THIS SPACE INTENTIONALLY LEFT BLANK

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Why is it so dang hard to write a blog after a six month slugfest hiatus?

I have a plethora of things to share —  life experiences and epiphanies, adventures and mishaps. I’ve had ‘up’ times and sucks-to-be-me times; victories and disappointments. I’ve made good decisions and stupid ill-advised ones.

No. It’s not lack of information. It’s too much information, too many pictures, too much, TOO MUCH, TOO MUCH!

[We interrupt this program for an ACK ATTACK! You will be returned to abnormal glob programming after a brief brain frzzzzt.]

Waiting.

Hold on. I may be getting brain freeze a message from the Cosmos.

A wee bit of adjustment to the receptors.

I feel a tingle of warmth in my nether regions the brain frzzzzt.

 

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COSMOS RECEPTORS! DO THEY MAKE MY NOSE LOOK BIG?

 

BONUS! This is my VERY FIRST SELFIE. I chose to share it with you because…

I have no pride?

Dorky or no, the Cosmos spoke to me.

YOU CAN NOT TAKE YOUR ENTIRE CAMERA ROLL, YOUR UMPTY UMP PAGES OF BRAIN BLATHER, AND PUT THEM INTO ONE POST. PICK A TOPIC AND WRITE A POST.

[Does The Cosmos speak to you in shouty caps, or is it just me?]

So, I sat myself down to write this post. I gave myself an hour. At the end of that hour, I have…

A TITLE!

[Pause for much needed mental health break.]

OK. So. That first hour was a waste productivity-challenged.

At the end of the second hour I have…

8q0smMy VERY FIRST MEME!8m899

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CAST OF CHARACTERS: Held-for-pictures More Cowbell, a purple blob, and Sir Bentley, my pal during a house-and-dog-sitting gig that comes my way occasionally.

 

By the third hour?

MY SECOND MEME!

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Jenny Jo Hansen of More Cowbell fame? I am SO very sorry I hung onto your Flat Stanley (only, not) More Cowbell so long. I have the pictures I need to support my More Cowbell posts. I’ll send him/her on to the oh-so-patient Gene Lempp.

There are all manner of nonsensical reasons reasonable explanations for my choice to avoid crafting a glob like it was a doctoral thesis. Or, a synopsis. (Equally painful, IHMO.)

For this post, I choose to post whatever pops into my noggin. (POP!)

A HOUSE IS NOT A HOME UNITL I SAY SO (POP!)

We moved. After forty days and forty nights of banging…

away on the keys of my laptop, I got my novel ready for entry in The Golden Heart (National Romance Writers of America) contest.

That was December 13th. Then, came the holidays.

Then came a long-awaited offer on our house. January and February passed in a blinkety, blink, blink. We packed the old house in January, unpacked in the new house in February.

My self-awarded degree in interior design dictated new décor items for the new HOUSE before it became a HOME.

Just sayin'...

Just sayin’…

On one of my shopping forays, I ran across this plaque.

I debated purchasing it for décor in  the new house.

Instead, I took the righteous path and sent the picture to my sisters with a Just Sayin’…

 

 

 

IT LOOKED GOOD WHEN IT WENT INTO THE BOX (POP!)

When I packed my old kitchen, I packed with shelf templates, a plan, and schematics for zones and shelf numbers in the new kitchen.

Seriously.

There were twelve zones. I cut templates fitting the sizes of the sundry shelves and drawers. When I packed, the boxes were carefully labeled for their designated location in the new kitchen.

EXAMPLE: KITCHEN, AREA 1(zone) A (shelf designation). I also listed contents of each box.

When it came time to unpack at the new house, my sisters, step-daughter, and daughter-in-law helped. Sample directive:

Q: Glo? 2B?

A: Under counter, left of stovetop, top shelf

Q: 5B?

A: Over counter, right of stove vent, middle shelf

By the end of Day One, I could have cooked a full meal in the new kitchen. It was done, done, done. By the end of Day Two, I DID cook a pot of chicken, noodles and corn with mashed potatoes. (It’s a Pennsylvania Dutch thing.) I spent the night alone in the new house while The hubster and our two Yellow Labs guarded the old one.

You see, he’d moved his gun collection to the new house — all those guns from all those years in law enforcement and deer hunting. He wanted someone in the house to guard them.

No.

I am not an expert on guns.

No.

I do not know what he expected me to do to protect his guns. It didn’t matter. I had a neat and tidy kitchen, The Grandmother of Comfort Foods, and QUIET TIME.

EXPECTATIONS DO NOT ALWAYS SYNCH WITH REALITY (POP!)

No. There is no double entendre message in that topic. Although, now that I’ve typed that…

Never mind.

Until our extended patio is finished, my work area is the kitchen island facing the stovetop and shelves.

securedownload (105)Yes. Kitchen cabinet doors were included in the house.

The doors are gone getting fitted with glass fronts.

This picture is the view from my laptop when I sat down to work.

Tap, tap, tap…

Something is “off” with shelves (counter clockwise from bottom left) 1A, 1B, 1C, 5C, 5B, 5A.

Tap, tap, tap..

I moved pops of red from shelves 5A to 1A and 1B. Green from 1A moved to 1B.

Stop.

Step back.

Study.

NOPE!

Despite having donated gazillions (GAZILLIONS, IRS! GAZILIONS!) of kitchen overflow to Goodwill and Angels Attic, I needed more pops of color. My brain would not stop obsessing until I solved my conundrum. What was wrong with this layout?

EUREKA! SOLVED! I AM NOT A SOUP TUREEN & FANCY PECAN PIEPLATE KIND OF GAL (POP!)

Hi-Ho-Hi-Ho, off to shop I go.

By the time the kitchen doors were reinstalled, I had pops of color and all the stuff that’s JUST NOT ME stuck in a kitchen overflow closet. Here is the end result:

HAPPY 1A,1B &1C

HAPPY 1A,1B &1C

SERENE 5C, 5B, 5A

SERENE 5C, 5B, 5A

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

MY WORK THERE WAS DONE

With that complete, I had time to relax on our current postage stamp masquerading as a covered patio, and reflect…

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DAGNABBIT! I still have NO BIG TOENAILS. I wonder if melted wax from a Pier One candle would…

Never mind.

The end.

SO! You have pictorial evidence of my noodle noggin at (loosely defined) work. Bottom line? MY HOUSE IS NOT MY HOME UNTIL I SAY SO. I’m still working on that.

If I missed some of your posts, I’m the loser. I cherish mornings spent checking out what y’all are plotting and planning. I miss novellas disguised as comments. I miss my Social Media Blog-o-sphere pals. Talk to me. Tell me your moving traumas. Let me know if you want that soup tureen. I’m itching for a free-to-be-me road trip. I’ll tote it to your house. Tell me your stories.

Be kind to yourselves. And, for the sake of my glee meter, give me some fodder to play with in comments. Ciao for now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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