room.

The substructure of the bath had to be torn out and replaced. The floors are now 4 1/2 inches thick, not counting the ceramic tile I laid myself. (Hardest project to date, by the way.) The room got a layer of new sheetrock and paint. A new pedestal sink and toilet were installed, as was a glass-fronted cabinet. (I have commitment issues with standard cabinetry, I discovered.) As for the old iron clawfoot tub, my Dad and I sanded, glazed and reinstalled it with new plumbing and a shower surround, which makes it easier to love while scrubbing armpits and things.

This small room cost almost $6,000 to renovate, even doing some of the work myself. Almost makes me want to put a few outhouses in the back for the rest of y'all. But I guess everyone deserves a hot, candlelit bubble bath in a clawfoot tub every now and then....

That is, after all, one of my favorite things about living in an old, crooked house.

Welcome to the Back Hall Bath at Freeman House. Hope you can stop by for a soak soon.

Seriously!

Seriously.

(That's my new word. But you have to emphasize it correctly -- like they do on Grey's Anatomy.)

Seriously!

This new Bin Laden tape is seriously disturbing. I know, I usually don't write about current affairs or anything of significance. But old habits die hard, and my years as a news reporter have a strange way of dictating the way I write and the way I think.

The minute I heard of this new terrorist recording, I turned to the one gal I trust on such matters: Laura Mansfield. A few years ago, I wrote and booked for the nationally-syndicated radio show America at Night. Laura was my favorite guest. She's smart, current, and has incredible insight into radical Islam. She translates Arabic. She's authored books on the subject. She maintains a website (www.lauramansfield.com) on all of it, which I read regularly.

Suffice to say that I nearly crawled out of my skin when I read Laura's logic on Bin Laden's latest recording of verbal diarrhea. He's warning that future attacks here at home are inevitable, and then offers up some stupid truce, as if we'll suddenly meet him halfway and bring the keg. As Laura says, Bin Laden's '"truce offer" is especially disconcerting; under Islamic law, Bin Laden is required to warn his victim and give them an opportunity to come to terms before the attack can be legitimately launched. It is likely that this is what Bin Laden is doing with the truce offer.'

Seriously.

Maybe it's just me. But I sat here today thinking maybe I should hit the ATM, charge my cell phone, and gas up my car - just in case. I mean, as our forefathers weathered the Cold War, they were taught to get under their desks and cover their heads. Do those rules still apply? Should I teach my cat to respond to a particular terror command and get under the bed? I considered this all the way to Target today. (I'm always one to recognize an excuse to spend money, and an impending terrorist attack definitely qualifies. No way am I going to get caught in an attack with a shortage of band-aids or chocolate or Advil.)

Seriously. How do you prepare for a terrorist attack?

I remember September 11th like last weekend. I remember walking into Starbucks, dazed, and ordering a latte. I remember the young employee of mid-eastern descent lobbing my cup onto the counter and smirking. I remember considering taking the lid off, throwing my grande latte into his smirking face, and yelling that Americans won't live this way.... won't stand for the constant threat of assault on our safety and way of life.

But I guess this is our way of life now.

Seriously. Seriously....

The Captain of Team Crazy

It's just like they say on Gilmore Girls: if there was a 'you're crazy' team, I'd be its captain.

My job is making me crazy.

I guess it's only Tuesday, but already I have visions of Friday night and strawberry margaritas dancing in my head. The margaritas have little skinny legs, and they're in a row, line dancing.

I told you my job is making me crazy.

Don't even laugh. You know exactly what I mean. First there are the scattered-brained co-workers. Or even better... the no-brained co-workers. Those are great.

Then, there's the actual work. It gives you headaches. In my job, I read floods of legal documents (and today, a 39 page probate) to determine who may legally lay claim to minerals underlying certain tracks of land... being the NorthEast Quarter of the SouthWest Quarter of the South Half of Township 972 South, Range 374 West of the Sixth Principal Meridian, which I, Crazy Person, do hereby give, grant, convey, transfer, assign, relinquish, and devise to Child Crazy Person....

Oh, sorry. It's been a long day. And that was a looong probate.

A (wise) friend of mine once philosophized the following:

A single girl can have one of three things, but never any of these at the same time:

A great job
A great house or apartment
A great guy

If you think about it long enough, it's true. Seriously. Last year I kinda had the great guy. (If you forget how the 'great' guy wasn't so great.) So I guess this is the year for the 'great' job.

Sigh.

I guess what I'm rambling about is this: work is a beating. Until payday, which comes twice, or - horror of horrors - only once a month, work is beating and the pay off is too infrequent. I don't care what you do, how great or terrible your co-workers are, or what you're reading (or not reading) all day long. It all pretty much beats you down, right?

But don't listen to my uplifting, Tony Robbins message of the day. I'm grateful for my job. But like I said, today my job is driving me crazy.

Right??

Visionary Vixens

Truly. The capacity of human creativity is boundless.

I'm homesick today. And when I get homesick, I begin endless moments of envisioning my ancient, rambling house all fixed up and ready to host guests and cooking classes.

If only it were today.

On days like this, I like to think of women who, despite their fears and hesitations, stepped out and blazed new trails. Made brand new lives for themselves. Thought I'd introduce (or reintroduce) you to:

Jennifer Velarde. The girl loved making purses. Loved it. And she was good at it. Her friends encouraged her to get out there and do something with it, and after awhile, she did. Her new company, 1154 Lill, allows you to design your own handbag, and within 3 weeks, her company delivers a custom-made purse to your door. Wow. Jennifer now has three stores, and says she wishes she had acted on her good idea sooner. Check her out: www.1154lill.com.

Mary Jane Butters. (That's her name. Really.) I plan to visit the woman's homestead sometime this year. Mary Jane came into a huge farm in the midwest, and now runs it as an organic farm and B&B. Only the B&B consists of antique-filled tents with feather beds. No joke. Check her out: http://www.maryjanesfarm.org/bb/.

Debra Cohen. Like me, Debra moved into a house that needed some work. Unlike me, she did something very intelligent when she didn't know who to call for help. She started what she's trademarked the 'Homeowner Referral Network'. Need a plumber? She can hook you up with a good one. She's not going broke doing it, either. Her company is reported to have pulled in around $250,000 last year. Check her out: http://www.homereferralbiz.com/letter.html.

I know this is probably boring, but I think it's encouraging to see people who finally had enough with their boring-as-crap, beating-of-a-life jobs and did something about it. It gives me hope. (And kinda makes me feel like a loser, too. But mostly it gives me hope.)

Here's to hoping that both you and I find success in a job we're passionate about!

Eating in a Raincoat

He who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead. -Albert Einstein

Did anyone catch ABC's Extreme Makeover: Home Edition last night? Ty Pennington and the Sears crew built a home about 15 minutes from where I'm staying in Wichita, Kansas. It was the talk today... everybody speculating about the family with five girls who got the new home.

"How in the world will they pay the taxes on that thing?" one guy asked.

"Yeah, I'm sure they didn't think about that when they walked in their faaaancy new house," the guy next to him agreed.

Please.

As if the first thing you think when someone custom-builds you a brand new house - for free- is, "Crap. Now my property value is as high as Courtney Love. Tear it down."

Yeah.

So I'm standing in the courthouse... trying to work... when another lady joins in. "I just don't know why nothing great ever happens to me," she whines. And I mean - whines. I think I even see tiny little men in suits playing tiny little violins on her shoulder.

But admittedly, she made me think: do some people really have all the luck? Do blondes really have more fun? Does life pick on some of us more than others? How are some people so content and others so.... well .... miserable??

It's all I thought about while driving to lunch at the Smokehouse Restaurant. Where the special of the day wasn't the promised Pot Roast, but was instead the terrible Tuna Casserole. (Last minute substitution.)

Terrible tuna, I think. I'll go have a salad at McDonald's.

Whatever. I sat down in Smokehouse anyway. It's freaking cold up here in Kansas, and the thought of getting out again - when I'd worn my green raincoat instead of my big, dumpy, Eskimo-figure-friendly black overcoat - changed my mind.

So I sat. And I ordered. And I sat. (Food at the Smokehouse takes awhile. They must have a problem with their smokehouse.)

And then I hear it... singing. But not just any singing. Singing that sounds like a harmonious blend of Josh Groban and Michael Buble. And it's coming from behind me. It's singing that song that George and Mary Bailey sing after their pool dance in It's a Wonderful Life...

Buffalo Gals, won't you come out tonight,
Come out tonight, come out tonight.
Buffalo Gals, won't you come out tonight
And dance in the light of the moon.

I turned and looked. It was this gentleman wearing a derby hat and an apron over his clothes. He sat in a wooden chair in the carpeted restaurant entry and sang from It's a Wonderful Life for nearly 20 minutes.

He sounded like an angel.

My substituted promised Pot Roast food came, and of course I managed to gracefully snort my Diet Coke and spit half of it out while choking/coughing to death. Classy, you dork, I think as I dread looking down at my shirt. And then I remember. I wore my green raincoat today.

Then it hit me. Of course, some people don't really have all the luck. Blondes don't really have more fun. Life doesn't pick on some of us more than others. And people really are content and others are so.... well .... miserable... because they chose to be. Because it's all in how we look at things.

I mean, gosh, I was saved by a green raincoat today. While eating a terrific meal I never otherwise would have tried if the promised Pot Roast had been there. While being serenaded by a derby-wearing angel who knew every lyric in, believe it or not, the movie appropriately entitled It's a Wonderful Life.

It's the little things, you know? The days you sit to eat in your raincoat and end up standing rapt in awe....

Scrap Crap

Scrapbooking is among the many, many endeavors I have resolved to take up this year. And not purely as a hobby, mind you. As a necessity. I can't tell you how many pictures and scrap crap I have filling boxes, envelopes, and old, chipped sinks in my house!

Something must be done to organize the scrap crap and the chipped sinks cluttering my house.

With that in mind, I went to a fine scrapbooking store in Wichita today. "With the new LM line, you can scrapbook anything that's ever happened in your whole life," beamed the Lynette-ish desperate housewife who helped me. So, I browsed, bought and bolted with evidence to support my newly-resolved quest. It was exhilarating, and I could just see it now:

Friend: Do you remember the location of the hostel you stayed in while visiting New York that one time?
Me: Why yes! Looking back at my 1999 New York Scrapbook, it's at 103rd and Amsterdam.

Mom: Why are you still single?
Me: Hmmmm.... According to my new scrapbook entitled Manthrax: The Biological Dangers I've Loved and Lost, it's because all my ex's were apparently long term losers. Like him. And ooohhh... especially him.

Awh yes, this could be great!

Except for one problem. As I was thinking of my life laid out on scrapbook pages, something began to bother me. How could I scrapbook everything that's ever happened in my life? I mean, how do I visually document my initials carved into the observation deck railing on the Empire State Building? That stage on the Colorado State Fair grounds? That adobe-looking building in Mexico? That wooden bridge in west Texas?

For that matter, how do I scrapbook the first time my heart was broken? The memories of the day I was saved? The sheer panic I felt the first time I turned on a microphone? The feelings I had on the stand in court after a judge had me subpoenaed for (illegally) taping courtroom proceedings?

Seems to me like we come standard equipped with the best scrapbook of all - a mind that captures and holds sights, sounds, feelings, memories, and facts. My feeble attempts at organizing life's scrap crap will be just that.

Scottish poet Alexander Smith said: "Memory is a man's real possession. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor."

I like that.

I also wonder if Mr. Smith ever had a scrapbook.....

Discourse on the Travel Channel

I had one of those nights that takes forever to fall asleep. Blame it on the Travel Channel and poetry. (And don't bother calling me and telling me I'm weird. I think that's even stamped on my birth certificate.)

I've always liked poetry. For example, I first tried my hand at it when I was around nine. I even remember it:

Spring is here,

The flowers are in bloom.

The sun is high.

Not the moon.

The flowers in their beds

Are as tall as a spoon.

Thank you, God,

For Spring so soon.

Again, don't even say it. I couldn't have been prouder.

Nowdays, though, my favorite poems come from Emily Dickinson. Probably my very favorite starts off:

"This world is not conclusion.
A species stands beyond -
Invisible as music
Yet positive, as sound."

So okay. Back to last night. It all started after dark. The fun ones always do. I retired to my hotel room, donned new flannel pj's, and grabbed the remote. (In other words, a typical night for me.)

Soon enough, I stumbled upon the Travel Channel was immediately transfixed. Wonder of wonders! They were in rural England at some old inn! (See my last posting.)

Wait... not just some old inn. They were at the 13th century Ram Inn, and "they" consisted of a tour guide, 3 paranormal "investigators", and a TV crew. They were there because the ancient place is rumored to have been haunted for centuries.

The group started in the main room, where one "investigator" immediately related that the inn was frequented by 4... things: 2 men, a woman, and an incubus. He hastens to add that the things are likely demonic and could try to physically harm them if they proceed.

I was mesmerized.

They pitter along, and soon enough they enter the room of the woman... thing. As the same "investigator" starts inquiring as to the history of the room, he is literally possessed by the spirit of the woman. (Or so it seemed. Really.) He suddenly looked like a hunched over, crochety old evil thing and kept whispering, "Go to thee baarrrn."

Holy crap. It literally looked like an English reenactment of the Gospels just before Jesus or the disciples drives out the freaky demons.

I was horrified.

I guess they were too, but not so horrified that the idiots didn't go to the barn. And before you conjure up some rickety, wooden barn, let me add that the "barn" was attached to the stone house, much in the same way that our garages are. So I'll call it a barnage.

So there they are in the stone barnage. It was dark and cluttered. (I have to admit, part of my night was spent wondering what English people clutter their barnages with. Chipped tea cups? Dull herbacious border trimmers? First edition Agatha Christie mysteries?? It will be the first thing I ask the English when I visit.)

Sooo.... the crew is in the barnage and nothing happens for quite awhile. Then, as they begin to relax and joke around, one crew member taunts that he sees something move in the stall next to him.

I kid you not - the minute the words touched his lips he was thrown into the stall wall. The impact sent one of his shoes flying. The guy is sprawled on the floor for a second, then was pulled - although you couldn't see who was doing the pulling! - into the stall, where it sounded like he was being attacked by me right after the Dallas Cowboys lost their last stinkin' game.

When the other crew members half-carried Mr. Investigtor out he was sobbing and shaking uncontrollably.

I was terrified.

After commerical break, the show revealed that Spencer, the "investigator" was fine, albeit, a little shaken up. The tour of Ram Inn ended with the tour guide looking into the camera and adding a chilling- "Sleep tight."

Yeah right.

I turned off the TV and lay in the darkness of the hotel room. No sooner had I closed my eyes when that Emily Dickinson poem coursed through my mind: "This world is not conclusion. / A species stands beyond - / Invisible as music/ Yet positive, as sound."

I wasn't scared. Really. I know Who holds dominion over all freaky things.

Yet still, I stayed awake, wondering....

What do you think about the "species" that stands beyond??

Hello, 2006!

Awwhh.... the New Year! Time to reevaluate, set new priorities, and then bask in the glow of newly achieved accomplishments.

Uh huh. Yeah.

Well, okay, hang on... let's see. The new year evaluating I can do. Witness:

Age: 26
Marital status: Single. Still.
Occupation: Oil and Gas Broker
Weight: Astronomical. Let's just say I have a vintage rack and extra back. (Translation: big, saggy boobs and a huge arse.)
Residence: Freeman House (Permanent); Wichita, Kansas (Temporary)
Hobbies: Omg... they're so pathetic I can't bear to see them in print.
Ambition: To run off to rural England, marry an English lord, and spend my days decorating our centuries-old castle and growing boxwood hedges. Oh, and eating crumpets.

Sigh.

Truth is, 2005 was a train wreck. I watched my job, an impending marriage, and my sanity slip through my hands. I can honestly say the year was spent mourning what I'd lost and dreading the future I was left with.

But not 2006. Oh no. I'm rebounding. Matter of fact, I booked my trip to London yesterday, on New Year's Day. And I started the Atkins diet. Say 'buh-bye' to my vintage rack and extra back. And, I've determined to find a cool hobby. Although I must say that all the knitting yarn I got for Christmas was pretty cool.

As for my ambition, I'm planning to visit several castles outside Glouchestershire, England. I hear they're inhabited by some single English Lords.

Happy 2006, friends!

B

My Early Thanksgiving...

So... um... hello there!

Yeah, yeah. I know. I've taken a good many days off. My apologies. Suffice to say that these have been the craziest two weeks of my life.

But that's nothing compared to the watery hell the folks on the Gulf Coast are living through. Nothing. I realized - just moments ago - how abundantly blessed I am.

I returned to Freeman House this afternoon to find my cat missing. To fully understand the gravity of this situation, you'd have to know me. And little Maebelline. I was one of those people who laughed at the pet owners who 'babied' their animals. I even said I'd never get an indoor animal.

Then I got Mae. She was tiny and had all these little cat illnesses. I loved her immediately and hate to be away from her even now. I sing to her, sew things for her, and buy her Christmas presents.

So when I got to Freeman House today and realized the workers had let her out and she had been gone for hours, I began looking. By 7:30 tonight, neighbors and their dogs were out with flashlights calling for Mae. You'd think there was an Amber Alert in effect for the town or something.

We couldn't find her. I cried. And hollered myself hoarse looking for her. Finally, it grew dark and everyone returned home. I went into Freeman House to lock up, and as I did, thought I saw something moving around in the dark. (I don't have lights yet in the house.) I did see something. It was Mae.

She was hurt, filthy, and had burrs all over her. But she was home. I cried.

Then as I packed her up and drove away, I realized how amazing this day was for me. Instead of looking for the corpse of a family member who drowned in Louisiana, I was looking for my crazy cat. And sure, my house has broken windows, holes in the floor, and no lights. But, by God, I have windows, floors, and lights to install at some point.

Man. I am so blessed.

That said, I'm taking off across the Texas/Louisiana border this holiday weekend to help out. I had planned to paint the bathroom at Freeman House, but something tells me that can wait.

Little Shop of Horrors... and Muffins

Just so you know, I may be "out" for the next few days. A short sabbatical is in order. I didn't want you to worry.

Turns out, I finally have an amazing, viable opportunity to open my cafe, henrybella's. To say I'm excited is like saying it's 'sprinkling' when it's really flooding! I'm incredibly excited!

The shop is in Jefferson, Texas. Never been? The town is like a mini New Orleans in the middle of Texas. It has historic homes, buildings, tours, museums, and restaurants. It's very quaint.

The shop that's opened to me is on the corner of Vail and Austin Streets, and, I hate to say, the building is featured in the town's Historic Ghost Walk each night. Locals swear the building is haunted, and the proprietor even told me that I might catch a glimpse of a lady sitting at a corner table in old-fashioned dress.

Creepy. I told him I just hope she pays for her muffins.

Anyway, I'm now restoring a historic home, opening a cafe, and keeping my full-time job. Suffice to say I may drop off the face of the earth for a couple of days - starting today!

So... here goes nothing. Wish me luck!

"It is the sweet, simple things of life which are the real ones after all." - Laura Ingalls Wilder

Cause for Celebration!

It's exciting to see wonderful things happening in the lives of gals close to you, isn't it?

I've been reading Creating A Charmed Life, by Victoria Moran. Get it. It will change you.

Anyhow, one chapter talks about Shine Time. You know, about how everyone needs their time to shine. Victoria says, "The moon has phases from dark to full shine. So do we."

So here's to celebrating a little shine time for some special girls:

I was astonished (I shouldn't have been, but was), to get an email last week that my cousin Heather and her husband are expecting their first wee one. They are now caught up in finding a bigger house, registering for bottles and ... stuff, I guess, and picking out a name. They're thinking Courtney, for now.

Then there's my best friend in the world. Sara and her husband are... well, they are a rare breed. They've been vying for an overseas "job" for years, and are blessed to be off for Neverland at the end of this month. They'll be learning a new language, new driving laws, and new political leaders to be exasperated by. Lucky them. (Just kidding. I have no desire to go where they're headed.)

Then there's the co-worker (MaryAnn) who just bought a house she's been dying for for months. And the friend in DFW (Lisa, aka SALL... hehe) who BUILT her a house because, dog gone it, she's gotten her Master's and does not need a man to set up house. Literally.

And let's not forget one of my pals back in Dallas. Lacy is facing her 25th birthday in the next few days (dreading it, I should say!) and yet, has just finished a new leg in her career that will soon open doors to her dreams. (No thanks to the Mexican work candle I burned for her.)

Finally, my little sister turns 13 this week. She's a beautiful young lady already.

Shine on, sisters!

Anyway, what Victoria says is true, I think. Everyone has their "shine time", and everyone has a cycle when things look up, and things look a little dark. It's normal.

Have you been missing a little time to shine lately? Yeah, me too. The book offers us this advice:
Don't downplay your successes. Got a new job? Made it to payday without doing broke? Changed your oil on time? Pat yourself on the back and put it down as shine time. Hey. There are some people who don't get out of bed somedays.

When the world isn't noticing you, notice yourself. Buy yourself a present. Treat yourself to ice cream. Buy an entire season of Gilmore Girls. Or, spend all day Saturday in pj's with your remote.

So... that said... again, a good heartfelt congratulations to all my best girlfriends. Y'all give me something to aspire to!

Living la Viva Dolce

Wow. What a weekend.

Busy, but good. Very good. Saw a lot done around Freeman House and got in some quality "socializing" time. It's rare that I get both at once!

Anyway, I have an idea. It's not new, or groundbreaking. Maybe I should say I'd like to reintroduce an idea. I saw on CBS Sunday Morning that Italians have an average of 43 days off a year. Americans? We have 16. While we bust our butts to get a little over 2 weeks off a year, the good Italians enjoy the viva dolce with a month and a half off.

They also close down their businesses and offices for 3 HOURS in the afternoon. You know, to eat, sip a glass of wine, and socialize.

(Speaking of lunch, I am continually cracked up by the "Let's Do Lunch" ad in D Magazine every month. This dating service sets professional guys and gals up on blind lunch dates with the hope of achieving an "e harmony" type of hook-up. I can't imagine anything more stressful than trying to fit traffic, meeting a potentially new partner, and cramming some food down your throat and getting back to work all in an hour. Does that service actually work??)

So... the CBS report got me thinking about the sweet life, and what mine would look like. I decided it would definitely not be my college life with my college boyfriend. I worked for an ABC affiliate and was on the air by 6 am every weekday morning. In college. I remember having a 2 day meltdown when I came home one day to find my boyfriend soaking his firefighter feet in my crockpot. While unknowingly drenching my term paper. The term paper dealing with the subject over whether hell is, in fact, exothermic or endothermic.

Needless to say, the ex nearly found out first hand.

Neither would I choose those stressful, job seeking years after college, which landed me at a CBS affiliate in Dallas. Then came the professionally-likeminded boyfriend who was more interested in Benny Hill and fantasy football then making our relationship work. He really sucked, and so did that life.

But now... now I'm on the verge of something really sweet. It's funny. On that same program this morning, they interviewed a man who worked for Microsoft before walking out one day and starting a vineyard somewhere. He said that his old co-workers would say: gosh, I wish I could have that life. I wish I could wake up in a different life and not have to deal with all this.
The man kinda laughed and said, well, it's your choice. We wake up everyday and make a choice about the life we lead. Everyday you have to make a decision to stay where you are or shake things up. Changing your life is as simple as changing your daily decisions.

Meaning... we have a choice whether we'll live the viva dolce. Everyday we have the choice.

Anyway, I thought that was encouraging.

Mrs. Doodlerumpf

What a week. It's flying by, but then again, could the weekend get here already?!

No matter. Today was a major break-through day. No, I still don't know how to cleverly add much-needed closets to Freeman House's floor plan without destroying the original layout. And I have no idea why the idiotic American public voted Brandon off Rockstar INXS. But, it's okay. The revelation today was much, much bigger than that.

It had to do with Mrs. Doodlerumpf. See, I'm writing a children's book. It's been a ton of fun already, but I had been struggling to come up with the perfect name for an old lady, next door neighbor character. So... I'm at work today, flipping through 7,000 deed and mineral conveyances, and it hits me. Like a flood. Doodlerumpf.

Doodlerumpf. That's her name. Mrs. Doodlerumpf.

I stopped, and thought, surely I must have read that name here somewhere. There's no way I just randomly pulled that out of the air.

But no, I went back and checked. No Doodlerumpfs anywhere in those deeds. I even checked the courthouse computer to make sure. No Doodlerumpfs.

One question: how.... what in the.....???

I think I must be crazy. That's all it can be.

So I came home from the day that refused to end and fired up the good ole Gilmore Girl DVDs. And, wouldn't you know it, the episode made mention of Emily Dickinson, the ingenious recluse poet who happens to be my favorite of all time.

I'd forgotten that she lived out her life as a spinster in an obscure place with relatively little contact with the outside world. And yet, how brilliantly she captured life. And nature. And the personal struggle with concepts like death and faith.

It got me thinking, anyway. Maybe living out my life as a spinster in an obscure place has inspired an Emily Dickinson-type geniousosity (I know, not a word) that will propel me into literary greatness.

Or, maybe not.

Oh well.

At least I finally have Mrs. Doodlerumpf. And that, my friends, is enough for today.

Books & Brownies

I'll be honest.

Two of my most favorite things in life are books and brownies. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that there's not a heartache around that a good book... and a great brownie... couldn't cure.

Case in point: today was a heartbreak day. It was one of those days that you just cry. And sob. And then cry and sob some more. I spent my lunch hour driving around, nursing a swimming pool-size Diet Coke, and trying to cry without smearing my makeup and running my mascara.

I nearly made it, too.

Suffice to say that I have relatively nothing to cry about when you put it in a global perspective. I mean, I don't have an incurable disease. I'm not one of those imported sex slaves that the media is going nuts about. I haven't just lost a child, a limb, or a loved one to the war in Iraq.

But still, I cry.

Heartache is devastatingly ignorant and invasive. He doesn't ask if now's okay, or if maybe he hold out for something bigger. Oh no. He's just like a shadow sometimes, huh?

I really needed a book and a brownie today.

So I came home this afternoon and cracked open this book I've had for weeks but hadn't touched. The Way the Crow Flies, by Ann-Marie MacDonald. It's already beyond good.

So, too, was the new brownie I perfected. It's triple-layer heaven. Trust me. (Or maybe, trust the neighbor. Since I'm on Atkins, she was kind enough to stop by and confirm that it is triple-layer heaven.)

I started thinking... maybe every Monday wouldn't be so bad if it had a good book and brownie at the end of it. Therefore, I declare the beginning of every work week a Book and Brownie Bonanza. Yee haw! Check in with me to see what I'm reading, and by all means, comment to this and tell me what you're scanning. Could be we could help each other.

As for the brownie, well.... if you can't make it to Freeman House for Triple-Layer Heaven, try Starbucks. Their espresso brownie is pretty dang good.

So... it's a plan? I'll meet you back here on Monday.

In the meantime, you can find me soaking in the tub with my book and brownie.

Laverne and Squirrelly

I forget how peaceful it is here at Freeman House. I forget, that is, until I venture into the city.

Still nursing my over-exerted temper from yesterday, I decide this morning that I'd head some 45 minutes away and find Old Navy. And Starbucks. (Have you tried those new green tea frappuccinos?? Omgosh... they are fabulous. No way they can be healthy. No way.)

So I knock out all the prerequisite errands first. At Cingular -"why does my phone say 'Emergency Only' every time I try to make a call????".... At Target - "I bought this jacket for fall, but didn't realize I'd look like the Guinness Book of World Records' biggest pumpkin in it. Can I exchange for sweats???".... At Lowe's - "How come I can't find the faucets that mount to the wall? Oh, they're special order? Oh, they start at $470? Maybe I'll just have the plumber run a water hose to my fancy new bathroom sink."

You know, the usual.

Ah, but then - hoo boy! To Old Navy I excitedly drove. I even sang:

"Over the overpass and through the traffic...
To shopping bliss I go!
The car knows the way
To brighten my day,
And save me lots of dough....oh!"

See, I told you I needed to get out.

So, I arrive finally, only to realize in stupified horror that it's TAX FREE WEEKEND. Omgosh. I picked the worst day of the entire year to shop in Texas.

Crap.

But I went in. Immediately, I was greeted by the deafening roar of teens fighting with parents, desperate mothers on cell phones - (honey, do you want low waist or boot cut jeans?), and kids whining.

Man, I'm glad I don't have kids.

I turn around and left, and on the way to my car, this guy driving this enormous truck yells something about me hurrying to my car. He even did this gesture that I think was supposed to compel me, hurriedly, to my car.

In fact, it did compel me, hurriedly, to my car.

I went through the drive-thru at Starbucks and was back home in 3 hours. And no sooner had I opened the passenger door to unload my new Lowe's sink did I hear another couple arguing. Loudly.

It was Laverne and Squirrelly.

Or at least, that's what I call them. Laverne and Squirrelly are squirrels who live in this gigantic tree just off the kitchen and herb garden of Freeman House. I figure they're close to retirement, but that's only because they sound just like George Castanza's parents on Seinfeld. I mean, these guys really get into it with each other.

So I stood there, balancing the fancy sink on my car, and stared up at them.

"Hey, Squirrelly," I yelled. (At least I think it was Squirrelly. He's the one who's usually running his mouth. Just like a man.)

"If you don't lay off her, Laverne's gonna pull a Desperate Housewives move on you and kill your furry butt," I admonished.

He shut up.

And then, in the quiet, I realized. I'm talking to squirrels. Squirrels I've named Laverne and Squirrelly. I just bought a sink. I voluntarily walked out of an Old Navy without spending a dime.

Well, it was only a matter of time.

I think I'm going crazy. And I also think I'm officially loving this country life.

Mad and Mushrooms

Forget the stress balls.

Forget counting to 10... or 100... or 50-million bazillion.

I'm mad. And no amount of squeezing on a rubber ball or reciting numbers aloud will calm me down.

Oh, yeah. I'm mad.

Now hear me, I'm not Little Miss 'Best Friend of the Year', with a specialty in Sensitivity. By no means. But I do try to make an effort - most of the time - to be aware of who's around and what's going on with them. You know, I try.

That didn't hold true to the 3 people I encountered today. Count 'em - three. The first, a "friend", I caught making a spectacle out of bad-mouthing me. At work. In front of other work people.

I think my face turned red. Not from embarrassment, either. From pure, in-check anger.

The second, my mother. She does this passive-aggressive thing where she hides real bombshell insults - and let-the-wind-out-of-your-sails comments - in seemingly innocent observations or advice. It hurts, and everytime it's brutal.

Third, and probably most annoying to my blood pressure, was the neighbor girl. The college brat who has probably sent "Torturing Brin" in as a replacement for softball in the next summer olympics. The self-indulged, conceited little twit had the audacity to boss me around like a slave, then eat all my culinary-genius inspired Stuffed Mushrooms. In one sitting. Then she left the kitchen a mess and tore out - leaving the front door wide open. Hate her.

(I mean, I'm on Atkins, and those stuffed mushrooms are like diet gold. And you know how cranky you get when you're on a diet, anyway.)

So.... how to handle these annoying and trivial comments and occurrences?

I choose to try to put them in perspective. Here goes:

REASONS WHY I WON'T STRANGLE ANYONE TODAY:

1. It would only mess up my hair.
2. It could be caught on one of those new Patriot Act, close-circuit cameras. And be broadcast. On 'Girls Gone Psycho'. Or COPS. Then later on COPS DVDs.
3. It would blow my great chances of being the next "it girl" for the CIA. (No, not hit girl.)
4. It would probably trump the endless talk of surgeries, illnesses, and deaths at the family Christmas Eve party. And we wouldn't want that.
5. Who would feed my cat while I'm at Camp Cupcake??

Okay. Better now.

Gotta go. I'm going to go stack all the dirty dishes - with baked-on mushroom juices - in the college brat's bed. You know, so she can enjoy it later tonight. And I won't pre-rinse them, either.

Life for Rent...

So I did it. I signed. The gypsy has sold her tent.

See, when I caught a glimpse of the city of Dallas in my rear-view mirror last August, I had no idea where I would end up. Where I would live, even. I just knew I had to get out. Sometimes things just get a little restless in my head, and before I know it, I'm uprooting and scooting out the door.

Remember in Chocolat when the North Wind drives Juliette Binoche from town to town until she finally settles down? That's me. Only I'm not that pretty and have yet to meet Johnny Depp. (sigh) But I do plan to open a small patisserie of my own - next year. More to come on that later.

So... er... I found myself here, squatting at my aunt's house, contemplating my next brilliant move. And then one night, at a very interesting dinner party, it happened. Freeman House and I were introduced.

It came by way of Lori Ellyn. She's my mother's age, and spent some time off Broadway before settling down here - in Teeny-Tinyville - to open her own art studio. She took on the restoration of a house that was built in the 1920s, and along the way acquired Freeman House. It's next door to to her house, and Lori says she would have restored Freeman House, only it's too big and too - awful.

But I fell in love with this house the first time I forced open the old, creaky door and ventured in. The place was filled with abandoned crap and definitely had this "I've been here since 1887" feel to it. But still, I felt strangely welcome in Freeman House. It felt like maybe - just maybe - we could help each other out.

And so we have. For the last 8 months, Freeman House and I have come a long way together. I've spent many days in her, knocking out walls when I'm frustrated, scrubbing windows when I'm crying, and painting walls when I need to feel pretty.

And now she's starting to look a little like pretty, too.

Ever heard Dido's song, Life for Rent?
"If my life is for rent,
and I don't learn to buy -
I deserve nothing more than I get,
'cause nothing I have is truly mine.

Well, for the first time, I feel like my life is not for rent, because I have finally learned to buy.

So go ahead and blow, North Wind. And dance on to your music, my internal gypsy.

For I think I've finally come home.

What Warwick Wishes We Women Were...

Omygosh. Kill me now.

Did you see it? Surely you did. BBC Network (Buncha-Bull-Crap Network, as I always call it) is reporting on this new study that finds that being single puts you "at greater risk of dying than smokers". No kidding. If you feel like a good beating, check it out for yourself: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/2195609.stm.

Now I'm not saying that these "researchers" at the University of Warwick are vindictive cracksmokers, but then again - I think these "researchers" at the University of Warwick are vindictive cracksmokers. In fact, I will go so far as to speculate that this study was probably authored by some dumpy, mean, issue-riddled married gal who wanted to poke a passive-aggressive finger at a beautiful, accomplished single friend. A single friend who didn't have to be home by 6 p.m. to Shake-'n-Bake, fold stained underwear, and check the mail before he saw the credit card statement.

So, to all you (jealous, insecure, etc.) members of academe out there, how do you like these apples?:

TOP FIVE REASONS WHY IT'S DANG GOOD TO BE SINGLE:

1. You don't have to check in with/answer to anyone. You want to go Vegas on Friday? Fine. Spend all weekend out shopping? (Or in your pajamas, or watching Bridget Jones' Diary?) Great. Blow an entire paycheck on Nutter Butters? Even better.

2. You can stock the fridge with what you want. Yogurt, pudding cups, bottled water, Starbucks shots. No one touches it and no one gripes. Or, you simply don't have to stock the fridge at all.

3. If you're ecstatic, depressed, or mad at the world, you can be. No one analyzes your feelings or demands explanations, talks, etc.

4. No more Monster Garage, endless man TV, or lame Woody Allen movies.

5. You can be wickedly satisfied with who you are right then - not who he's expecting you to be.

So take that, University of Warwick. I personally know several miserable, unhealthy married women. And they're stuck. (Or think they are.) And I also know several happy, busy, single gals who are in perfect health, thank you VERY much.

Point is, your situation - married, single, or otherwise fabulous - is what you make of it.

I hope these folks at the University of Warwick aren't planning on graduating anytime soon.

Rule(s) of life

I've been thinking a lot this past week about rules. I've decided I'm sick them.

When you stop to think about it, we live our lives by an alarming number of rules. And by rules, I mean things like: don't wear white after Labor Day. Major in something where the jobs are. Always participate in the office Christmas thingy. Never send an email as a thank-you note. Take only an hour (no more) for lunch. No open-toed shoes at work. Don't have long hair after 40. Or 30.

Some rules are non-negotiable. Those are laws. Pay your taxes, get your car inspected, don't speed, etc. Laws are usually just rules all grown-up and legitimized. Adolus Huxley, a philosopher I studied in college, called them "Perennial Philosophies".... the things you have to do regularly to stay balanced. And legal. Those are okay.

No, what's been bothering me is those rules that were somewhere, somehow ingrained in me by others. The rules that I've allowed to beat me down solely because they may have served my Mom, my boss, or some old boyfriend well.

I'm tired of making my bed and feeling guilty when I don't. I like using a fresh towel after every shower - even if it is ecologically disrespectful. I'm sick of trying to heed family advice. I want more than one Diet Coke a day. I revel in watching hours of Gilmore Girls DVDs. I don't want to answer the door. I hate checking the mail everyday.

AND SUDDENLY, yesterday, it finally dawned on me. These are not my rules. Why do I spend such a large chunk of my day minding these externally-mandated rules that don't enhance my life in any significant way?

Yep, it's time to use some judgment. To separate the essential rules from the extraneous. To find out what works for me. In my life.

So I lay awake last night and came to this conclusion: I'll have three rules, and three rules only, by which to live my life. The rest will be negotiable and may not be practical (or funnest!) for me. They are from the Bible, and are: to do justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with my God.

That's it. That's enough.

So, no, I won't stress over making the bed. That was my Mom's rule, not mine. I will use 10,000 towels a day if I want. I won't feel silly for spending time making peanut butter/bird seed crackers for the birds at Freeman House. I will cut my hair whenever I feel like it. I will send an email thank-you note. I will be proud of my college major - I chose and earned it. I will sing to my cat, and blare my new Anna Nalick CD. I will eat banana pancakes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, if I want. I will lean back in my chair and wear white when I want and leave the dishes undone after dinner to catch these country sunsets. I won't feel guilty or incapable or remorseful for any decisions I've made or am making... despite what my Mom, or boss, or ex-boyfriends think.

These are my rules. This is how things are done in my life.

What about you??

Adventures in Adjusting

So it's not exactly true that I have no idea why I'm here. Maybe I just don't have a really good one.

Moving to Stickville is obviously requiring a sense of humor and some innate coping skills. Lucky me. Take yesterday, for example. I loaded up and drove 17 miles to the nearest Wal-Mart. (Yeah. So long Central Market.) I was in need of some hair dye (what's up with these random gray hairs?? I look like Cher.) Oh, and I also needed Pine Nuts. You know, for whipping up a batch of that delicious, zesty basil pesto that Giada What's-Her-Skinny-Italian-Butt makes on Food Network.

So I'm there, in Wal-Mart, and cannot find Pine Nuts. I look everywhere. Finally I flag down an associate. "Where do I find Pine Nuts?", I ask.

She looks flabbergasted. "Hon, I'm not sure what yer sayin'. Pine Nut??", she replies after some hesitation.

"Yes, ma'am," I say. "You know, for pesto," I add hopefully.

Yeah, she obviously doesn't watch Food Network. Ever.

Finally, she says, "Well, it's probably on Aisle 9 with the Bacon Powder."

Now it's my turn to look flabbergasted. I've heard of Bacon Bits, but Bacon Powder? What in the world do you sprinkle that on?? Is it a low-cal version of Bacon Bits?? Really, these country folk are a rare breed.

So, I take off in search of the Bacon Powder which could lead me to my elusive Pine Nuts. After about - an eternity - I find 2 little banged-up bags of Pine Nuts on Aisle 12. I toss them into the squeaky cart that sounds eerily similar to Sheryl Crow's voice and start to wheel away. Then I stop. I have to see this Bacon Powder. Maybe I'll even buy some. You know, as a true-faith gesture that I am assimilating into the culture here.

Then I catch it out of the corner of my eye. Squatty little canisters of powder. Of Baking Powder.

Omgosh, I'm an idiot.

Remember that part in Sweet Home Alabama where Reese Witherspoon says, "People need a passport to come down here"??? She's onto something.

I think I'll call or write my elected redneck representative today.

In the beginning....

It's funny. One day you're happy, dedicated to a promising career, and staying on top of your laundry. Then suddenly, the next day, even - you find yourself disoriented, pacing the aisles of Target at 3 o'clock in the afternoon, and wearing the same polka dot Tommy Hilfiger panties you were on Monday. How come life is so messy? And why are your 20s so dang hard??

Hi. I'm B. Actually, I go by Brin. I'm a 20-something girl who, after years in the city, packed up and came here. To the sticks. To a creaky, 120+ year-old house with rambling rose bushes, broken windows, and a stuffed-up library. Ask me (as so many have) why I'm here, and I'll smile and say, "it's just where the wind blew me!". But we both know better. You and I know that I still have no idea why I left the city, my job, and my boyfriend and bought Freeman House. Or even what I'll do now that I'm here.

Maya Angelou says, "Surviving is important, but thriving is elegant." I like that. Matter of fact, I think I'll try my hand at this 'thriving' stuff. You know, just try it. If it doesn't work, I'll go back to surviving.

But first, I need to wash my polka dot panties.