Literati.

 {Not just to sound smart}


My recent obsession has been books. I have always enjoyed reading from a youngster, and recently my thirst for bound paper has been unquenchable.

You see, I used to use books as another obscure way to define myself. So I kept my reading material on the up & up. It was an attempt at relating a high brow sensibility. People might see my selection of e. e. cummings and think "wow, this girl must be very intelligent and interesting to read this wacky poetry".

the tortured beauty inside....

I do still read this collection yearly.

My short attention span led to me dive into the work of short stories and essay. Again, I felt this made me somehow supreme - my capability as grasping information or a story line in a quarter of the time compared to a novel must keep me wry!
I do still love story fiction and non-fiction both, but I have recently rediscovered my love for the novel. Even novels off the best seller list! Gasp! It required a level of commitment, and to become immersed in a story, in these characters, their pains, joys,  triumphs, is so captivating I cannot seem to stop reading any one book once the front cover cracks open.

I consider it my duty as a lover of writing, reading, and America to read this every year.

I feel it's also a sign of maturity that I am able to say "Yes I actually like The Hunger Games quite a lot!" and not feel I'm somehow above that. I have finally humbled myself and it feels like I have been released from my own leash of intellect - or really to be truthful my fool-hearted cloak of appearing intellectual. I don't think I ever fully got that other stuff.

Last night I finished The Sisters Brothers by Patrick de Witt. It is a western which I would have shied away from had a trusted friend not recommended it. The protagonist is a melancholy type, and I am a sucker.

It's only onward from here, friends. 

Capture.

{weekly check-in}

Well, I went ahead and scrapped one of those daily photo lists. It was all about fitness. You may have noticed that there are no fitness related goings-ons around here. Not by me anyway. But that's for another day.

All of my hobbies are project driven, I've noticed. I like having the idea, making it happen, and seeing completion. Things like throwing a party, making a wreath, baking a pie... They give me that satisfaction of something being finished. Maybe it's my short attention span. So these photo challenges are really right up my alley. It's short-sighted, I can spend a few minutes on it and see a result. I also really enjoy communicating through pictures. More a feeling than a story. I must say, I'm a hard sell on photography. I don't really fall for much. A dear old friend of mine takes pictures I always seem to fall for, however. You should pay him a visit: Chris Bowden

Anyway back to me. Here are some of the Instagram images from the past few days:

They are pretty good, although I have a hard time keeping the images really straight. And if I import an image into Instagram from my photo album it ends up being off center, such as the "Doce." shot. I'll figure it all out. It's a big change holding an iPhone to take a photo, coming from a 35 year old Canon.

Happy Birthday Bluebird.

Goodnight Moon.

Ping Pong.

Doce.

Hobby.

{Just lookin for a way to express myself.}


I have been gone awhile. I've been putzing about, hanging around. I have a home to clean and have fun with.

I have recently found a fun hobby though. Instagram.

Back in the day (you know.... The Day...) I loved photography. I had my dad's 35mm Canon and would hit the town and take a lot of pictures.

Well fast forward 15 years and now my phone takes a better photo than I can with a camera. This is largely because my children dart about so quickly I could never focus quickly enough. (how did my Dad get any pictures of me?)

Here are some favorite photos.

If you are on Instagram please join me... @BlueSaylorRose

Footloose.

{My quest to covet.}

I am leaving on a jet plane tomorrow for my sis-in-law's wedding (yay!) and I still have to complete packing myself. I did such a great job packing the three youngsters. And I approached my bag with gusto, imagining one of thse magazine spreads "make 12 outfits with these 3 pieces" type of thing. Let me just tell you: shopping clearance racks has it's drawbacks. My wardrobe is a mish mash of random colors, off prints, and once-hit-wonders that can be worked in with some basic jeans and T's... but all together makes a butt ugly assortment.

So instead I just wasted a full hour trying to find a pair of shoes I want. Dying to want a pair. Any pair. I found none. I went to my go-to brands. Of which I am not even gonna mention now, because apparently all the shoes that were cool 8 years ago when I was cool... aren't cool anymore. They're all old lady shoes. And not the cool old lady shoes.

I find these old lady shoes to be quite charming.

I am AGAHST.  Seriously, the best I can hope for are some shimmery Toms?!

Okay, let me show you what I think is just not cool, and you can tell me why I'm wrong.

1.

 Okay, the chunky clunky heel. The grosgrain bow. I just don't get it.

2.

Janet Wood made these look good with her coolots and some nylons. But it's not happening for me.

3.

 1995 called and she wants her shoes back. And that sweater with the thumb holes.


4.

If Arsenio Hall were a shoe. This would be it. 


Maybe it's me. I mean, I know I've really had some doozies. So I know current trends may be a lady I know not.


Friends. Foes. Anyone. Please help me. I need to want some shoes. And I need it real bad.

Pox.

{It was normal for you and me. But my kids are freaks.}

Now we've gone and done it. Gotten Chicken Pox. Elliette and  Emmett are covered in magenta spots that range from Pixie Dots to Transformer Spots to being terribly painful and no longer getting cute names.

Let it be known we were hoping that they'd contract chicken pox naturally. We were not hoping to expose approximately 50 children and babies to it the day before the first pox showed up. gulp. Worst. Feeling. Ever.

But the actual duration of the chicken pox was not nearly as frightening as some may think. The worst was that there was 1 night of fever and pretty bad discomfort - both kids complained that their spots felt like they were popping - but some advil helped them sleep.

Elliette tried to hide her pox with a beard crocheted of yarn.

We feigned a Red Wings tailgate party for Emmett. (Is it even hockey season?)

The bad news is... Mark has them, too. No 33 year old wants Chicken Pox. It's painful for me to see how painful it is for him. Just so awful.

(photo unavailable)

And then... the baby. Baby Blue kind of looks like her feathers got plucked.

You know.. in a way, it was kind of fun. Now it's over, so looking back it's easy to see the silver lining. I had my babies with me, it was quiet, calm. We watched movies, did crafts, made books, read a lot, baked. There were very hard moments, but it was mostly just due to being quarantined. I never realized the shade of red chicken pox rates the terror scale.

There were times I felt like a leper. I am immensely thankful for the Jesus-style love some friends showed by being there for me.

1.

{My bluebird flew into our nest one year ago.  Happy Birthday!}

Wow. A year already.

Our third wonderful baby... beautiful, perfect, lovely and divine.

Happy first birthday, Esmé Blue!

Sister.

{You can choose your friends, but not your family. And, in some cases, you can't even choose your friends, but fate does it for you.}

There is a period of time from my childhood that I remember more vividly than I can remember last month. From about age 5 to maybe 8 or so - perhaps I've glorified these years, entombed them in my memory as my salad days. I look at Elliette, who's now 5, and think back to 5-year-old me, and can so clearly remember my big ideas, my plans, my home, and my friends.

At that age, I met Jami. She lived across the street with her two sisters and brother. She was shuffled over to my house at the tender age of 3 to knock on my door and ask if I wanted to play. Being an only child, I relished a chance to play with someone other than Maggie, the devoted Beagle.

We played that day, and many more days, many more years, and now, here we are. 28 years later.
Today is Jami's 31st birthday. We are very different, in lifestyle, appearance, geographic location, and probably a whole lot more than I even know. But, she is my sister. The woman nearer to my heart than any other, at least of those with whom I do not share DNA. Her family is my family. I treasure her mother, I adore her sister, and I think back so very often to her extended family, and those with whom I don't even keep in touch.

She was my constant. Through divorces, break-ups, moves, marriages and the turbulence of high school and the there-after, Jami was always there. She was always laughing and making me laugh.

Happy Birthday, Kitten Eyes.

Home.

We did it.

We bought our first house! So, I think that has become my de facto hobby... making this house our home.

Skyline.

{Sweet & Spicy Sorta' Soupy Heaven}

I am proud to say I was born in and grew up in the grand Queen City: Cincinnati Ohio. It's a wonderful place.

I grew up with a lot of wonderies in Cincinnati. Indian Mounds, the Cincinnati Zoo, the field of Daffodils at the Krohn Conservatory, Kings Island... well those are the major players in my memory. There's actually a lot of really wonderful history in Cincinnati. But kids don't pay much attention to that stuff.

One thing the kid me did pay attention to was food. Enter: Skyline Chili. Skyline is the name of the restaurant which made Cincinnati-style Chili famous. (There's also Gold Star, but this cousin of the chili world doesn't get as much love. I don't know who came first, do you?) Named for the beautiful Skyline that befalls the city, it's a staple of Cincinnati culture. One of my first dates with Mark was eating ice cream across the Ohio River in Kentucky, admiring the lights, bridges, and architecture.

We love and miss Skyline.

Being across the country and being vegetarian poses two obstacles for us.  I've concurred them.

Originally our family would bring or send packets of "Cincinnati-Style Chili Mix". It tasted good but the corn syrup solids and BHT ended up leaving a salty coating in our mouths.

I decided to tackle it. Make it From Scratch. I'm not a big From Scratch cook. I mean, I cook a lot, and love to, but the term From Scratch conjures up images of long-simmered beefy stews, or croissants, or other things that require a lot of time, measuring, and planning. But this seemed do-able to me. I found a recipe and dove in.

Look at all the spice jars I had open! Allspice! Cinnamon! Paprika! Chili Powder!

It was so good. We used veggie-dogs to make a Coney.

It wasn't quite the same - at Skyline the hot dogs are miniature, as are the buns. But still great. Something about that finely shredded mild cheddar cheese + spicy sweet chili soaked into white spongy bread. Oh yum! My favorite is still the classic 3-Way. Spaghetti with chili and lots of cheese. And a side of oyster crackers.

And then... there's the Dip. This is how we usually introduce newbies to Skyline. It's portable, sits in your tummy like a flat tire, and is addictive.

Cream Cheese + Chili + Cheese

I'm not going to post the recipe I used, because It's not quite right. I need to experiment. There are lots out there, though. Here is one that looks reputable.

For the meat-eaters who want to try it in it's original glory, you can get it on Amazon.














Also, it should be noted, the last meat I did ever eat was a Chili Sandwich with my friend Brittany sometime in 1991. It was my last cheat. And totally worth it.

Mellow-Yellow.

{This yellow ain't so mellow.}

Okay, awhile ago, I lamented my situation with fashion. I used to have at least one foot in. I used to be on decent terms. We were friendly. And then.... I guess we had a falling out. It all started with that 55 pounds of "baby weight" (I like to tell myself it was baby weight, although my baby weighed in under 8 pounds.) Then the fluctuation thereafter. Two more babies. And then the budget. Strict budgets don't run in the same circle as fashion. At least, my Budget and my Fashion didn't seem to be getting along.

A few months ago I decided: Enough! This is nonsense. Of course my Budget and my Fashion can be friends. I know Budget well, we really like each other. But Fashion, on the other hand... we're just not seeing eye-to-eye. But, I knew eventually we'd all be getting along better.

My dear husband casually gave me a gift of cash he'd been hoarding for months, so that after Esmé was born and I was starting to feel like myself again (ha! Little did we know I have no idea who that is) I'd have some extra shopping money. Swoon.

So, I got some new digs. I do my hair 3.5 days a week. I am starting to look okay again, I start to think. I may be figuring this out.

And then. This.

I was walking the kids to school, glowing with my new confidence, day-dreaming about what I'd wear to the next Book Club or Girl's Night or Date Night (as that's the extent of my social life) when I just happened to look down.

Look at this. Look at how I left the house.

I took this myself with my phone, so I know you can't see exactly HOW AWFUL it is, so I'll expand. That neon striped shirt... yeah, it's a flowey, handkerchief hemmed tunic thing. And that cardigan, yep, I really did button it like that. Left the bottom all haggard just like that. I did. I left the house like that.

And then it got worse.

I looked down:

Uh-huh, another shade of yellow. Dirty running-shoe yellow. With sporty socks. And short old leggings.
Ugh. This is not the look I'm hoping for.

This is the look I'm going for. Late 1960's Parisian Librarian. Is that so hard??

Chris Benz

Chris Benz - now that's a yellow much more mellow!

Chanel

Chris Benz

Budget is bitching at me right now, I have to go soothe her.

P.S. Chris Benz is my current Fashion Dreamboat, can you tell?

5.

Happy 5th Birthday, my darling Elliette Rose.

A sweet song for my sweet rose, by Matt Costa. (Thanks, Miss Me.)

Lyrical.

{my life to music vol II}

I always wanted to be the face in front of me.

I really love Mates of State. This song is from the album Re-arrange Us.

I'm not a musician. I wish I could be. The way certain songs make me feel, I wish I could bang out those feelings on a piano or at least a lavender Casio. Where did my Casio go, anyway....

My kids end up loving these songs, too, and I think they're just picking up my vibes. I get so happy and feel so energized, they are receiving all that electric boogy-woogy I'm throwing around, and we're all in for a good day.

Brother.

I always wanted a brother. Here is why:

Stitch.

{Attempts at embroidery. Not so bad!}

I had to sew a lot in college. I mean, a lot. Thense, I do not enjoy it now. Kind of like how my big jobs as a kid were folding socks and emptying the dishwasher - now I just ignore that they're there and wait for Mark to do it, or convince the kids it's a very exciting game. Just like Mom did, the clever creature.

I have so much appreciation for hand-stitched soft-goods. I see them at craft fairs and on etsy and am almost sick with adoration. When I had the shop I stocked it with some beautiful hand-embroidered bibs, and I thought I might give embroidery a try. A friend who masters everything she ever thinks about trying and therefore is very very good at embroidery (and made some beautiful bibs that inspired me) gave me a very simple beginner's kit for Christmas a few years back. I kept it on the bookshelf, waiting to get up the gusto to try it out. Welp, I finally cracked it open.

It wasn't so bad!

 I did okay! I made Esmé some bibs.

 If you haven't tried embroidery but are interested, I highly recommend the kit linked above. It's simple to use and a complete kit. So you don't have to worry about buying all the bits and pieces. Also, the designs are super-cute and there is something for everyone. You can make the mister a tie, your  mom a tea towel, or a hand-towel for yourself.

The only thing I cannot seem to do is a french knot. This is not surprising. Usually, with everything I try to attempt to have as a hobby, there is that one thing I just cannot do. But this time I won't give up! I'm going to keep trying! (this is new to me... persistence.)

Postscript:

It should be noted that I started these bibs when I was about 4 months pregnant with Esmé, and she is now 7 months old.... so..... there's the ugly truth about my persistence.

Bee-loved.

{I Know I Am, But What Are You? by Samantha Bee}

Have you read this book yet?    I Know I Am, But What Are You?

Buy it. Now. And read it, you'll laugh your ass off.

Here is an excerpt, as posted online: 

looking a gift horse in the mouth

Now, my father knows how to accept a gift. He knows how to accept one mainly because he wrote his wish list in blood on the dining room wall and has been practicing his acceptance speech ever since. It doesn’t really bother me, except that every year the gifts keep getting more and more expensive. It makes me feel weird that my own father asks me for stuff he would never have contemplated getting for me while I was growing up. The man who once gave me a budget of $13 a week for groceries in college—that’s $52 a month for food—is now asking me for things like laptop computers and Gucci loafers. One year, I got him an iPod, which he loved and was moved by. I wasn’t making so much money that it was an inconsequential expense, but I could afford it with a little stretching. I knew it would mean a lot to him. Two months later, the whole transaction was forgotten. It was all, “This iPod stinks. It only has six hours of battery life! I hate it.”

I was like, “Six hours? Who can listen to that much Bruce Hornsby in a single day anyway? I mean, maybe if the Range was still in the picture . . . but a solo effort? Don’t you need to give your ears time to stop bleeding before you firethat bad boy up again?” “Bite me. It’s a lot better than the Smiths, so get over yourself.” He always liked to remind me that I went through a very serious love affair with the music of the Smiths and that he thought it was terrible and depressing. I liked to remind him that Billy Joel was a much more interesting songwriter when he was suffering from depression and doing things like drinking furniture polish, not making songs like “Uptown Girl,” which was, coincidentally, my father’s favorite.

I laughed out loud in a melodious honk on a number of occasions, surely looking ultra-attractive to dear Mark. Almost as good as when I was ogling John Stamos on Glee the other night. Have Mercy!

But that's neither here nor there.

Read this and come back here and let me know what you think!