Shopping Leads To Returning

The other day, I was shopping at one of my favorite department stores. For the purpose of this blog, I'll call it K's. As you all probably know, I have an adorable granddaughter whom I love to shop for. (And if I see you out in public and pull out her baby pics, just smile and let me have my way.) My daughter tries to hold be back, but sometimes I lose control. Okay, smart aleks, I always lose control. I'm a grandma, what can I say?

Anyway, I'm at K's in the baby section and everything is looking adorable. How to choose? I steered clear of dresses because the sweet girl is crawling and I know crawling doesn't work well with dresses. So that narrowed things down a bit.

I picked out a few cute onesies that could be paired with shorts or worn alone. Some shorts and tops got added to the cart. I chose a 3-piece set of jammies just because there was a cupcake on the front and I knew she'd look so darn cute. I picked out a few more 3-piece sets that had a shirt, shorts and a onesie. I took a glance down at my cart and thought I was hovering on a thin line between too much and just the right amount. So I scurried out of the department before anything else called to me.

When I got home, I took everything out of the bag and one by one looked at what I'd purchased. I smiled when I looked at one of the 3-piece outfits, imagining how cute my granddaughter would look in pink and white polka dots. I picked up the last outfit. Huh. It looked familiar, probably because I'd spent so much time in the store. But wait. There in the pile of clothes a ruffly pink and white polka dot sleeve peered out, taunting me. I dug through the clothes and what did I find?

You guessed it. I'd bought the same outfit twice! I looked back and forth from one hand to the other like I was waiting for something to change. Nope. I'd have to head back to the store to return one of them. But not then. I'll do it later.

Stop back next Tuesday and I'll tell you about my return policy.

Also, please check out Fork It Up Fridays when I'm going to share a delicious summertime drink (yes, with alcohol).

P.S. In my previous Tuesday's post when I talked about the hose versus me, the hose has won. I went out last night to water my flowers. There about 3 feet into the hose was a bulge. On further examination, I saw a slice. Back to square one.

xoxo

The Hose Knows

I have a love-hate relationship with garden hoses. They're hand for obvious reasons, but boy do they have a mind of their own. Those suckers can twist and kink to the point it can make a grown woman cry. Or, in my case, invent new cuss words.

A few Saturdays ago, Mr. Rutland and I were on a quest for a new hose caddy. A week earlier, I had purchased a new hose, but when I went to replace it on the old caddy, I realized that needed to be replaced too.

So off we go to a local home improvement store that for this story I'll refer to as "L's." Now the Mr. and I aren't tightwads, but like most people we want to spend as little money as possible. A replacement hose caddy like the old one would set us back $79. No way, we agreed. So after a much longer than needed search at L's, we agreed on the the one on sale for $19. With excitement building as we head home (yeah, I know what you're thinking--it doesn't take much for these two), we skip to the backyard with our shiny new hose caddy. The Mr. hooks up the new hose and let's her rip. As soon as he turns on the water, the dripping begins. I add a few suggestions, which he executes, and the dripping turns into leaking. The leaking turns into an outright massive spraying. My wifely duty suggests I let him know that the hose is leaking. By the look he gives me, I know I've been a smart ass helpful.

After some inventive cussing from the Mr. (go, honey!!), he disconnects the hose, grabs the cardboard insert that had been attached, and drags the soaking, dripping thing to the car simply stating, "We're taking this *&^%$ back."

Once again, we arrive at "L's." No words are needed as to why we are there when he places the dripping caddy onto the return counter. We go back to the hose section for round two. Nothing interests us. I suggest we go to "HD", which is just across the street.

There we hit the jackpot. We found the perfect caddy at $39, guaranteed not to leak. We share a private laugh, each of us remembering the "no kink" hose we bought the previous year that kinked like the mother of all hoses. That piece of do-do hit the garbage can in record time.

We head back home, get the caddy installed and voila! No leaks. After we high-five each other it's time to roll on the hose. Things go smoothly for about, um, 2 seconds. That son-of-a-gun kinked and bucked and twisted to the point where we each worked at it in 5 minute intervals, which happened to be the time limit on our tempers. Finally, finally, we got it corralled.

I really wanted to use it to water my plants, but I was scared. I knew it wouldn't be as simple as turning on the water, pulling out the hose and spraying. But I channel my inner big girl. After a stare down with the hose for a few minutes, I'm ready. I sweet talk the hose as I unreel a few feet. I hum a happy tune as I turn on the water. And when I squeeze the spray nozzle, I've moved into prayer mode.

With tenderness, I squeeze the nozzle handle. Alleluia! Beautiful water shoots out! I aim it at my summer perennial bed. In seconds, the pressure slows to the point where I have a teeny, tiny stream of water coming out! I yell for the Mr. and he barrels out of the house. I hold up the hose with the little drip-drip of water. "It's got a kink," he says.

My hand quivers because it wants to point the hose in his direction, but I know he won't get soaked. I briefly wonder if any one's ever been choked by a garden hose.  "Fix it," I boldly suggest.

So for the next 20 minutes, we unwind the entire 150 feet of hose to smooth out the multiple kinks we find.

And now? Now I'm afraid to use the sucker...

If you have any garden hose tips, I'd love to hear them!

Please stop back on Friday for a new recipe. Hint: It will be a yummy summer dessert.

Flower Power

I don't know where all of you live, but here in Southeast Michigan, USA, May is the month for planting flowers. We're told to wait until after Mother's Day so the threat of frost is gone. But after the long cold winter where everything is brown, the itch to fill our flower beds and patio pots with beautiful blooms is at an all time high.

I've lived in this area most of my life. You'd think that after so many years of this May planting ritual that the excitement would die down. Not so. The day before Mother's Day, I can be found at any of the local nurseries. I love the first step inside the greenhouse when you get that first look at all the colors. Oh, the choices. I tend to lose my mind a bit (I know, there's not much there anymore!). Impatiens, begonias and geraniums in brilliant colors beckon me to buy them. Pick me! Pick me!

The nursery that I go to most often is about 15 minutes away from my house. It's a beautiful drive through the country that I always enjoy. When my children were little, the nursery had baby animals that the kids could touch. Great memories!

This year, I've decided to go with a theme for my patio. I've chosen plants that have pink, purple and white flowers. Maybe later in the summer, I'll share a photo.

How about you? Do you enjoy working in the garden?

Join me for Fork It Up Fridays where I'll share a favorite recipe.

Lake House

Today, I'm going to let the pictures tell a story. This is where I was last week with my family, deep in the mountains in South Carolina. The top picture was our view off the deck. The bottom picture is the house we rented.

What more can I say?

How about you? Do you have any summer vacation plans?

Vacation

I'm on vacation this week, transferring our son to South Carolina for the summer. We've rented an awesome house on a lake and will be joined by my daughter, son-in-law, granddaughter, sister and brother-in-law. Great times!! I'll see you in a week. xoxo - Jenna

Every Picture Tells A Story...

(Part 2 of 2)

What is it about hair? Every day, I have the same hair. I wash that same hair in the same water using the same products. Nothing is different. Not. One. Thing. On any given day, I can do a half-assed job on my hair and it looks great! Perfect! The day I want it to look good it looks like donkey do-do. As I'm struggling with my hair, the first drop of sweat trickles down my temple. With each tissue dab, I know I'm removing makeup. I look at the clock. I've got 2 minutes to get dressed.

The peach shirt is tossed aside and I grab the dark blue shirt. I add earrings and a matching necklace. Pull on black yoga pants and tennis shoes, because who gives a rip what the bottom part looks like (thank God since I've got dry, partially shaven legs). I briefly wonder if I'm in an accident will the fact that I've got on clean underwear override the fact that I've got partially shaven legs. Hmmm...something to research.

I look in the mirror. I hate what I see. The blue shirt isn't working for me. I want black. I've got the perfect shirt and earrings in mind. I attempt to remove the necklace because it won't match with the black shirt. I tug. I pull. Nothing. Tears rim my eyes. I tell myself to get a grip because I don't know if my illegal lashes are waterproof.

I'm now running 5 minutes late. Screw the necklace and the blue shirt. It is what it is. I stuff the preferred black shirt and earrings into a bag and take off, making it to the photographers with 1 minute to spare.

I walk into the photo studio and look around. Utter chaos. The whole place has an open concept. Cool except there are 400 kids (okay maybe 20) running around, jumping on furniture while parents ignored them. Then I remember it's spring break. After a mental cuss-down on my stupidity to combine pictures and spring break, I step up to the counter.

I'm a friendly sort of person and like to joke around. The girl behind the counter gave me a nice smile so I say, "I'd like the Jennifer Aniston package." Now I've never claimed to be a mind reader, but by the "your-the-biggest-idiot-I've-ever-met" look on the girl's face, I knew what she was thinking. Lady, there isn't enough money in the world or cosmetic surgery available that could make you even come close to looking like Jennifer Aniston.

When I noticed her sudden eye twitch kick up, I knew she was at the breaking point. And honestly if I knew that I was responsible for taking cutesy pics of all those wild animals, I mean children, in the waiting room, I'd be twitching too.

She takes me back to a studio where she proceeds to adjust my necklace, tilt my head and tell me to smile. Then she plies me with rehearsed verbiage of, "Oh, beautiful. Oh, you're so photogenic. Oh, these are perfect." All the while, I'm thinking gag me with a Barbie doll leg. No one ever has told me I'm photogenic.

When we're done, I go to the viewing area and look at a bunch of pics of myself and worked hard to narrow it down to three. After that, we head to the counter to pay. Ms. Eye Twitch says, "Okay, they'll be ready in an hour." Huh? I say, "When I called and made the appointment, I was told they'd be ready right away and that I could take them home with me." She says, "Yes, that's right. You do get them right away. In an hour." I wanted to argue that "right away" and "an hour" were two entirely different concepts, but I figured she'd had enough of me.

So after treating myself to lunch, I went back and picked them up and took them home. The picture on this website is one of the three. Who knows? Maybe next time you stop back they'll be a different pic!

Join me on Fork It Up Fridays where I'll share with you one of my favorite recipes!

Every Picture Tells A Story...

(Part 1 of 2)


As many of you know by now (and I'll repeat myself because I love saying it just in case you don't know), I recently sold my contemporary category romance to Entangled, who will be publishing it under their Indulgence Line. I had promised myself that once I sold, I would get a professional picture taken to replace the one I've been using.


So last Thursday, I had an 11:30 appointment. All morning, I kept glancing at the clock, recalculating how long it would take me to get ready. I planned on an hour and fifteen minutes so I wouldn't have to rush. But at the exact moment I was going to quit working and start getting ready, someone from work needed dictation from me as soon as possible. Rats! So I sailed through that and still had an hour to get ready. Before I even got out of my chair, I had another request for work. Hello, people. I'm trying to get ready here for something important! Certainly a patient going to surgery can't compete with me getting my picture taken, right? (just kidding) About this time, I'm getting a bit panicky. I've got 45 minutes to be picture-worthy. I know what you're thinking. Impossible.


I'd already chosen my outfit so the hard part was out of the way. I'm in the shower shaving my legs when I think, "I'm wearing pants. Nobody's going to see my legs. And time is an issue here." So even though I've got part of one leg shaved, I abandon that concept and move on. And keeping time in mind, I figured I only had time to moisturize my arms. I'd have to do my legs later.


Finally, I'm up to the makeup part. Everyone tells me peach is "my color" so even though I don't get it, I'm going to wear peach. But I look in my makeup bag to find I have peach blush but no peach lipstick. So my second choice is to wear a bright blue shirt. I haul out the pink blush and lipstick, and while I glance at the clock every 2 seconds, I get down to business.


By the time I pull out my Maybelline Illegal Length mascara, I'm feeling the time crunch. I figure I'll just have to make up the time on the road, kind of like the airplane pilots who say they'll make up the time in the air. But then I worry that if I get pulled over for speeding, I'll really be late.


But wait! If that happens, I'll bat my long lashes at the cop and he'll let me go. Uh-oh. Images of a whole different scenario pop into my head. The highway patrol guy, hands on hips, eyes squinted, looking me right in the eye. And notices my ILLEGAL length eyelashes. I'd be in the slammer in no time and never get to my appointment. Okay, I better stay within the speed limit cause who knows the price of a ticket for illegal length eyelashes.

Come back next Tuesday for the rest of Every Picture Tells A Story...