I want to buy a house in my neighborhood for Planet Nomad and have coffee with her every morning and force her to be my BFF. I love her and the reasons are just too many to list. Find out why for yourself, but start with this post from today.
In my post yesterday, I mentioned that I liked Planet Nomad for more reasons than I could list. In comments, Amanda asked me what some of those reasons were. Here is a short list of blog qualities I appreciate:
Blogs I enjoy are: smart, funny, wry, real, unique perspective, thoughtful, clean, well-written (proper usage of English and punctuation).
Blogs I enjoy are not: mean, vulgar, constant rants without a point, constantly negative, superficially positive, preachy, boring.
Planet Nomad and Toddled Dredge are two blogs (among others) that embody these qualities and make my heart quicken when I see them listed in bold in my Bloglines.
Other than the blogs listed in my Blog Candy, have you found any blogs I might enjoy?
Last year my friend Blog Antagonist wrote a post about the death of her husband’s grandmother that was just absolutely mesmerizing – so much so that I nominated her for a Perfect Post award. She put that story away for awhile, but recently decided to pull it back out and continue to develop it. She’s posting it in chapters, so you might want to put her in your Bloglines if you haven’t already. It’s really something good and I’d hate for you to miss it.
I nominated my friend and fellow antique mommy, Robbin at My Level of Awareness, for the March Perfect Post award for the honest and sobering post she wrote about the consequences and realities of delayed child bearing — A Bad Example is Sometimes the Best One.
I can’t begin to describe her post one pen stroke better than she wrote it, so I won’t even try. If you are waiting for the optimal time in your life to have a child or even a second child, then please — go, read and be warned.
I love a funny story and Big Mama has got one today. A funny funny story involving a large pregnant lady (is there any other kind?) in search of tan, a chain link fence and a binkini. Go! Laugh! Now!
Maybe I’m just a 2nd grader at heart, but there’s nothing I love more than to sit and listen to someone tell a good story – one rich with colorful, crazy southern characters, one that alternately makes me laugh and sigh and one that makes me nod as I recognize bits and scraps from my own life, my own frail human condition.
In a nutshell, that’s why I’m nominating Big Mama’s post “Rootin’ tootin’ good time” for a January Perfect Post. If you’ve been reading Big Mama, then you know that few people can spin a yarn as she does while incorporating the phrase burrito riot. And that’s what makes me love her so.
“Rootin’ tootin” is a sweet and funny story about a young couple who find themselves in an accidental ministy of sorts when they inherit the quirky elderly widow lady across the street after they move into their first house.
Scripture clearly says that looking after widows and orphans in their distress is what it’s all about. But that doesn’t mean it can’t be funny. If you haven’t yet read about Rootin’ Tootin’ Tillie, by all means, go now.
Yay for you, my marvefabuwonderlicious readers! You made me laugh every day this year with your funny, thoughtful, kind and insightful comments. And so, to solute you and the year that was 2006, I present to you the best of your comments, taken totally out of context!
* * *
Pammer – I will NEVER put bologna on a pizza and try to pass it off as pepperoni. Sorry, mom.
SJ – Every great once in a while you might meet other children who you approve of. But there does seem to be an extraordinary amount of nose-pickers out there.
M&Co – You know, AM, I’m not sure Dom Perigon and Margaritas actually count as a FOOD.
Gwen – Chicken wipes are used to clean up baby chicken bottoms. Did you not know that?
SJ – When Mark worked for a smaller airline years ago, he used to fly into Mexico. He and the crew were out to dinner one night and Mark tried to order some kind of cheese dip. He added an extra syllable in there somewhere and what he said was “cheese of the ass.” I suspect they might still be laughing at him in Mexico.
Pieces – You make me want to inhale on my boy. Which is risky business as he is heading into puberty!
Shannon – YES! I had me some fat-free shag carpet for lunch today. Yum.
Veronica Mitchell – I once sliced a 1/4 inch deep into my hand trying to open a container of cole slaw at KFC. Those plastic lids are sharp. And cole slaw does not not taste good with blood in it.
Veronica Mitchell – And when JellyBean gets upsettingly stubborn, I comfort myself with the idea that if we are ever taken over by a totalitarian regime, she will lead the resistance.
Kelly Jeanie – You’d better hope he doesn’t figure out the microwave. Start watching your back if he does.
Nettie – If He can turn water into wine, I’m sure M&M’s won’t be a problem.
Emi – If you really want to be noticed, fall down face first in the Costco parking lot. It really works.
Sweatpants Mom – Will this method work on grown men, in getting them to ask for directions when lost? Or will they just continue to poop in their pants?
Kristin – I’ve worn a bucket on my head… but I don’t think a bike was involved and I certainly wasn’t looking as winsome!
Blog Antagonist – I need a monogram, but I’ve been procreating because I don’t like doctors.
Veronica Mitchell – Poor kid. . And by that I mean you. It’s like trying to appease a hungry jackal. With a mood disorder. And a megaphone.
Meredith – May your ice cubes stay put and shoes stay on in the tomorrows to come
Chilihead – Get out of my head!
Karla – I’m a boxless wonder myself!
Heather – …you should publish one of those “read on the toilet” books
Anne Glamore – If I didn’t lie, I’d have nothing to blog about.
Mommy Dearest – I hide bags of gummy bears in my closet
Shalee – Okay, this kinda makes me want to be Catholic.
Robbin – I figure I can start out by setting his expectations low. Less to disappoint later.
Jeana- The first paragraph literally made me hoot. Having never hooted before it was somewhat surprising, but I hope to do it again in the near future.
Big Mama – It’s because once you reach your mid-80′s, you’re fully aware of what makes a good party
EDJ – My friend Heather is weird like you.
Kim – I love tuna!!
Chilihead (in her typically warm and fuzzy way) – And I’d make wassail or buttered rum and not put the damn tree up.
Big Mama – And nothing usually makes me want a drink more than sitting through the 3 year old musical presentations…at least you looked festive.
Birdiemom – Insanity runs in some families…. In mine it practically gallops!
Blog Antagonist – Now, if I could just get them to wipe, I would be a happy woman.
Happy New Year Y’all!
~ Antique Mommy
Have you ever read a post that you just can’t quit thinking about? Robbin over at My Level of Awareness, whose story of infertility is eerily similar to mine, wrote an eloquent post on Monday that keeps rattling around in my head. It’s as though she has heard my thoughts and given them words.
If you have struggled with infertility or long for a second “miracle” child, please go read her poignant post Life As Three.
and swalllow before reading this.
A little sample: “Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze. ”
For this reason alone, I’m going to lobby whoever is in charge to give high school English teachers a raise. Or at least a refillable prescription for Xanex.
Featured In The 2007 July Issue of Good Housekeeping!
You may keep your Mederma — I like my scars. I don’t try to hide them because they tell the story of who I am. My many scars are evidence that I have not spent my life on the sidelines and that I am an “experiential learner”- which is a polite way of saying that I have to learn things the hard way. My scars remind me that God built me with the will to persist and overcome and heal and be the better for it. They remind me that the story of my life is still unfolding and that there will undoubtedly be more scars to come.
Scars of Inexperience. The first scar that I ever got is one that I don’t even remember. It runs from the base of my middle finger on my right hand and around to the front stopping just short of my knuckle. My mom tells me that when I was two, I was carrying a glass and fell on it. The glass broke and nearly sliced my finger off. Now that I am the mother of a two-year-old myself, it’s not hard to imagine what a day in hell that must have been for her. That scar makes me appreciate what it must have been like for her to try to parent a child who was oblivious to her own limitations.
I have another “learning” scar under my chin that I got when I was a teenager. It came as the result of a very bad spill I took when I was figure skating. That scar hides in a little fold that is promising to become a double chin. When I pull stubborn little hairs out of it, I am reminded of a hard won victory of mastering a difficult jump and the satisfaction that was the reward for persistence.
Scars of Stupidity. I have a three-inch scar that runs down my right thigh. When I was 16, I had a job at a drug store. My job was to remove the old price stickers with a razor blade and replace them with new price stickers. No surprise, the razor blade slipped and sliced cleanly through my pants and into my fleshy upper thigh. I still remember the look on the pharmacists face when I came hobbling towards the back bleeding profusely out of the side of my pants.
I also have a scar that runs around the tip of my left index finger where I nearly cut it completely off with a pair of pruning shears while doing yard work. I remember the hand surgeon saying incredulously, “You mean to tell me you did this to yourself?” Those scars remind me that there is no limit to my stupidity and it’s probably only a matter of time before I end up on one of those videos.
Scars of Misfortune. I have a three-inch scar that runs horizontally at the base of my throat where a surgeon relieved me of my cancerous thyroid when Sean was about eight months old. My mom came to Texas and took over for me with Sean while I went through the long recovery and isolation that is required with radiation. I also have a one-inch scar on my groin where a surgeon, whose face I never saw, extracted my badly misbehaving appendix. This happened not too long after I had been widowed and was alone. A girlfriend physically carried me to her car and took me to the hospital. When I woke up the next morning, she was sitting next to my hospital bed praying over me. Those scars remind me that life can come crashing down on you in the blink of an eye and that a friend can make all the difference.
A Scar of Blessing. And then there is the mother of all scars – the one that put an end to my bikini days but was the beginning of a life far better than any day at the beach. When I look at it, I recall the day that Sean was pulled from the safe haven of my body and into this world where he would begin the story of his own life. And collecting his own scars.