Sunday fairies prepared this magical bowl of pretty for our Sabbath day feast.
"Just a Bed of Roses" perfection. I wipe a happy tear.
This is the kind of awesomeness that just drips from my sister, Kara's being. She made me these—jealous? And just like a new pair of shoes that make a 5 year old run faster, I am now the most efficient and organized Relief Society Secretary the world has ever seen. Just ask Maren. Wait. Don't ask Maren.
So Brenda, from Just a Bed of Roses, is all bent out of shape about me not blogging so much lately. In fact, she kind of threatened that she might just walk away from her awesome shop, leaving me stuff-less, if I didn't cow down to her pressure. Do you know that this woman ties up her bags with beautiful silk ribbon and an OLD 45 RECORD?! SERIOUSLY! So "MOOOOO," I say, "Moooo!" Because I need Bed of Roses like I need thickening products for my teaspoon of hair. And yes, it IS that crucial.
Anyway, whilst shopping there yesterday, a damnable DUI headache came crashing through her open shop doors and slammed into me, "head on." (Punny.) But I popped some ibu and kept on keepin' on with my shopping expedition, because I can do hard things, people.
Fast forward two more ibus and four hours later, and I'm driving to U of U for a workshop, wind and rain slashing at my car, headache from hell hammering at my skull, stoplights that sensed my oncoming vehicle, and a sense of direction that is about as accurate as Hollywood's moral compass. I was half an hour late to a seminar with seven students. Not like I could slink into the back row without detection, you know. I apologized to the class and spent the next 2 1/2 hours trying to talk myself out of puking.
The room was sweltering, the lights were BLINDING and my pain meter was hovering between 9 and 10. I made it through to the end and stumbled out to my car, only to plead and beg to the heavens, ending every sentence with an annoyingly high pitch, "Please, Heavenly Father, PLEASE make this pain go away! I don't want to vomit in my car on the way home. And I know there are other people who have it way worse, and I can't imagine you are even paying much attention to my whining, but really, REALLY, is there a lesson I'm supposed to be learning here? Because I'm not, Heavenly Father. No, really—I'm not. My head hurts too much to comprehend any kind of life lesson right now."
The one sided discourse went on to the very last moment, before I squealed into my garage and managed to make it to my bedroom, disrobe, brush my teeth and climb into bed, all with my eyes completely shut. Not even shizzing.
Anyway, I'm now at a 4, which is serious progress. And why do I regale you with this? Mostly to excuse the fact that I'm still in my pajamas with yesterday's makeup smeared down my cheeks after 1:00 in the afternoon. Also, to set up a possible lawsuit I'm considering filing against Brenda, because I got the headache at her place of business, and I hear she has deep pockets, as all small business owners are known to have.
And yes, Brenda, I'll consider settling out of court—for a vintage brooch and antique linen a day. I'm drawing up the papers now. Sign on the dotted line.