Pinkie's Place

Skirting the issue

Enter: Spring, 2006. Skirts, that is.

I don't think these will ever fit these thighs again, so it's time to repurpose them into something functional and fun. And, what's more fun than a bag or tote?

I'll be back!

My Oma's Apron

click me ^

My Oma was a tiny thing of a woman. I remember her standing on her lawn, arms folded, looking out at her flower garden. The look of pride was unmistakable. Her light green apron would catch the wind and flop around like a kite.

She usually had a tattered tissue in one of the pockets, ready to catch a drippy nose or tearing eye. Or both.

This was sent to me in an email and it sits so true for me:

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The principal use of Grandma's apron was to protect the dress underneath, because she only had a few, it was easier to wash aprons than dresses and they used less material, but along with that, it served as a potholder for removing hot pans from the oven.

~It was wonderful for drying children's tears, and on occasion was  even used for cleaning out dirty ears.

~From the chicken coop, the apron was used for carrying eggs, fussy chicks, and sometimes half-hatched eggs to be finished in the warming oven.

~When company came, those aprons were ideal  hiding places for shy kids.

~And when the weather was cold, grandma wrapped it around her arms.

~Those big old aprons wiped many a perspiring brow, bent over the hot wood stove.

~Chips and kindling wood were brought into the kitchen in that apron.

~From the garden, it carried all sorts of vegetables. After the peas had been shelled, it carried out the hulls.

~In the fall, the apron was used to  bring in apples that had fallen from the trees.

~When unexpected company drove up the road, it was surprising how much furniture that old apron could dust in a matter of seconds.

When dinner was ready, Grandma walked out onto the porch,  waved her apron, and the men knew it was time to come in from the fields to dinner.

~It will be a  long time before someone invents something that will replace that 'old-time apron' that served so many purposes.

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Oh, fat bottom, I love you...

click on me ^

Oh how I love thee. Let me count the ways...

This baby makes me happy. I had a hard time listing her (here), but that was the whole intent and purpose behind this venture, was it not?

Sandi Henderson's Geometric in Fuchsia from her Farmer's Market line is such a stunning piece of art. The raspberry colors that are paired with the fuchsia make me hungry for cheesecake, strong coffee and a good friend.

I miss my sister.

Rumpled Sheets

I don't make my bed. I just don't see the point.

I, like countless others, publicly admit admit to being unkempt in this department. Not making your bed assures your pillow will be in a comfortable position when you get back into bed. The blankets are turned back *who needs a maid!?* and the sheet is already shifted to where it's going to shift anyway.

I'm also dedicated to not putting my back out *again*. Why bend over and run the risk? I consider it preventative medicine. Just looking out for #1.

*h.u.b.b.y. makes his side.keener.*

5 o'clock

That's the time I was rudely awoken by H.U.B.B.Y.'s freaking alarm clock. It was set to 'I am deaf' because he's been sleeping in lately. He says it's because his CPAP machine, but we both know that it's because he goes to bed at 2 am and expects to roll out of bed refreshed and happy. Well, I know that. He's in denial.

What made matters worse *what could be worse than jumping 2 feet in the air at 5 in the morning?* is that he thinks that hitting 'snooze' will gift him with more quality sleep. So, wanting lots more quality time, he hits 'snooze' 4 or 5 times. Finally, I blurted out 'K!!! Get UP already!' He did. Grrr.

Needless to say, I've been sitting here for going on 3 hours. I have 2 cups of coffee in my tummy and it's not sitting too well. I guess my stomach was still asleep. The Kid woke up at 7 *wth?* and is watching the morning funnies before I force him to eat something before school.

Today is Friday; the day I take Mother shopping.

I dread Fridays.