June Cleaver Nirvana

Today's "potluck" is super-sized. Guaranteed to cause artery cloggage and heartburn. Sounds super great...like you want more? Yeah! It's double the fun "potluck" day!

I am offering the following food for your pleasure consumption if you dare: mushy, multi-colored hard boiled eggs (you think I wouldn't serve such a thing?) and left over single serving mac & cheese (please don't ask why I have left-overs from a SINGLE serving). Mmmmmm....dig in. It's like I saved all the good food for another potluck. Weird.

Alrighty, Google has really been up to no good this week. I received a visitor who googled, "getting green grass", another "can't reach my feet how do I paint my toes" and a third, "funny definition of potluck". Yep, the great Google joke sending those poor readers here only to receive no help. Bad Google. I can't keep a houseplant alive, let alone grow green grass. Bad Google. I don't have the coordination to paint my own toes, let alone yours. Bad Google. I can't define potluck, let alone assure it is funny. Bad Google.

Once again the I.F.P.A. (Institute For Potluck Advancement) has the following super informative announcement:
Double your potluck, Double your fun!

Something that has made me laugh every time I think of it is Limbic Resonance's assessment of Target's new supermodel line. It is very ironic.

Every morning as a testament to great advertising, Rhett runs through the kitchen yelling, "ANCAKE UFF! ANCAKE UFF! ANCAKE UFF!" Which through careful mommy translation equals...of course, pancake puff. How can I turn the TV of his obsession off? I am about to have a pancake puff riot on my hand.

And now another message from the great brains of the IFPA:
Potluck, the ultimate driving machine
Holy crap, now they are ripping me off while I blatantly steal from others...they must be stopped.

I was thinking how grand it has been to have gone 7 years without a sitting in a useless committee meeting. Being a stay at home mom may have it's dull, idle moments, but none of them compare to sitting in a room with a bunch of people from work discussing a bunch of nothing only to vote on something inconsequential. Maybe I will hold one here at the house today just for the fun of it. I could be in charge because I am the mommy.

I am off to the land of IKEA today. This is good for you. I have never gone to IKEA without years worth of stories...so keep your fingers crossed that history repeats itself. (I am sure you will be RUSHING back tomorrow for that!)

Wow, that "potluck" was really fun. I just wish there was another one going on somewhere else...

Oh hi! Betcha thought I forgot to post today. Nope. I have been deep in the bowels of this:

Holly's closet: 10
Holly: 0

We took a train ride back in time...
to log cabin village.
We watched a blacksmith
and ran along tree covered paths.
I wouldn't trade my washing machine for this...
but would love an herb drying cabin in my backyard.
We watched the waterwheel splash
which made the mill work.



Fast forward a century and a bit to Lunar golf.





Who knows what today holds...


Join our tour guide Sarcastic Mom for some more journeys along the time-space-place continuum.

Happy Friday Frump-No-Mores!

Today we are expanding on our lesson from last week. Because here at the Nirvana, I aim to beat a dead horse explore frump fighting to it's fullest. Last week we discussed how a room full of dead people and a house full of monkeys inspired me to stalk George Clooney at Target. All right, that may not have been the best summary, but I have a short attention span.

I started working on this post yesterday afternoon. Well, not actually THIS post because what I was working on was even worse then THIS so I dumped it. BUT in the middle of my brilliant thought a very LOUD sound enveloped my house. FIRE ALARM. Not just one, but all the smoke detectors were going off. I ran upstairs and grabbed my children and ran outside to designated meeting place in case of fire. No smoke. No fire. Very loud noise. I finally called the fire department's NON-emergency number and explained what was happening. 4 minutes later sirens blaring the fire truck arrived with 5 firemen in full fire gear. 4 minutes later the ambulance was on the scene with 2 more men jumping out of emergency vehicle. So, in the course of 10 minutes I now had 7 of our city's bravest searching my house (crap! my closet) and reporting back to me. It was not George Clooney, but really...I was glad I wasn't clothed in fuzzy robe and slippers.*

This week in Colorado another almost-George Clooney moment happened over at Eat, Play, Love when fellow frump fighters holding a play date ended up on the evening news. It turned out great because they looked just adorable, but it makes you think...what would happen if news cameras found you at the park?

So how do you become O.I.A.B.I.G.C.A.T. (Oh! I Accidentally Bumped Into George Clooney At Target) ready?

I will take my inspiration from one of the greatest films of all time. A cinematic masterpiece. A movie with few rivals: What About Bob? Yes, What About Bob! Bob is diagnosed crazy, but an excellent therapy student. He constantly reminds himself out loud and under his breath through just about any task, "Baby steps, baby steps to the...." Baby steps is what we need! Baby steps ensures that change happens slowly. Baby steps keeps wild swings in check. Baby steps helps keep clothing budgets under control.

Today's baby step I am advocating is T-shirt replacement. One of the mommy staples is the plain T-shirt or the slogan T-shirt *shudder*. Bye, bye slogan T's. Now let's make a plan upgrade the plain ones...

I am shopping for plain t-shirt alternatives. I want to find things that just step-up the style without giving up comfort.

Consider exhibit A:
This is an eyelet shirt from Target (I think it was $17.99). Please excuse the wrinkles...I pulled it out of the laundry to photograph it. I doubt Martha Stewart has ever done that. Anyway, I have washed it multiple times. It washes really well, requires no ironing, is really comfortable and an upgrade from my usual T-shirt.

Consider exhibit B:
This is a polo shirt by Bitten. It retails for $7.99. Karla introduced this line in one of the first Fight the Frump Fridays. I was very skeptical because I have a long torso and ANY shrinkage will cause an ordinary shirt to become a belly shirt on me. I have washed this several times and it still fits like it did the first time. I love the sleeves. They have a little gathering on the top to make it a bit more feminine.

Please join Fussy and friends for more fight the frump. Please look to upgrade your t-shirts. Please let me know if you run into George Clooney or a suitable replacement...


*The conclusion of that story was the the fire chief saying, "Hmmmm. We have never seen anything quite like that. You need to get an electrician out to see why the alarms are activated." That isn't good news. Thank God I looked cute.

I am linking to my fabulous friend Marcy at the Glamorous Life to show how absolutely fabulous my house looks (if you keep all the closet doors shut) for this week's G.I.R.L. party!






Dear Nirvana Reader,

I come to you. Not because others have. I come to you to tell my story of havoc. I come to you to not for sympathy. Bah Humbug on sympathy. I don't need any therapeutic talk. My life delights me.

I am Holly's toy closet.

I am situated next to the living room in a convenient location under the stairs. My expanse is great. My ceilings are angled. Holly designed me with 5 shelves filled with wicker baskets and enough space to accommodate books standing in a row. She covered my concrete floor with a fluffy play-friendly rug. Because of my handy location I am an obvious catch-all. When the doorbell rings...my door opens and toys get thrown into me at a pace that would rival a major league pitch. That makes sense. It is good to have a place to hide things temporarily.

Every once in awhile my perky hostess takes an afternoon to sort me out. She pulls all the toys out into the entry. Sorts them by shape, color and age suitability. She sends 80% of my contents to who knows elsewhere and then packs me naively back with the wicker baskets and Brother P-touch labels into pristine condition.

This girl. She isn't just a half-full kind of person. She is a "it really looks like it might be 3/4 full and I am going to sip slowly and enjoy it, but I am sure there is more" kind of person. What a load of optimistic crap.

Let us have a reality check. THREE BOYS. MILLIONS OF TOYS. Three boys whose millions of toys have millions of pieces. Millions of pieces, Oh the joy! Boys. Toys. Pieces. Joy!

So I ask what is the point of the toy sort? Why does she waste her time? She doesn't know my nature. I live on chaos. Messy is my middle name...Holly's MESSY Toy closet (I guess Messy is my first name). Whatever. What do I care. I am a mess. I can take a pristine toy sort and turn it into toy hell in less then 15 minutes. Don't think I can't. Don't underestimate me. Let me prove it:


Boys. Toys. Pieces. JOY!

Oh, the sight of me just makes me happy. But what tickles me even more is the horrified gasp and naughty word muttering that happens every time Holly opens the door. Now that is worth my existence. Don't pity me. I am in a good place.

Lovingly,
Holly's messy toy closet of the devil
P.S. Where are Maisy's pants?

Rhett(2) woke up 3 days ago speaking in complete sentences. It wasn't that he wasn't talking. He would jabber on through binkied mouth in phrases and repeated words about 20 % distinguishable to the non-relative ear. So imagine my surprise when he walked up to me first thing in the morning and said:

"Reid hit me in the head!"

I nearly cried. How beautiful! His first sentence. Subject-check. Verb-check. Bonus points for the prepositional phrase. I let it rest for an hour or so. I just wanted to soak in the amazement. Later I smelled something foul and asked Rhett if he had stinky pants. He replied:

"No, Grandma changed me."

I nearly cried. How beautiful! His second sentence. Subject-check. Verb-check. Bonus points for the exclamation. I let it rest for an hour or so. I just wanted to soak in the amazement. Later he walked into the kitchen. He announced:

"I go in car. I go in fiiiiiiive minutes."

I nearly cried. How beautiful! His first two sentence combination. Subject-check/check. Verb-check/check. Bonus prepositional phrase-check/check. I also felt like I needed to award additional points for catchy phrasing and dramatic delivery.

Let's take inventory of his first 4 sentences. His life is in peril. He resourcefully recruits help as needed. He is on the move. He is giving me warning. This is a pretty clear and concise picture of his world here at casa de Nirvana.

I am hiding the car keys and my cell phone. I have no idea what skills he will master or what he might say next...

I am a realistic girl. I have 3 boys. I believe I am more then blessed. Blog-Stedman and I are NOT going for #4 in attempt to "get a girl". The only way I get a girl is to obtain a daughter-in-law. I now have the extremely important task of raising my boys well. So well, that well-rounded, intelligent, common-sense-laden girls will be attracted to them.

I have been brainwashing the boys that I will choose a wife for them. This way when I back down and just request veto power it will look reasonable. All in the master plan...mwah. ha. ha...

In my quest to raise quality girl bait, I am teaching the obvious manners. I have encountered some less obvious areas that I need to work on here at the house with the boys. These are things that may be age appropriate now, but would be serious red flags to any girl worth her salt.

Here is my list of things that might be OK at 2-4 years old, but definitely NOT even remotely OK at 24 years old:

1. Binkys, sippy cups, and only eating on plastic plates.
2. Sleeping in a crib.
3. Running down to mommy and daddy's bed in the middle of the night and climbing in.
4. Sitting on mommy's lap while she pees.
5. Hanging out with mommy while she is in the shower.
6. Screaming "wipe me!" after pooping on the potty.
7. Enjoying a good "potty dance" as performed by mommy.
8. Peek-a-boo games with everyone.
9. Requesting food be cut into small pieces.
10. Bathing in a small tub with 2 other brothers.
11. Sneaking to eat toothpaste from the tube.
12. Calling McDonald's "Old McDonalds".
13. Eating "regular food" only to qualify for dessert status.
14. Wearing a blue power ranger suit 24/7.
15. Wearing Transformer underwear.
16. Wearing footed PJs.
17. Tricycle is only means of independent transportation.
18. Believing the finest food is served at Chuck E. Cheese.
19. Throwing tantrums on a whim.
20. Still living with mommy and daddy.

CRAP. I didn't account for the obvious red flag of future mother-in-law with a detailed trapping plan...

Hip, hip hooooooooray for potluckday! Someday, dear reader you will turn to your children and say, "I remember when Potluckday used to be called Monday".

There is a little legal information that I am obligated to post. The I.F.P.A. (Institute For Potluck Advancement) has written me a letter containing a cease and desist order on my negative comments regarding their job performance. I have accepted. In exchange they are not posting last week's ACTUAL menu that I served to my family. That is blackmail fair.

I am contributing egg salad, eggs ala goldenrod over toast, hard boiled eggs and deviled eggs for the potluck today. Do not be disturbed by the altered color of these food items. They were made from the 3 dozen eggs my children colored. M'm. M'm good. Who doesn't love a pink and blue egg salad?



I received one dear reader this week from googling, "says I am abusive". Now, I want to clarify that I wasn't the one who said that. Good luck to you in your search. And to Google...thanks for throwing me under the bus.

Oh goody, the IFPA is presenting this on my behalf:
Potluck, exciting and new
Come Aboard. We're expecting you.
Potluck, life's sweetest reward.
Let it flow, it floats back to you.
The Potluck soon will be making another run
The Potluck promises something for everyone
Set a course for adventure,
Your mind on a new romance.
Potluck won't hurt anymore
It's an open smile on a friendly shore.
Yes Potluck! It's Potluck!
Potluck soon will be making another run
The Potluck promises something for everyone
Set a course for adventure,
Your mind on a new romance.
Potluck won't hurt anymore
It's an open smile on a friendly shore.
It's Potluck! It's Potluck! It's Potluck!
It's the Potluck-ah! It's the Potluck-ah!

This is what happens when a squirrel runs through my backyard:


Reid(4) has been hounding me to time him while brushing his teeth. They lost the three timers that the dentist gave them so I usually just tell the boys when to start and stop. Last night, exasperated I said, "why don't you just sing the ABC song in your head. When you finish, you can stop brushing your teeth." Reid replied, "how do you sing in your head?" So I tried to show him. I mouthed the words while bobbing my head. He watched a moment and then smiled widely saying, "I hear it!"

The strikingly handsome guys of the IFPA have requested that I post this definition of potluck. It was handed down in a ruling over at Rachael's after she posed the question if it was really a potluck if only tea was served. Their reply: "Any mention of food qualifies for potluck participation. Food is defined as any mention of something edible, something that might be edible or something perceived to be edible. All liquids used for drinking also qualify except for water.*
*Water qualifies when used as a meal replacement or as prescribed by a medical professional. For example: Rachael was too sick to eat, but took sips of WATER. In this case Rachel qualifies for potluck participation." As reported at Always Wanted 4 a potluck manual will be issued soon.


I was recently listening to XM radio in my minivan. They were playing Food Network shows like Rachel Ray and Sandra Lee. Let's take inventory on what senses are actually being used when LISTENING to the Food Network:
smell-nope
taste-nope
sight-nope
touch-nope
hearing-yep, but there really isn't much talking on some of those shows, all you hear is sizzle, bang, "Ooooo that looks great!", sizzle. bang. scrape. "mmmmm".
NOT EFFECTIVE PEOPLE! Who came up with this bright idea? What is next, audio fishing?

Meet my sweet Abilene...Is it coincidence or good taste? The coincidences continue with Jen this week after she received amazing news--Congratulations. You can now add Texas to the list of things we share...3 boys, radiology, bulldogs, being super cute...will the similarities ever end?

Please don't neglect my friends in the pink box. I still don't have a blogroll...I know! I know! So visit the hand-picked, laugh coffee out your nose choices updated constantly in the super-fab box to the right. That didn't sound quite right. I want to clarify that I don't actually hand pick the coffee out of your nose...

A windy day at the lake...


Holding grandma's hand...

Let's play a game...


Higher mommy, higher...

And now for the Easter portion of today's presentation:
Here is Holly's picture of the Easter bunny and her children...
Where are her children? Oh, didn't you know the Easter bunny is scary and menacing? Her children are on the trampoline behind the Easter bunny (a safe distance).

Let's color eggs...



Clean up, clean up, everybody clean up...


Happy Easter everyone...celebrate by visiting more pictures at our lovely hostess, Lotus @ Sarcastic Mom.

Boys peer at dog through dry cleaner's window (bonus reflection material: 2/3 of me and 1/3 of the minivan).

The first summer of physical therapy school is a big deal. It is THE summer of Gross Anatomy. Every morning was a four hour lecture. Every afternoon was a 4 hour cadaver lab. It was intense. It was stressful. It was fascinating. I soon found that I loved the art of dissection. I loved the lab. The following summer I enthusiastically accepted a position as a Gross Anatomy Lab Instructor for the incoming class. Every day was an 8+ hour day in the cadaver lab.

The lab had it's own environment. The smell of preservation chemicals permeated any item that was in the building. There was no removing the stench from clothing. After being there I got used to it. I had a set of clothes that was lab attire ONLY. I showered and washed my hair AFTER the day. Each morning I got up, put my hair in a pony tail, put on the designated stinky clothes and headed out the door.

At the end of the summer, the lab instructors joined the students for an end of anatomy class celebration. I showered, applied make-up, wore my hair down and put on normal clothing. I was NOT recognized by my own students. The students I had spent 4+ hours a day with the entire summer. After I re-introduced myself, one of them said with shock, "wow, your hair is actually kinda pretty!"

"I have this refrain about the monkey house at the zoo. When you first enter into the monkey house at the zoo, you think, ‘Oh my god this place stinks!’ And then after you’re there for 20 minutes you think, ‘it’s not so bad’ and after you’re there for an hour it doesn’t smell at all. And anyone entering the monkey house freshly thinks, ‘this stinks!’ You've been living in the monkey house." -Tim Gunn on Project Runway as advice to a contestant who was trimming his fashion line with human hair.

Have we as mommies lived in the monkey house of our appearance too long? Have we become unrecognizable as ourselves once we leave our home lab?

How are you to know if you are in the monkey house?
Good question! I have the answer for you (you are shocked, aren't you?).

You need to take the Holly's O.I.A.B.I.G.C.A.T.T. (Oh! I Accidentally Bumped Into George Clooney At Target Test). It is simple. It is effective. It is genius. Just pretend that whatever you are assessing (your hairstyle, purse, outfit, PJ's, sweat pants) will be seen tomorrow when you accidentally bump into George Clooney at Target. It is Target so no Oscar attire is necessary. It makes you think twice about that decision doesn't it? Would you have changed anything if you had advance notice that he would be there?

If we all used the OIABIGCATT system then we could officially call ourselves frump free, released from the monkey house and ready to join the living. Please visit Fussy and friends for more fight the frump.

Oh, and when you DO bump into George Clooney at Target, try to act surprised...

On Tuesday I made a serious scientific discovery.

I found that rain causes this:
And rain causes this:
And rain causes this:
And rain causes this:
And rain causes this:
And rain causes this:

My hypothesis: Thunder storms cause interior toy migration that is both random and epic in nature.

Dear Nirvana Reader,

I need to tell my story. I come to you because others have. They reported back that venting may not have changed HER ways, but was therapeutic.

I will start with a little about myself. I am a DaysAgo Timer. I attach by magnet or suction cup to various items and keep track of how many days ago you opened it, watered it, packaged it, etc. I am super handy. I am super cute. I am ingenious.

I was featured on Oprah and in Real Simple magazine the same week. That is where Holly saw me. That is where my troubles began. She zipped onto my website, ordered me and 10 of my closest friends and 3 days later we were hers. She distributed my friends as gifts and kept me.

She seemed nice enough. She was perky. She enthusiastically embraced me and my mission. She popped me onto a can and put me in the fridge.

47 days later she cleaned out the fridge, disposed of the can I was occupying and reset me onto another can.

64 days later she cleaned out the fridge, disposed of the can I was occupying and reset me onto another can.

83 days later she cleaned out the fridge, disposed of the can I was occupying and reset me onto another can.

Then I didn't hear from her. At. All. Hello? Hello? Hello? Is Holly out there? It's cold and dark (just when the door is closed--the light REALLY does go off) in here. It has been so long.

The light goes on. The light goes off. The light goes on.

She notices me. She picks me up. She takes me out of the fridge. She stares at me:
Yes, I am stuck on "99". It has been so long that I have lost track of time. I know I am a timer. I get that. I was only programmed for 2 digits people. I was totally unprepared to live this nightmare.

So an indescribable number of days later she cleaned out the fridge, disposed of the can I was occupying and reset me onto another can.

Are you kidding me? My life is ground hog day.

Chillingly yours,
Holly's DaysAgo timer

P.S. Did I just hear Holly announce to the boys that they were having pizza buns for lunch? She must be stopped.

Tootsie Farklepants of Vintage Thirty fame has tagged me with a vague, but cool six word memoir meme. She is a bit fuzzy on the details but from what she describes, I'm supposed to sum up my life in six words. No more. No less.

I am a girl who doesn't want to reinvent the wheel (I couldn't work that into 6 words so it is OUT). So I thought I would look to those bigger, brighter and better paid. I am hoping to steal re-work something to fit the 6 words and sum up my life. Here are a few I am considering:

Holly--Good to The Last Drop
Holly really is the Real Thing
Holly's life is Finger lickin’ good.
Because I'm worth it, I'm Holly
Holly is The ultimate driving machine
Holly's got it, Holly flaunts it
Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, Holly IS!
Holly--Try her, you'll like her
Don't leave home without Holly
Holly's life--greatest show on earth
It's Holly,....it's gotto be good
Life as Holly: M'm, M'm, good.
A little Holly will do you
Where there's life there is Holly
Holly's life--home of the Whopper
Holly keeps going, and going'n...going
Holly brings good things to light
Holly is art. Holly is science.
Holly tastes great. Holly's less filling.
Holliness is next to Godliness

So many of those are so close, but just not right. I need to look a little further. Something that really expresses who I am. What my life means. Something like:

Rooty, tooty, Holly's fresh and fruity

Oh so close!

Looks like I am going to have to put forth a little effort here. It isn't really easy to sum up a life in a book, let alone 6 words. I am writing my own. None of those express the amazing life that I get to live. None of those capture the beauty that surrounds me. None of those relate the gratitude I hold.

It's not especially catchy. It's not written by a marketing team. It's not capable of moving product. It is:

Waking daily to live my dream

That sums it up.
Hey, I might be able to sell a few mattresses with that...

I am tagging the following people (please don't be mad, it's ONLY 6 words):
JCK at Motherscribe
Jodi at Slow Panic
Ron at R World
CCE at Mad Marriage
Angela at Reality Testing
Happy Campers at Reese's View

Hip, hip hooray...it is Monday! Monday can only mean one thing. If you look Monday up in the dictionary, you see the definition: POTLUCK.

Today's potluck is a celebration. Why? The Nirvana made Fussy's Linkapalooza for my Fight the Frump post on Friday. In honor of this momentous occasion today's potluck will be held on cloud 9. That would be the actual cloud 9, not the shady looking strip club off the freeway just outside of Abilene with the same name. Which brings me to broach this sensitive subject...
One of you arrived after googling, "Nude photos of Mrs. June Cleaver". Now, I am just going to turn my back and you may leave quickly and quietly and we will forget this all happened. I think we all know that those types of searches are just wrong. Thank you. Oh, don't you just love, love, love the new graphics for that segment? Thanks to the genius of Nap Warden all my crazy whims come true.

I have even swept the floor (just in case Fussy or any of her friends drop in) and it is Frito free:
For today's potluck I am contributing my world famous animal shaped Belgium waffles.
You may choose from a barn, a rooster, a cow or another different shaped cow. You must choose quickly or my shapist children will leave you with this:
Yes, this is the dreaded headless cow. For some reason headless animals are shunned. I can not properly correlate this since the first thing my children do is eat the head. I try to push the headless animals with the catchy slogan, "just think of it as bite 2".

Please excuse the interruption by the I.F.P.A. (Institute For Potluck Advancement):
My baby he don't talk sweet
He ain't got much to say
But he loves me, loves me, loves me
I know that he loves me anyway

And maybe he don't dress fine
But i don't really mind
Because every time he pulls me near
I just want to cheer

Lets hear it for the potluck
Lets give the potluck a hand
Lets hear it for my potluck
You know you potluck to understand

Whoa, maybe he's no romeo
But he's my lovin potluck show
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa
Let's hear it for the potluck

Great, the IFPA may have observed me dancing to Jennifer's posted music video causing nostalgia for 80s music. I don't think changing the words of an 80s song to include "potluck" is helping the universal potluck objective. It is just the tip of the iceberg with these IFPA guys. I am not happy with their work to date. In fact, I came across this:
This is the Nirvana's master plan. Please note if the IFPA could get their act together I would be 2/3 in my quest for world wide blog domination. They are so fired unless they come up with something better.

I need to apologize to a fellow blogger, name sharer and play date friend, Holly for throwing her under the bus at Tootsie's Weekly Advice column. I may have come across a little harsh in my assessment of the jon-jon. I may have wanted to look cool in class. I may have wanted to re-direct the attention somewhere else. After some soul-searching, I can admit to 1 (maybe 2) of my boys wearing jon-jons after the age of 18 months. Admitting that I have a problem is step one. Excuse me while I finish my Tootsie recommended home renovation...

*while Holly is out of the room, the IFPA guys walk in, see an opportunity and post this:*
The Ginsu 12 Piece POTLUCK Set Features:
Ginsu POTLUCKS are specialized for their dexterity in chopping, slicing and dicing a wide array of foods.
Ginsu POTLUCKS are forged from Japanese steel that is known for its stain and rust resistance, strength, and its ability to hold an incredibly sharp edge.
Ginsu POTLUCK handles are made of heat and water resistant resin.
This fabulous POTLUCK set includes an incredibly strong and visually stunning bamboo POTLUCK block.

*Holly returns. Holly reads. Holly rants. Holly can't believe it. Holly is irate. Holly won't stand for this nonsense on her blog. Holly exchanges blows with the IFPA. Holly is victorious (Holly has spent many an afternoon observing karate classes). Holly kicks some IFPA butt. Holly is all that and a bag of chips. Holly wonders how long people will continue to read this crap written in the third person.*

I now want to apologize to Fussy and any of her fabulous friends that came to visit today. Really, this is a celebration. It should not have come to blows. I want you to know that I realize how this reflects on me. I will do better. I will work harder. My next post will be better. By Friday's fight the frump, I should have my "A" game back...