I have a blogging friend who sometimes thinks in bullets.

I sometimes think in bullets too, but I think my bullets are different than hers. Remember my bad hair day when I had to get my passport picture taken?

Anyway.

This time of year I get cagey. It’s cold in Kansas and it’s easy for me to start thinking weird thoughts if I don’t have a few hundred projects. So to keep myself in check, Ben and I organized our walk-in closet. (I smashed my finger during demolition and Ben had to do most of the work without me.) Then I painted an accent wall in my living room. Pictures to follow. Someday. Now I’m sewing more curtains to hang near the new orange brick color. Even more curtains will follow when I move to update our mud room. Porch actually. I live in an old crooked farmhouse where everything is reliably a half bubble off ‘a plumb and ain’t nobody ever heared of a mud room, so it’s a porch….

…about those bullets…

I think my sewing habit is fixin’ to get to me, cause this is what my world looks like through the eye of a needle…

   *so glad this camera has a micro function and my readers can’t see all the dishes I haven’t done

   *what happened to the make your house over in one day, days

   *since when did Khaki come in more than one color

   *why does Ben’s stash of chocolate taste better than mine

   *why did I just hide the wrapper under everything in the trash when I’ll tell him what I’ve done later anyway

   *if I start now…could I be a black belt by morning

   *sphnicker sphnicker

   *is that the litter box I smell or the my new favorite perfume

   *why do I have to dust my sewing machine’s parts along with everything else in this place

   *how long has that spider’s web been there

   *do these yoga pants make me look fat

   *what is it about grandkids that make grandparents try arm-farts before they get into the shower

Praise the Lord, and pass the ammunition.

What do your bullets look like?

Simply,

Sis

(Thanks to BlogHer Pic Apps for this funny pic of a guy that is bored with the woman who is sniffing. I love it.)

Take me for example. When I was shopping for perfume at 14 (under pressure to leave I might add) I chose Pearls and Lace based solely on the name. Miles down the road I started to cry and beg Mom to please make my brother turn around and let me take the perfume back ‘because I hate it, whaaaa.’ Mom had to lean on Jay, one of my older brothers, to turn around and take me back to Kmart. Finally he did. I ran in with a tear-streaked face and return it for a full refund.

My brother who was extremely funny and had the wonderful yet uncanny ability to peg people spot-on, make a quip about their pitiful downfall and surf out on the waves of laughter that usually followed. Well my friends, this day was no different and this sister was a walk in the park for his talent. After riding in the uncomfortable silence he finally quipped, “The Dr. Ruth of the perfume counter, that’s what she is.”

My mom howled. She has a beautiful musical laugh, but that day it didn’t seem so sunny. She laughed, tried to suck it up to save my feelings, then laughed some more. She may have even peed herself a little… I don’t know. I didn’t know who Dr. Ruth was or what she had to do with perfume. So I asked. Mom said she was a sex therapist. I asked what a sex therapist had to do with perfume.

Jay said, “She doesn’t know shite about sex just like you don’t know shite about buying perfume…”

That was below the belt and way too much for this girl’s fragile teenage hormones. But dead on, none the less. I still haven’t forgiven him.

Twenty years later, perfume is still a demon to me. It’s somthing I think I need because I sorely lack most things that seem lady-like, except curves, but I just can’t seem to get. And this is the year I want to get some for Valentines Day, some that makes Ben go DONG! As my friend discribes it ‘catnip for your mate’. I mean I want something that will make him jump back and kiss himself. Make him bang his head on the ground… ’cause I’m darn sure not going through the homemade G-string thing again. I tell ya that much.

With that in mind I went off in search for cat nip. I brought home no less than seven perfume papers for Ben and I to sniff. When Ben got home for supper we commenced to sniffin’. We did open-eyed sniffs, close-eyed sniffs, blind sniffs, double-blind sniffs and in the end we had decided I was still the Dr. Ruth of the perfume counter and maybe we would be better off putting them around the house like possible paint swatches to be sniffed in different lights and moods. Like a bad test at the doctors office, in a week we should know something.

In the mean time there are quite a few parallels in perfume and alcohol. I must be a perfume lightweight, after two sniffs I’m drunk and they all smell the same. The remedy is simple: drink Sex on the Beach and wear Very Sexy Dare, with names like that they’ve gotta be good.

What do you wear? What is catnip to your soul?

Do share, I need a bone here.

Simply,

Sis

If you’re looking for a normal Christmas tradition idea, you won’t find it here. In fact, you probably won’t find anything remotely normal here. Fun, funny, weird, maybe, but not normal.

This is Where’s Waldo Santa.

I made him years ago, before kids and after sanity. Some friends and I made up a bunch of different characters out of shotgun shells: Elvis, ZZ Top, Tammy Faye Baker…the sky was the limit. Some how, only Waldo made it to my house and has been hiding ever since.

Why shotgun shells? I wanted a unique Christmas tree that would fit our lodge-style home. I  finally settled on Sis’s Jingle bell ~ Shotgun Shell Christmas. Sick isn’t it? But the colors were right and Aunt Kate loved the idea. I’ll never forget what she said (with a fresh one hanging from her lip), “Ha ha ha, Kid! You can have it for the first year, but after that, it’s free game.” That year she gifted me a whole box of jingle bells and shotgun shells (with the primers punched out). She even helped me put them up while we listened to Grandma Got Ran Over By a Reindeer. It was a fabulous hillbilly-redneck Christmas.

She gifted our boys these critters that sing, dance and fart all about Christmas. Grrrrrr. But they make a great place to hide Waldo.

Since then I’ve grown up. Well maybe not. The two boys, that give this place it’s unique smell, give us a license to be silly think Where’s Waldo ROCKS! So we play it.

Here’s Waldo hiding in the eye of a buffalo.

Waldo under a turtle shell.

Waldo behind a banjo.

Waldo playing a banjo.

Waldo in the angel’s skirt.

The first Christmas, he was there.

God bless them one and all.

The point to all this is. Have fun with Christmas. If your two or 92.  Hide something. A rock, an ornament, a picture, a gift. Start a tradition whether redneck, traditional or otherwise. Live a little.

What are your traditions?

Simply,

Sis

Aunt Sissy, Ben’s sister took this embarrassing, but telling picture of me. What a mess. Thank you for that, Sis. It illistrates how I feel ever year at this time. Today, November 23, 2009 is no different. As a result of wallering in self pity I wrote this poem…

Be warned it’s awful.

So it’s almost Thanksgiving,
Preacher says to practice Thanksliving.
Try as I might, I can’t get it right.
But I’ll confess then to try to keep from sinning.

Barney says “It’s dark. My new birthday bike will sleep in the rain.”
He knows this drives me insane.
But with cries I learn, a wicked witch is the concern
Under the deck she lives…what a pain!

Traveling back from the garage I’m giddy.
My new stove is here and it’s so pretty.
But I fear as we pass from electricity to gas…
a KABOOM would be a real pity.

All my fears realized
as my life flashes before me eyes.
a huge flame sears dinner, with a @#$%^ I’m a sinner
in shock but I’m alive.

All fires put out and birthdays aside,
in shambles our dinner now lies.
Even though the calls close when chaos comes to boasts
it’s in these truth I now colide…

These precious days slip by
in less than a blink of an eye
it’s up to me to choose
joy in life’s season or in homemade hell reside?

My apologies to my friend Don, the English teacher. He is on a quest to wipe out ignorance. God bless him. My friend, know you have a long ways to go with me.  So does God for that matter. Not that your on the same …. oh never mind.

Joy.

I’ll choose joy.

It needs a title.

Sis

But, as I tell the kids, some days you just have to man up. So after taking a bit of my own medicine. I manned up and got my passport picture taken. The gentleman that took it was just that, a gentle man. The picture his fancy camera took was over exposed and nasty. Probably again no fault of his own, with flash and automatic settings and all. I’ve taken more than my fair share of bad pictures, too.

I’m sure the fact that I was almost out of nose powder and  was sweating profusely at the thought of having to get my picture taken had nothing to do with the poor quality picture. Or that it was overcast and misty that day, making my hair frizz. That had nothing to do with it either. Or the fact that I haven’t been running lately because of the weatherI’m lazy and storing fat up for hibernation surely isn’t his fault. Besides that the camera can add at least 20 pounds, right? That surely won’t affect the picture right? But the straw that broke the camera’s camel’s  back was my ding dang dong flat iron chose that day to quit working. Why God why? I’m mean really!

So, I got out Reggie and got in a little target practice at my flat iron’s expense. Then, after all that, out of pure spite, I went and got my picture taken.

 If you were expecting another money saving post this isn’t it. I spent more on ammo making sure my flat iron was dead, than a new one costs. But all that aside, one shot one kill. I feel better. Thanks for asking.

So here’s the picture that is somewhere between hell and hell near as I can tell. He took it right when I was trying to decide if I should smile or give them my mean hunter’s face. Unfortunately, my nostrils were somewhat flared and I had a deer in the headlight look. I’m sure the FBI will take one look at it and say…’nope, definitely not, she’s not getting a license, she’s a pure-d-criminal. ‘ That, coupled with the data on the day I bailed my friend Russell out of jail, there will be no hope of gaining one.

Thank God there is ways to fix pictures now days. My question is…which should I submit?

Sis the cage fighter…

“I coulda fought better, Howard…”

Sis the pirate…

“Arrrr you going to give me a license?”

Sis the flower child.

“Share the love and communism and not concealed carry licenses.”

My evil twin, she devil, SINthia…

Meow!

Okay, I’ve lost every shred of dignity I had and proved I have no future career in Photo Shop editing. To put the final nail in my coffin, please vote on which one I should submit with my paperwork.

Thank you for playing.

Sis

It’s a rainy and cold fall day outside. I love it. Rain makes me happy. Inside this old farm house it’s warm, there’s coffee in my tin cup and the wood stove is stoked. Days like this make me feel froggy. Ribb-it Pabb-it! As I sit and watch the rain fall my mind drifts to the huge gun show we went to this weekend.

I love gun shows. (You know I’m a sniper, right? And even taught Bo to shoot.) Ben loves gun shows too and the kids are starting to think gun shows are the coolest. Ben had a few ideas of what he needed. I was looking for a small pistol with a lot of punch to carry after I get my concealed carry license. (If they’ll even give me one after my episode bailing Russell out of jail.) W was looking for some throwing knives. And Barney, well, you just have to know Barney, he wasn’t looking for anything. He likes to save his ’spend’ money for a rain-er day. His forte at gun shows is visiting with folks and schmoozing them out of some free candy. Different strokes for different folks. Right?

Anyway.

 I found a sweet little shooter for a nice price and decided I probably couldn’t leave the show without it and a concealed carry holster. There are all sorts of holsters you can carry: right hand, left hand, cross draw, inside the pant outside the pant, ankle, shoulder…Well, you get the picture. If you have a body part big enough, you can strap a gun to it.

Since I’m such a petite little thing. *cough cough*  I thought I would try on an inside the pant holster. So I went to a booth with acres of holsters and fake guns to fill them and commenced to looking. It was then I had a realization. The same realization I have every time I try on a swimming suit or underclothes. Did the people the people before me wear underwear? Was is a thong? If so. How many days have they had them on? I started to panic, as I am somewhat of a germaphobe.

While I was panicking…Barney was sticking holsters in every crevice and pocket to practice his quick draw. With a “Hey Mom, watch this…Hands on da hind…Draw, Hippee!…Bap-bap-bap!…Stop or I’ll shoot…Freeze dirt bag!!!”

He watches too much Cops, I thought as I started to get dizzy. Feeling a little sick, I started digging through my purse for some hand sanitizer. That’s when another dilemma presented itself. When I finally find the hand sanitizer, is it appropriate to douse the holsters with it before trying them on? I missed that tidbit in the gun show etiquette class Ben presented us with before going in.

“Can I show you something, Ma’am?”

Oh good Lawd, here we go… 

“Uh, yeah. I’m looking for a inside the pant holster with a strong clip.”

“It doesn’t get much stronger than this one. ” He said holding out a holster as he grabbed somewhere below his belt. “It will hold it right in there for you…”

I threw up a little in my mouth.

“Uh, okay. *Glup* Can I try it on?”

That’s when he paused, looked me up and down, at Barney the Deputy, around like we were making a illegal deal and said with a shrug and a whisper…”Uh, yeah…I’ll let ya.”

I was insulted. I wanted to shout, “I’M CLEAN! I WEAR UN-DER-WEAR! FRESH ONES–EVERDAY!”

Instead. I picked up the holster and fake pistol stuffed it into my pants before he changed his mind and commenced to doing squats right there in the middle of the aisle.

Barney was gut laughing joining in squats beside me saying, “This is fun!”

Is that what you call it? Fun? It reminded me of being in a Victoria Secrets dressing room trying on underclothes while the neon sign flashes *STRIP*, the stripper music plays and the lady outside says…’remember to keep yer panties on…’ Worst day ever was more like it. Fun is not the word I would use to describe sticking something foreign in your pants, contorting yourself into erotic positions in front of thousands of people while your six year old gut laughs and shoots bad guys.

To make matters worse, my self respect, self image and any hopes of dickering well lay scattered around me like the bleeding hoodlums Barney had just shot in his imagination. Today there would be no haggling about money. No dickering. No ‘is that yer friendliest price?’ I had been robbed of my dignity while trying to protect myself.

I paid the asking price and was walking back over to Ben while trying to figure out how long it takes before you know you have some sort of venereal-holster disease.

“Did you get it?’

“Yep.”

“Cool, can I see it? Sexy! You gonna wear it to bed?”

Normally that would be funny, but I threw up in my mouth. Again!

The next day Ben’s friend came over.

“Can I shoot yer new gun Sis? I brought some ammo!”

“Sure, Chucky, go right ahead.”

“Is it okay if I try it on?”

What was I supposed to say? Remember to keep your panties on? I was feeling dirty, like I was some kind of a pistol pimp. I would have to change his name from Dr. Reginald to just plain old Reggie.

“That would be fine, if you would just shoot me first.” I said, looking around for a sword to fall on.

Simply,

Sis

SINthia

PS ~ Shoot low, Sheriff, they’re riding shetlands. Yeah Baby! The evil twin is back. (If you haven’t had a taste of my bi-polarness, you can check it out here.) Sis is such a pistol packing panty-waist. That’s why I try to drag her to all the gun shows I can. Lord knows she doesn’t go to Victoria Secrets anymore. The next gun show I drag her to will be like this one…

It was eight o’clock Halloween night, 2002. I was nine months pregnant with Deputy Barney and W was three then, singing and splashing around in his bath when the phone rang. I closed the door to the bathroom when I went to answer it.

“Hello…”

“B, it’s your mother.” She was crying. I knew that Dad’s battle with sclerosis of the liver had ended.

“What happened, Mom?”

“It’s…it’s not your Dad…It…it’s Jay. He’s dead.”

Jay was my older brother.

“Oh no, Mom. What happened?”

“A car wreck….”

I was absolutely devastated. I felt like there was an gigantic elephant standing on my chest and if I were to let my breath out, I would never be able to draw another one. Why Jay? Why not Dad, he was the one suffering. Why now? Wasn’t a job transfer, selling a house, having a baby and a sick Dad enough for one family to deal with? My relationship with God was an infant at most, at that point. To tell you the truth, I didn’t know if it would survive my anger with this loss.

I got off the phone and put in a quick call to Ben to tell him, then got busy getting W out of the tub and into some jammies for a midnight drive to Nebraska. I was trying not to cry and just kept saying over and over to myself, “Oh, God, I don’t know if I can do this…”

“Mo Mo (Elmo) slippers, please,” W said around his finger he was sucking.

He loved his Elmo slippers. He couldn’t put them on by himself, no matter how long he tried, but regardless he loved them. The phone rang again and I said, “W, you’ll have to try to get the slippers on all by yourself. You can do it.” He started crying and saying “I can’t.” I left the room, closing the door again to answer the phone.

It was Ben telling me he could have all the time off we needed and that he would be home soon to drive us to Nebraska.

When I got back into W’s room. The Mo Mo slippers were on. W sat happily bouncing his foot and sucking his finger.

“Oh, Babe, you got them on all by yourself. Good for you…”

“Yeah, Uncle Jaybird helped me.”

“What?” I said, gasping for air and looking around at the empty room.

“Uncle Jaybird helped me, cause I couldn’t do it myself.”

“He did?”

“Yeah,” he said softly, totally content.

“Where is Uncle Jaybird now?”

W giggled, pulled his wet finger from his mouth to point beside me and said, “He’s right there, Monnie.”

“How does he look?” I whispered.

“Fine.”

“Does–does he look broken?” I choked.

“No, he looks whole.” W said.

He looks whole. The exact words I needed to hear right then. I couldn’t imagine my vivacious brother, being thrown from a vehicle and broken beyond belief by the impact of landing a long ways from his car. Whole, I thought. I wish I were whole. I’ll never be whole again.

“Is he still here?” I asked, wanting to throw my arms around the air and hug tightly, never to let go.

“Yes, W said giggling again. Can’t you see him?”

“No. What’s he doing?”

“Smiling.”

It was right at that moment I knew I was going to make it. Even though I was beyond sad and on the verge of total collapse, death was no boundary for God.

Two Bible verses popped into my mind. Verses I had hidden away in my heart as a child, then forgotten.

“You shall mount up on the wings of eagles…you shall run and not grow weary…For the LORD, your God, is with you.” and “My grace is sufficient for you…for MY power is my great in your weakness.” (My paraphrase.)

That was just God telling me: neither death nor life, angels or demons, past, present, or future could keep me, Jay or anyone for that matter, from his love. And whatever box, in all my humanness, I had built around Him, was no bounds for His greatness.

That was seven years ago.

I still miss my brother. Some days I feel cheated that my kids and grand kids will never know his humor and love for life. I don’t know why some people’s days are shorter than others. I don’t know why bad things sometimes happen to good people. I don’t understand why there are so many people who have babies they don’t want, when there’s so many who want babies they can never have. I don’t know why.

I have come to know God’s perspective is way different that mine. The Bible says ‘My ways are not your ways…’ Duh! That statement isn’t enough for me some days. I still want to know why. I try to read the Bible everyday. Some days that leaves me with peace but no answers. After I read the fiction book ”The Shack” (I reviewed it here) I gained understanding. Through the words of that book, I now understand that God is three persons, in one. I know, as humans, we are limited to the three dimensions of this life, but someday we will see and understand the perpetual dimensions of eternity. I’ve come to know, this side of heaven, this human won’t have all the answers. At best, this sinner, will have a relationship with a compassionate God who sheds his love and grace on me when I most need His mercy. And, as promised, has never given more than I can handle.

That faith, in these truths, my friends, is simply enough!

Sis

PS ~ I don’t collect much stuff. The one thing I do collect is stories, like this one. If you have one PLEASE share it with me. Write it down in an email and send it to me sis(at)reclaimsimplicity.com. In the process I hope you find God’s peace.

…take pictures of naked maters and streaking taters.

Did you know it’s hard to take a good picture of a steaking poatato?

Talk about the top of the list of things I never thought I would say.

It’s not my fault. My boys took away all my sense and left me with the idea that taking pictures of a potato with a bad case of ”crumb butt” (as the kids say) is a good idea. And I believed them.

Welcome to my world.

Sis

My favorite thing to do is dicker. Haggle. Barter. Bargain. Horse trade. Whatever you call it, I like it. Lucky for me the world is full of opportunities to do it with garage sales, estate sales, thrift stores, Craig’s List, and flea markets at ever turn.

My dad came from a long line of horse traders so I got to watch world class dickering first hand. Not that I’m a world class dicker-er, but. And that’s a big butt…I did pick up a few tricks along the way.

You have to try. If it hair lips the queen, ask. The worst thing they can do is say no. I like to say, “Is that your friendliest price?” Some folks say, “Is that the best you can do?” or “Would you take less?” or “Can I leave an offer and if you don’t sell it you can call me?” All of these work. I just prefer “Is that your friendliest price.”

Have an idea of what you want to pay. I’m cheap, and have a long list when I go to garage sales and only so much in my garage sale envelope so usually can come up with a top dollar that I’m willing to pay.

Be willing to walk. Don’t be married to what you have your eye on. People can pick up on your body language, so keep your cool. There is always a better deal waiting down the road. Good deals happen all the time, just looked on Craig’s List when you get home.

Be nice.Smile. Have fun. Make it a win-win if you can. If they say no or start whining about how good the price is already or how they just opened or how could get a better price. That’s okay. I just say something like, “It’s a nice piece, but for that price I think I’ll pass. Thanks for considering it.” I’m always surprised when they come down after that.

Take cash. It’s an instant lock on the deal.

Okay, ready to see it in action?

My good buddy and I had successfully pawned off six out of seven children on our husbands and we were off to hit every garage sale in the big city…life was good and the buffet dinner we had for lunch was even better. We were wrapping up our day and pulled up at one last garage sale that was just closing. “This is perfect,” I thought, “Who wants to haul all their crap back into their garage?”

We got out and starting looking. Said friend, had picked up a few things right away. Outside of commenting on a couple old stadium seats, I was acting coy and uninterested.

“You’ve got a lot of games ahead of you, Mamacita. Those stadium seats would be nice,” she said. (She calls me Mamacita. I LOVE THAT. It reminds me of something my dad would say.)

I walked on. She paid. We were leaving and almost to her van and I asked over my shoulder…

“Is that your friendliest price on the stadium seats?” (Three dollars each. I was going to take them if he would come down to five for both.)

The guy giggled. I knew this was going to be fun.

“Friendliest price… *sphnicker sphnicker sphnicker* What did I have on them?” He said walking toward the seats.

“Oh, I don’t know, three dollars I think…

Still smiling he said, “Three dollars. That’s pretty friendly. My wife and I used to watch our kids play ball on those…”

Oh, he’s good I thought, bringing up the personal side.

Then suddenly, like a snickers bar floating in the swimming pool…”IF YOU DON’T BUY THEM, I WILL!!!” It was the lady I rode with…bellering.

Oh no she didn’t! Oh yes, my friends she did. I thought I had been shot. I’ve never felt so utterly betrayed. What could I do? I did the only thing I could…

“SSSSSHHHH!” I said, snatching up the seats and throwing my money of my shoulder. All six dollars of it.“Shuuud-up! See if I ever take you garage saling again. What were you thinking? What the…? Are you kidding me? Trader! Who’s team are you on? With friends like you…”

The friendly little man was holding himself and laughing uncontrollably. “Thanks and come back anytime.”

Loser. He should have paid us six dollars for the show.

“Don’t you know how to dicker?”

All the way home I heard…

“I’m so sorry. OMG I can believe I just did that. Oh…Mamacita…I’m so sorry.”

There it was again. That name she called me. That’s probably what saved her.

“Don’t ever do that to me again.”

“Will you forgive me?”

“Can I put this on my blog?”

“Will you leave my name out?”

“Maybe. What’s it worth to ya?”

“Six dollars.”

“Is that your friendliest price?”

When it comes to dickering, she’s a fast learner.

Do you dicker?

Simply,

Sis

I love quilts.

They used to be a chronicle of every day simple life. A time when folks didn’t ‘quit on a garment, just cause it had a little age.’ Instead, passing it from one person to another, maybe rebuilding with patches or letting out the hem when a growth spurt hit just before the harvest. Until finally the good parts of what was left found their way into a quilt and the tattered remains found their way to the rag bag. Then favorite outfits, along with flour sacks and other scraps were pieced together into a quilt, making a simple mattress an artistic memory that covered LIFE anything from sickness to romance, exhaustion to dreams.

Today, it’s different. Speciality shops house beautiful fabrics and the possibilities are endless. I love to sew, but have found, I’m no quilter. This is my first and last quilt, made from old blue jeans in a pattern called grandma’s flower garden.

My grandma didn’t quilt either. In anticipation of her grand-kids marrying, she bought the fabric and asked her sister, Aunt Bill, to lovingly stitch.

 Aunt Bill, an artist, made a sampler quilt and reserved one block to design herself….she named it ‘Eu e Tu’, Portuguese for ‘You and I’. Having spent 27 years in the jungles of Brazil as a missionary, she learned to speak Portuguese. I love that! When she is talking and can’t come up with an English word to fully express herself, she uses Portuguese. Then spends minutes in English, describing what could be said in a moment in Portuguese.

When she gave me the quilt, on behalf of my grandma, who had passed by the time I was married. She said, “Love, this quilt is called Eu e Tu, You and I. It isn’t like one would say, ‘you and I will go to the store’. No, Love, this is an intimate you and I, like one lover would say to another, or possibly what a mother would say to a child suckling at her breast. Very intimate…”

The quilt is beautiful, and I enjoyed it much while I had it. Using it daily, an expression of gratitude, for a priceless gift. Sadly, the quilt has been missing for six years and this is all I have left to remember it by…

 A hand stitched sign, naming the different squares. How could this happen? I can’t be trusted! How could I lose such a precious family heirloom? Fire? Tornado? No, we have simply moved three times since then and it has never turned up. I have searched, cried, prayed and found NOTHING. Sometimes there’s nothing worse than nothing.

A few days ago I finally called the lady who bought our house from us six years ago. The conversation went something like this…

“…I know this phone call is probably six years too late, but I was wondering….did I leave a quilt in your house?”

The silence on the other end was deafening. Then I heard a door opened and she said, “Would you have left it in the hall closet?”

“No, master bedroom closet.”

“Master bedroooooom? No, I’m sorry, nothing up there. But, I think you left some stuff in the hall closet. I didn’t need all this space, so I don’t know what’s in here exactly (rustling of pastic…) …Is it blue…white…maroon…and pink? I DO have it, would you like it back? Hello? Hellooo!”

*Sis face up on the floor.*

Sill beautiful after all this time.

Eu e Tu!

I guess it’s true, when you love something you have to let it go, and if it returns to you….then it’s yours. Sigh!

Oh for heaven’s sake! I think I’m going to throw up. I have never been a romantic. Regardless of my shortcomings in the romance department…I am thankful that WHATEVER makes up the definition of this strange phrase. Eu e Tu, IS what makes up my relationship with Ben. However, elusive and hard to describe.

You and I, to me, is deep and wide, rock solid, dirty and delicious, bang yer head on the ground good, and causes me sigh with giddiness even on the worst days. “I do!” Some more! To the moon and back. That pretty well COVERS it.

Simply,

Sis

PS. We are having some growing pains here at Reclaim Simplicity…This was originally posted in February 2009, lost in blog purgatory, and posted again today. Please bear with me as we make our way through some funky changes. Many Thanks ~ Sandhill Sis.