Ooh la la, C'est Si Bon!

http://www.flickr.com/photos/bixentro/ / CC BY 2.0
Translation: LORDY LORDY, IT'S SO GOOD!
The flaky layers, the dark chocolate, the buttery goodness...and to think, dear pain au chocolat, if things had been different, you might not have curled my toes this weekend!
Shall I tell you the story, friends? It's full of dramatic tension. Prepare yourself.

My sweetheart spent more than a week in France, working (so he says) and eating up my favorite French foods: confit de canard, foie gras, pommes de terre dauphinoise, and clafoutis--not to mention a week of sumptuous breakfasts. Grand crèmes and pastries that make me cry.

Oh. I think I might weep, just telling it.
I will try to be strong.

He was finally on his way back to me on Saturday, and being a smart man, he'd brought a bag of pastries he'd bought at the airport in Paris. He had an awful flight and was met in Atlanta by news of snow and ice in South Carolina. All the flights home were canceled through Sunday.

Of course I worried about him. How would he make it home? It's a 2 1/2 hour drive home from the Atlanta airport. The roads were icy and he'd been up for more than 24 hours trying to get home. How would he keep himself awake?
HE WOULD EAT OUR FRENCH PASTRIES!

Our pains aux raisins!

http://www.flickr.com/photos/roboppy/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

So luscious!

And our viennoises!

http://www.flickr.com/photos/roboppy/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0
Heaven.

I have reason to worry about this. Once when we were young and wrinkle-less and lived in Washington DC, we got stuck in a traffic jam trying to get out of the city and back to the Carolinas for Thanksgiving. As we sat parked on the highway, the chocolate pie I had placed on our back seat started calling to us, swirling its chocolaty aroma into our nostrils.
We were both exhausted and hungry and emotional and weak.
Todd handed me the pocket knife off his key chain.
We ate the entire pie.

Would he have the moral fiber to restrain himself all the way home?
Sarah came home from college and the boys told her about the pastries.
We were all waiting. Wondering.

I'm thrilled to tell you that this story has a happy ending. Todd got home safely, all pastries intact. (At least I think they were. He might have eaten one or two.)
Pain au chocolat, favorite of Ben.
Pain aux raisins, my favorite and Sarah's.
And viennoise, the love of Sam's life.

Ah, the memories make me drool.
Excuse me while I try to get a hold of myself. And wipe the chocolate off my cheek.

There we go. I'm all clean.
Too bad I can't say the same for this guy.

Where in the world is this boy's mama?

Some things never change.

Have a wonderful Monday, y'all!
Love, Becky
PS. That plate of goodies wasn't all for Sam, just so you know. I do have some motherly standards--and the rest of us wanted them too!

Dot dot dot...

Do the winter grays have you craving juicy, sunny colors? You need to waltz through the paintings of Paul Signac. They're sure to goose your creative muse.
I once tried to copy this one.

Silly me. I thought pointillism would be easy to mimic. I mean, the colors are already separated for you, in neat little dots or dashes of pure color against white. How hard could it be to just reproduce the colors on a canvas of my own?
Answer: Very hard. Almost impossible, at least for me.
Isn't that so often the case? What looks childlike and simple is really quite complex. I gave up about one third of the way through and started something new.
So now I look upon this tree and marvel.

Amazing.

And look, Signac managed to apply his technique to winter scenes too.

Lovely! I hope this painting brings us good luck for snow this weekend. Old Winter Warlock hasn't visited us yet this winter, and we need one good snowball fight before the crocuses start blooming.

Have a wonderful weekend, y'all!
Love, Becky

I WILL CONTROL YOU.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/russellheistuman/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

YOU WILL BRING ME A FOOT LONG TUNA FISH SUB. AND A DIET COKE.

Just kidding.
But I would take some chocolate, if it's not too much trouble.

Lately I've been thinking that I might still have an issue with control. Do you?
When my friend May wrote a post about her fear of dying, I commented that I don't have so much a fear of dying as a fear of leaving my children to live without my help. But even as I commented, I realized how self centered that sounded. And that I was presuming to have much more control over their lives and futures than I actually do. I can't control their lives. I can't seem to control much of anything, really.
In fact, I could make a whole list of things I can't control.
I think I shall.

THINGS I CAN'T CONTROL:
1. The publishing industry. How long it takes to make decisions and birth books.
(Publishing industry, if you're listening, you're beautiful and I love you.)
2. When people get sick. And whether or not they get well.
3. What my children do or say when I'm not around. Or even when I am standing right beside them, as I was that joyous time I picked my baby up early from kindergarten and he turned to his friends and said, "See you later, suckers."
Nope, I can do my best at training them, but they continue to surprise me.
4. The Lieutenant Governor of South Carolina.
5. Fellow drivers on the road when my teens get behind the wheel.
6. My husband's steamy love affair with the History Channel.
7. The economy.
8. The amount of spam email I get advertising medical help for body parts that I don't even have.
9. The poverty and pain I see in my own hometown.
10. How my book sells. (I happily work hard to promote it, but I can't seem to master mass hypnotism. Do you know how? Email me.)

You'd think I'd have this control thing figured out by now.
I was formed in the womb as a Type A girl, and little by little, life has stretched and softened me. Having children helped, but France struck the greatest blow. How can you control things if you can't even communicate properly? Our French life was just what I needed in so many ways.

But lately I've been learning that maybe my lessons aren't over.

As a person of faith, I know I'm supposed to "let go and let God." I'm sorry, but I hear that expression and secretly roll my eyes. It makes letting go of control sound too easy, and it's so difficult to do. Sometimes I wonder if even my prayers are little messages sent up to try to control God, to beg God to see it my way. To align God's wishes with mine, even if I add in the part Your will be done. Even if I really mean it.

But then I think of so many amazing moments in my life that have been complete surprises, totally out of my control. If I had as tight a rein on life as I might sometimes wish for, they would have never happened. I would have never imagined them. They were gifts, completely free.

So until I figure this out, I guess I'll stay best buds with the Serenity Prayer. And I'll keep my Sudoku book handy for whenever Todd turns on the History Channel. It makes for good snuggling, and we're both happy.

Have a wonder-full Wednesday, y'all!
Love, Becky

Wonder Dog

I really should make Tanner a cape. He's been quite the Super Dog this weekend.
Sam is sick, and Tanner has stayed right by his side.
They're buddies, you know.


It's a very sweet thing to see, my baby taking care of my baby.

Remind me of this while I'm cleaning up all the muddy paw prints from this weekend's rain, okay?

Have a wonderful Monday, y'all!
Love, Becky

Molly

Have you heard about Molly?
I learned about her through my blogging friend CC, and I want to share Molly's story with you.
Molly Hightower was a beautiful 22 year old girl from Port Orchard, Washington. She graduated from the University of Portland in May of 2009, and in June began a year of service working for Friends of the Orphans, in Petionville, Haiti. She wrote a beautiful blog in which she chronicled her hopes for the children there and the joy she found in her work. Sadly, the last entry was written by her family. Molly lost her life when the seven story building in which she lived collapsed during the earthquake.

Molly's blog is filled with photos of the precious children she loved.

It's impossible not to see their faces and think about the thousands of children who were killed in the quake. So many were surely orphans.
It got me thinking, who mourns for them? For the children who had been abandoned by their families, who'd experienced unimaginable loss long before the earthquake hit?
Who cries for them?
Of course the people who cared for them mourn, if they are still alive. But don't you wish we could know their names and their stories, so that we could say prayers for them? Celebrate their lives as we celebrate Molly's life?
It comforts me to remember that even though we don't know them, God mourns for them.

I think of scripture that promises this, like the passage in Luke 12:
"Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows."

I also remember the words of my favorite Psalm, Psalm 139. Then I take a deep breath and say a prayer.

I wondered if I should post about this at all. After all, this particular blog is supposed to celebrate creative inspiration, not Bible thumping. :) Yet who inspires creativity more than the Fount of all Creativity, the creator of all? And I don't know about you, but I'm getting really tired of hearing a few crazy pastors talk about the earthquake in terms of God's will. My friend Vaughn, the chaplain at Furman University, wrote a great essay about this in our local paper, and received quite a bit of angry email. I read comments like theirs and I just imagine God's tears. Not for those who comment (though I would think they grieve God too) but for those who are hurting or were killed.

This life is a mystery to me. I'm thankful that I'm not asked to have it all figured out, but to try in my own feeble way to live in love. And I'm thankful for friends like you, who are so good at doing that!

Much love to you, Becky

China Bound! And Shipping Containers.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/expressmonorail/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

No, not me. But I have two lucky friends who are about to make the move!
First, there's Julie, my friend from France. She and her Michelin Man are headed to Shenyang. Next there's Linda Crispell, my blogging buddy, who's moving over with her two kids and her husband. What fun awaits them! What interesting food! What opportunities for cultural enlightenment! What opportunities for humiliating yourself in a brand new language!
Or maybe that's just my family.
Can't I come too? If I hold my breath and make myself tiny?
No?
I'm absolutely thrilled for them. We got the chance to live our expat dream and loved every minute of it. Now I know how life changing a move like that can be. How precious the time.

Isn't it funny how life works? Now that I've tamed my fridge and planted the blueberry bushes of my dreams, I've got the traveling bug again.
Too bad for me. Tant pis.

And how funny that my husband is about to make a trip back to Clermont Ferrand for a week's worth of good eating without me. He says he's going to work too, but the food! The puys! The lovely but unsmiling people! MY FRENCH HOMELAND! I'll be here in Greer, pining away.

Todd promises he won't eat any pains aux raisins or confit de canard while he's in France. Nor will he drink a single café au lait. Sure, sure. What shall we bet that he'll have slurped down two grands before he even leaves Charles de Gaulle? I told him, "Go ahead! Live it up!"
I'd want to, if I had the chance to go.

Harrumph.
Let's change the sujet just un peu.
While we're talking moving, let's talk containers.
No, not the Tupperware kind. The kind they put all your stuff in before you fly across the ocean and start your life anew. This kind.

Ah yes. There they are, loading our container with all our worldly possessions before our big move.
Thanks for letting me get nostalgic for a moment. All this moving talk has me reminiscing about the days before we waved goodbye to South Carolina. Days when my college girl looked like this.

And my 11 year old was eight months old, apparently drunk on love.

Anyway, back to containers.
Look at what ingenious folks in Mexico have made with them...

Photo by trendhunter.com
Housing out of shipping containers. It's a container city!


Photo by trendhunter.com
I've read that there's a container city in London, too.
London. Hmm. Now that would be fun.

What do you think? I'd give container living a try, especially if it was some place interesting. Would you?
Have a great Wednesday, y'all!
Love, Becky

PS. I still would love to go to China, Michelin people, if you're listening.
Who wouldn't want to see this?

Happy Monday

http://www.flickr.com/photos/34053291@N05/ / CC BY 2.0

"Everybody can be great... because anybody can serve. You don't have to have a college degree to serve. You don't have to make your subject and verb agree to serve. You only need a heart full of grace. A soul generated by love."
One of my favorite quotes from Martin Luther King, Jr.

Have an inspiring Monday, y'all!
Love, Becky

In Defense of Todd's Shirt

(In honor of MLK Day, I'm re-posting this. I hope you enjoy the day!)

Do you like the shirt?
Apparently some people don't.
Todd bought it in Atlanta a couple years ago when our church youth group took an afternoon off from their mission work and toured The King Center, learning more about the work of Martin Luther King.
In case the words are too tiny for your peepers, it says "nonviolence or nonexistence."

Todd wore it last Sunday when he was out with Sam, and he hadn't given the shirt a single thought until a dad on the baseball field noticed it and grunted loudly in disgust.
"You better be glad we're not nonviolent in America," he said. "Or else our country wouldn't be where it is today."

"He said WHAT?" I asked Todd from the kitchen as he put his glove in the closet.
"Yeah, it kinda surprised me too," Todd said. "Then he muttered something about bravery and gratitude."
"BRAVERY AND GRATITUDE?" I said a little too loudly, storming into the bedroom with my butcher knife.
Sam stuck his head in. "What's wrong?" he said.
"Nothing," Todd said. "Go get your shower."
"Did you say anything back? Like maybe YOU SPENT FOUR YEARS OF YOUR LIFE AS AN AIR FORCE OFFICER and what service did he ever do?"
"Why is Mom mad?" Sam said.
"She's not mad," Todd said, "Go on and get in the shower."
Then Ben came in and wanted help with a calculus problem and everybody left me standing there, holding the knife, dripping chicken juice on my bare feet, steaming.

I could just imagine the scene. The guy read the shirt and smacked a label on Todd's forehead.
Liberal.
Maybe even Communist or Socialist. Who knows. Labels seem to fly fast and furious these days.

I gritted my teeth and flew into an argument with the man in my head.
By the time Todd and I finally got a moment to return to our conversation, I had a whole list of things to whack this guy over the head with in my defense of nonviolence. (And yes, I see the irony.)
Things like:

Why don't you ask what this shirt is about before you start fussing at my husband?
Do you think he's making an anti-war stance? What if he was? Maybe someone who actually served might have something to say about that.
Ask about Todd's brother's service in both gulf wars, in Afghanistan, in Bosnia. Todd's dad's service in the army. My granddad's service that cost his life in WWII. They were all willing and glad to serve. So was Todd. Violence is sometimes necessary, but service members know the price better than anybody else.
Maybe that's part of why Todd wears the shirt. Why he's such a believer in the words of Martin Luther King.
And how is it braver to use violence, anyway? Does non-violence not require bravery? Maybe even more bravery?

When Todd walked back in the room, I was still living our previous conversation.
"So what did you say? Surely you said something!"
"Yes, I said something," he said. "You ought to put that knife away."
"Tell me what you said first."
"I just looked at him and I said that I got the shirt at the King Center down in Atlanta. I said, 'You ought to go down there and tour it. It's a great place to take your kids and it's only a couple hours' drive.' I told him you can see King's grave and learn more about his life and what he gave to our country. Then the guy wandered off and didn't say anything else."

Todd left the room and I sat down on the bed, trying to keep my mouth from falling open.
There I'd been, waving my knife around, ready to fight, while he practiced what the shirt preached. No slamming doors, no smacking labels on people's foreheads, no accusing the guy of meaning anything in particular. Just a nonviolent response, inviting the guy into his circle instead of standing in the middle of it, throwing barbs his way.

I do love my husband. I love that he's always willing to widen the circle.

And I love Martin Luther King, another circle-widener. He certainly wasn't a perfect man (there was only One of those) but he used his life in service to others and in motivating the rest of us to do the same.

Enjoy two of my favorite quotes of his about nonviolence:
Nonviolence is a powerful and just weapon. which cuts without wounding and ennobles the man who wields it. It is a sword that heals.

Nonviolence means avoiding not only external physical violence but also internal violence of spirit. You not only refuse to shoot a man, but you refuse to hate him.

Have a wonder-full day, y'all!
Love, Becky

Here's a clip from my favorite speech of King's.


And here's MLK talking about his ideas on nonviolence.

Courage Without Borders

Photo by www.telegraph.co.uk

When I was a little girl, I was convinced that I was the only real human being on the earth. Everyone else-- my parents, my teachers, the little girls I played dress up with, the boy up the street who'd pull my braids-- were lifelike robots invented by God to test me, to see how I reacted to everyday life. I just couldn't fathom that there were other people like me, with complete sets of feelings and thoughts apart from mine.
(If you're a psychiatrist, kindly keep my diagnosis to yourself, pretty please.)
If my theory wasn't true, if God didn't create the world just to test me, then what was this life all about, anyway? What was it for?

I've thought about this my whole life long. What is this world all about? Why are we here? What are we for?

In the last ten years, I think I've finally figured it out. At least I've got an answer that works for me.
As simple as it sounds, we're here to love each other. To be brave. To sacrifice for each other. To give little pieces of ourselves to each other. And sometimes big pieces.
And while we're at it, we sometimes discover God within our lives, in the happiness and in the sadness, in the love and in the sacrifice, where God's been from the beginning.

Tragedies, like the earthquake in Haiti, remind me of this.

Photo by www.telegraph.co.uk
I'm sure you've seen plenty of info on different ways to donate money towards helping the people of Haiti. If not, I'd suggest the Red Cross, or Doctors Without Borders.
And if you can't give money, you can always pray for the people of Haiti and for the courageous folks working to help them.

I just feel like saying how thankful I am for each of you, for the way you enrich my life.
And right now, I'm thankful for this video, too. It was made to raise awareness of the problem of Aids in Africa, (which, goodness knows, desperately needs our attention too) but I think it's appropriate now, as well.

Have a good weekend, friends!
Love, Becky

See more funny videos and TBT Videos at Today's Big Thing.

PS. My friend Angela is having a fundraiser for Haiti on her blog. If you leave a comment, she'll add a dollar to her donation.

Stories in the Sand

http://www.flickr.com/photos/paullikespics/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

Have you ever noticed what incredible artwork the tide creates all by itself?
I love the trees in the sand above. At least I see trees. Maybe you see something else.

Some people create beautiful artwork in sand too, and even tell stories through the pictures they make. Have you seen the video going around of artist Kseniya Simonova in action? She won 2009's Ukraine's Got Talent. (And no, I'm not joking. It's a real show, showcasing amazing artists, if the rest of them are anything like Simonova.) Please take a minute or two to watch it. It's some of the most fascinating storytelling you'll ever see!



Have a great Wednesday, y'all!
Love, Becky

It's Grits! And Waffle House Fueled Madness!

http://www.flickr.com/photos/lifeontheedge/ / CC BY-SA 2.0

Don't tell anybody, but I don't exactly care for grits. Unless they're smothered in butter and (prepare yourself...) grape jelly. I know! Sacrilege!
I might not like grits, but I'm HEAD OVER HEELS in love with It's Grits, an old documentary we watched Friday night on PBS.
After it was over, I felt all melty inside, full of buttery love for my fellow South Carolinians, as cantankerous and delightfully stubborn-headed as they can be at times.

I've been trying to figure out why I loved the documentary so much. I didn't grow up eating grits since my parents were foreigners from Kentucky. Did I love the film because it was made back in 1979-81, when I was a mere teen? Was it the choral arrangement? The hokey ode to grits in harmony? The men wearing plaid? The sideburns?
I think it had more to do with the shared passion. Grits brings people together: black folks and white folks, old and young, rich and poor. Just an ordinary breakfast dish, but so important!
I can't tell you how much this blows up my skirt.
Here, take a look and see what I mean.

Love, love, love it.
By the time it was over, I was on the floor, groveling for eggs. Toast. A simple glass of orange juice.
No luck! We'd cleaned out the fridge and the cupboards were bare. I ate 9 saltine crackers and cried myself to sleep.

At 7:15 the next morning, we sped to Waffle House.
To beautiful food like this.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/14936293@N03/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

Mercy me.
Todd ate a large bowl of grits. The film inspired him. (He loves them anyway.)
And coffee for two, bien sûr!

http://www.flickr.com/photos/jcuthrell/ / CC BY-SA 2.0

It may not be a French café au lait, but that wouldn't fit in at Waffle House anyway. My coffee was perfect as it was, with little thimbles of fake cream.
It's entirely possible that Todd and I may have guzzled down a little too much joe, because when we came home, guess what we did.

WE FINALLY MOVED EVIL REFRIGERATOR!
Here he is in his lovely new habitat...

With a personality transplant to match!
Look, it's the kitchen triangle of my dreams: refrigerator, oven, and sink all within arms reach! As you can see, we're not quite done, but we're getting there.
What? Aren't you excited?
Maybe you've forgotten the Passageway of Pain.
Remember?

Bye bye, Passageway! We could have cha cha lessons in my kitchen! Wanna come over?
You could help me peel wallpaper. My least favorite job.

As soon as I finish peeling and painting, we'll move in the cabinets that are sitting beside me in the office as I type. I won't miss them one bit.

So the moral of this story?
If you need to rid evil appliances from your house, drink a gallon of Waffle House coffee.
And don't forget to eat your grits!
Have a super Monday, y'all!
Love, Becky
PS. If you're as taken with the documentary as I am, you can find more info about it here.

Welcome to the World, Jenn's Book!

Do you hear that toot tooting and woo hoo-ing way off in the distance? That's me, celebrating the grand entrance of The Secret Year, the long awaited baby of my friend Jenn Hubbard.
Do you know Jenn?
Here's her pretty face.

Jenn contacted me a couple of years ago when she was considering signing with Nathan Bransford, my literary agent. Is he as amazing as he seems? Oh yes. Even more so.
She signed (I'm taking complete credit in case you're wondering :) ) and we became friends. Actually, I suppose we're sisters of some sort. So that makes The Secret Year my niece, right? No wonder I'm so proud. But anyone connected with The Secret Year would feel that way. To quote Booklist, "With this debut novel, Hubbard has crafted a fine addition to the pantheon of YA literature." How impressive!

I remember how thrilling it was when my own baby found her place in the world. I drove to three different stores on publication day just to look at it, to squeeze it and stroke it and admire it on the shelves. After such a long labor, it was exhilarating.

So Jenn, I thought I'd show you how The Secret Year looks in South Carolina.

See, there it is!


Let's take a closer look.

What a lovely spine. And there were three copies, not two. I'm holding one in my hot little hands.


Oh my goodness, how did that happen?
It's now arranged properly, with the cover for all to see.
Very nice.


And equally nice is this lovely girl who rang up my purchase, who has now heard all the buzz about the book and can't wait to read it. And hopefully gush about it to everyone she knows.

Would you like to hear more about the book? Here's Booklist's complete summary/review:

For a year, 16-year-old working-class boy Colton Morrissey met rich girl Julia Vernon, his schoolmate and girlfriend of a member of the local gentry, on a regular and frequent basis. No one knew of their romance until the night Julia was killed in a car accident (in which Colt was uninvolved). Hubbard sensitively shows the year before the accident and the year following—as Colt comes to terms both with Julia’s death and the need to share the secret of their romance. Julia is revivified through a diary she kept and which her brother gives to Colt. His friends, including would-be lovers and guys who can’t see past class lines, and parents are fully human; his mostly offstage older brother joins the action long enough to help Colt understand why the worst secrets are those we keep from ourselves. With this debut novel, Hubbard has crafted a fine addition to the pantheon of YA literature.

Wow.
There's also an excerpt over on Nathan's site, here, that might give you a feel for what the book is like. Scroll down. It's at the end of the post.

Congratulations, Jenn!
Have a super weekend, everybody!
Love, Becky

And They Call It Puppy (or Middle Aged Dog) Love

See the teeth marks on this tub of KFC?
I can't tell you how happy they make me. You see, we've been going through a kind of scary health crisis at our house, and the slightly mangled Kentucky Colonel gives me hope that we might be through the worst of it. For now, anyway.

Tanner the Slobber Dog came home from his Christmas vacation last week not quite himself. When Todd brought him home from Barkingham Palace and took off the leash, he sat down in the backyard and snacked on a blade of grass. What happened to the crazy ten laps he always takes, chasing an invisible chipmunk? What happened to sniffing our cement pig and giving its head a lick?

Maybe he was tired. Or depressed from leaving his girlfriend behind, the flirty Weimaraner who taught him to open the kennel cages, the Bonnie to his Clyde.
No, a few hours later, Tanner trembled any time he stood up. And he paid absolutely NO ATTENTION to the piece of sausage left within his reach on the kitchen counter. What was wrong with our baby? Todd and I took him to the emergency clinic and tried to pretend that we weren't terrified.

Yes, he's a dog, but he's part of our family! He's my constant companion, the only one who hops up and down when Todd comes home from work, and the hairy, slightly dopey brother to my kids. We're all completely in love with him, and at five years old, he's too young for this.

To make a long story short, it looks like our baby is starting to have some hip issues. The poor, 86 pound thing is used to sleeping on a people mattress, squeezed in between me and Todd on our queen sized bed. The kennel floors were hard on the guy.
I wonder what the vet will think the next time we drag a twin sized Tempurpedic through his doors!


So anyway, Tanner is doing better now. He still takes a doggie Advil at least once a day, but Sarah took him on his first walk yesterday and said he chased a squirrel or two. And barked at all the other dogs. And did other gross, embarrassing things that I won't mention.
And then there's the mangled KFC tub. It made me cheer, even while wrestling a chicken leg out of his mouth.
By the way, you ought to try KFC's grilled chicken. Tanner recommends it!
Have a great day, y'all!
Love, Becky

The Joy of a Clean Slate. And the EVIL REFRIGERATOR that ruins my life.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/marcelgermain/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

I love a new year. Don't you?
Even though I know that nothing but the calendar has really changed, I can't resist a clean slate. A chance to start over, to take a good long gaze at my bellybutton. To examine all the deep dark things about myself that bug me and pledge again to try to make myself a better person. And then to throw my hands in the air and hide in my closet with the last piece of Christmas fudge.
Ha ha. Just kidding. (There's no more fudge left anyway.)

You know what else a new year is good for in Greer, South Carolina?
To move EVIL REFRIGERATOR.
Maybe I never told you about EVIL REFRIGERATOR.
Here he is.


If he doesn't look so evil to you, it's because you haven't met him.
EVIL REFRIGERATOR wasn't here when we bought the house or we might never have signed the papers.
I'm not kidding.
Back in 2003, when we were young and naive and fresh from our tiny French closet of a kitchen, I saw the circle of cabinets and the miles of Formica topped counters and promptly tackled my realtor and smothered him with kisses. And why wouldn't I? It had a double sink and storage galore! And--be still my heart--just look at the huge hole for the fridge! No longer would the foodstuffs of my life be forced to suffer a dorm sized refrigerator! Hallelujah and Amen!

So we bought the house, bought the fridge, and all my dreams went to Hades.
Not really, but have you taken time to notice where it fits?

This is where it fits. Right in front of the end of the bar. There is precisely 22 inches of passage room. 9 1/4 inches if one of the doors of EVIL REFRIGERATOR is open.
If your family is a set of beanpoles, who set their stomachs to get hungry on a rotating basis, then you'd be fine with this arrangement.
That's not us. We have hungry boys who run 8 miles a day and tear into the kitchen like bears foraging for mounds of raw meat, like WWE wrestlers ready to SmackDown, like...like...you get the idea.
And it does happen. ALL THE TIME. This tiny passageway is like a magnet, drawing everyone who lives here to itself. Sometimes we find ourselves-all five of us- standing there facing each other, trying to get through.

So this explains the radical thing my husband decided to do.
He's moving EVIL REFRIGERATOR. Himself.
No professionals involved. Even though this involves installing new wiring and plumbing.

(Did you hear that noise? It's me squeaking, "Somebody help me please."
Please.

Here's what he's done so far.

It only involved five trips to Home Depot.
Just kidding, honey. Good work!
See, he took off both cabinets where EVIL REFRIGERATOR will find it's new home. And not be so evil anymore.
Oh wait, that picture doesn't show the four holes he cut in the wall. For new wiring and plumbing. Only one was an accident.
Here's one of them.

That's the new pipe and plumbing my clever husband put in.
And this is my office where I'll be sitting,

trying to work on my next book and crossing my fingers that the new pipe was installed correctly and won't flood the house during his next business trip.
Nice cabinets, huh? I'm hoping that's very temporary.

So what projects are you starting this year?
Maybe if EVIL REFRIGERATOR turns to the good side I'll teach my doggy to do this.

Or maybe not.
Have a great Monday, y'all!
Love, Becky