Butterfingers

Nope.

Sadly, this is not a post about the deliciously flaky, buttery chocolateness that is my favorite Yogurt Pump topping.

I got home Thursday night to find that, sob, in the course of the afternoon as Andrew, my dear sweet husband, had precariously and gingerly perched the coffee pot in the drainboard atop a bit of other miscellany: it fell. It crashed. It shattered. No more coffee pot. No more automatic morning aroma of nutty goodness. No more pause and serve. No more. Through no fault of his own, Andrew had inadvertently perched our beloved carafe on the thin edge of it's demise, and it had tumbled to it's inauspicious end.

I tried not to be upset. But the bitterness, like cold coffee grounds, was ever-present in the back of my throat. To stifle my pain and relieve the burgeoning headache from the lack of caffeine, we French pressed our way to an overstimulated stupor.

In my grief the next day, I took to cleaning. Scrubbing, dusting, laundering. I deep cleaned every appliance in our tiny kitchen. I laundered our bedding, couch cover, towels--anything that could be removed and covered in a goopy layer of Shout. Toward the end of my disinfection rampage, I began to dry all of the wet dishes in the drainboard. There were trays and racks from the toaster oven and microwave, bowls, plates, etcetera--I picked up the glass turntable for the inside of the microwave. It was covered in water droplets. I swiped them away with my colorful dishtowel, and as I was moving toward the microwave to replace said item, it slipped. I lurched to recover the heavy glass, but it was awkward in my hands and still wet--it crashed to the floor. My eyes screwed shut, I didn't want to look at the fate I knew had befallen the appliance accessory. It was in a billion pieces. One. Billion. At least. I couldn't believe it. In the span of 24 hours two of our most used appliances were completely out of commission.

Today, we googled. We whipped out the debit card and purchased replacement parts. A small fortune later, we breathed a sigh of relief. In a few short days--coffee will be brewing and popcorn will be popping yet again in the Armstrong household.

Crisis averted.

Bonne Saint Valentin!

To my one and only Valentine,

I love you to the moon and back, forever and a day. You're the syrup to my waffles, the creamer to my coffee, the jelly to my toast.

You just make everything sweeter!

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! On a day all about love, don't forget to tell the ones you love the most how much they mean to you. Hallmark may be making a killing, but Love wins in the end.

Keep Your Hands Off My Doritos.

What a perfect day to have the sniffles, if the sniffles must prevail. Chilly, windy and overcast, sprinkles of rain here and there.

I want to bake, but my hiney says, please. do not.

I want to read, but I just finished my latest novel, Little Bee.

So, here I sit in the bed: two sweaters, wool blanket, full box of Puffs [plus Lotion], mint tea. Playing on the computer. Do they still have Oregon Trail? I've got a hankerin' to play that game. To ford the river or take the long way around? Let's live on the edge: ford, we shall!

I found this the other day and made it my desktop, and methinks you should do the same. I stumbled across it through Poppytalk, gah--the cuteness. There's just a few blogs out there with cool stuff on them, hm?

Anyone excited about the Soooooper Bowl? or the commercials?? I wonder what gems the corporate marketing think tanks have come up with this year.

Anyhow, alls I'm hoping for is some good dip. None of that sissy Skoal stuff.

Did you know? {Groundhog's Day Edition}

Tomorrow, (February 2nd), will be Punxsutawney Phil's 125th prognostication. Which basically means Phil's got some serious longevity in his genome.

Phil lives in a burrow on Gobbler's Knob. Just say that out loud. Gobbler's Knob.

Before being dubbed "Phil" he was called Br'er Groundhog.

A groundhog is also known as a woodchuck. However, "how much wood could a groundhog chuck" doesn't really present the same challenge.

Let us have a moment of silence and pray that Br'er Groundhog does not see his shadow, henceforth cursing us with six more weeks of winter.

{Dear Springtime, please hurry! Love, MaryGene}

The list goes on.

1. Guilty pleasure: Keeping Up With the Kardashians.

2. January, February, and March are useless to me. And cold.

3. When my hair is long, I want it to be short. When it's short, I want it to be long again. And I can't.stand.it. when it's in the in-between stage. #shudder

4. I'm afraid of my bathroom scale right now. #doubleshudder

5. In a few months, I will face the annual battle and recurring question: to tan or not to tan?

6. I really shouldn't tan.

7. Valentine's Day is coming up. Do you have your doilies at the ready?

8. I love hotdogs.

9. I really shouldn't love hotdogs.

10. Whenever I say wikileaks, I have to concentrate not to say winkileaks, or wikilinks. Not that I say wikileaks that much. I'm just sayin'.

11. See? This is what kinds of posts you get in January. Boooo-rinnnng.

12. My apologies. Let's hope for a more stimulating February.

Loves

 1. The pies have it. {Williams-Sonoma}

2. One-piece of cake. {Anthropologie}

 3. Two toned kicks. {Gap}

4. The fluff factor. {House of Turquoise}

5. Statement studs. {Stella & Dot}

Better late?

Wait.

...

It's 2011?

What just happened?

Last I checked I was squaring up a rotund, homegrown pumpkin on my front stoop, craning my neck to see if the October issue of Martha was in my postman's hot little hand.

And there it came and there it went. And ThanksgivingChristmasandNewYear's rolled by right along with it.

I wouldn't say that 2010 was a bad year, either. It was fraught with good times and tough times, elation and despair, frustration and epiphany. January through August, which seem like eons ago, were spent grasping for a nursing job, whilst the summer was whiled away making-over the greater Southpoint area at the nations most user-friendly cosmetic store. [Would you like to sign up for two free issues of InStyle magazine?] And then came the job offer that was both impossible and incredible in the same breath. Scrubs, stethoscope, and a full tank of gas, I headed south for the winter. Well, three days a week at least.

One thing I've learned in my sage 24 years of life is that things rarely go as planned. Plans are for the birds. Plans are unmet expectations waiting to happen. Disappointment in the flesh. Do I sound jaded? I don't mean to be. I'm declaring the folly of plans, not the futility of hope, mind you. Hopes are altogether different than plans. Hopes are born of God, plans are ferreted out my me, myself, and I. To hope is to trust. To plan is to control. And to contrive to control is to cater to that niggling little part of me that doesn't hope, trust, or persevere. To give over to the bully who mutters in a huff, "if you want it done right, do it yourself!" is to deny the sovereignty of my Maker. Do I really think I know better? Sheesh.

And so 2011, I relinquish my resolutions, my plans, my deadlines.

But I will keep tight hold of Hope, tucked in my heart and held by a string.