I'm Putting Summer in a Jar

The first day of fall is September 22nd. There are twenty three days left of "official" summertime. There are six days left until my children go back to school. (Wait, am I the only one who hears a choir of angels singing?) There are only five days left in which I can wear white without my friend Nica pointing and gasping and just about hyper-freakin' ventilating.  She's my Miss Manners go-to-gal for all things dignified and proper. An infraction of the "no white after the first Monday of every September" would result in my banishment to the "Island of Misfits" for the crime of "fashion faux pas." I'm pretty sure it's a special kind of hell where I'd be surrounded by fanny packs, pants with elastic waistbands and some guy wearing a shirt with picture of two pigs screwing and the slogan, "Makin' Bacon." I ask, who died and left the person in charge with the grand responsibility of making sure no-one-who-knows-anything would ever, ever, dare to wear white after Labor Day? Sorry, I digress. My point? Yes, I have one. Shut up and I'll get there. Summer is almost over. All together now... big sigh...gulp. My anxiety is building even as I type. 

These dates on the calendar don't mean much to others. To me they indicate Old Man Winter will be showing up soon. Last year I hair sprayed my bangs hella high, lined my lips chocolate brown (chola style) and laid in wait for that bastard. Screw Jack Frost. I was gonna shank his cold ass upon arrival, therefore sparing myself the inevitable pain of winter. It was a good plan. A great one really. Apparently the sneaky, slithering shit slipped past me cause winter came. I was cold and depressed and uncomfortable in my own skin. Did I say I was cold? I HATE BEING COLD!!!

I consulted a professional about my "Seasonal Affected Disorder" and was directed to a pharmaceutical that was supposed to help. The irony of my "winter despair" being technically diagnosed as S.A.D. is not lost on me. Being the word nerd I am I tearfully contemplated the cleverness of the acronym for several minutes. Perhaps ten minutes passed that were not completely consumed by how much I detest winter. The minutes were consumed by the contemplation of a an official diagnoses of my hating of winter. Oh well, ten  minutes I could put a big red X through on my way to spring, right? I tried to exercise more and I soaked up the only skin warming sun available, in a tanning booth. I tried on my bikini to make sure it still fit and I went on making big red X's through the days on the calendar. Spring sprung the third week of April. The buds on my big, backyard tree burst open and once again order was restored to both my mind and my sunshine loving (and apparently needing) body.

In an effort to capture some of the sacred essence of summer I started putting it in a jar. Really. No, not the same jar where I keep the kitty whiskers I find while sweeping, or the one butterfly wing I found, or my son's first lost tooth or the completely intact snake skin I retrieved from under a bush by my pool or any of my other "witchy" things. See...

"Summer in a Jar" starring (from top to bottom) Strawberry jam, Peach jam, Brushetta topping (I grew the tomatoes), salsa (so hot and good that your only defense is just to keep eating it. Grew the 'maters and the jalapenos), bread and butter pickles (eaten straight from the jar with my fingers) and peaches.

Oh glorious summer and your beautiful bounty, how I love you so. I'm hoping braking the seal on one of these treasures in the dead of winter will ease the blow of gettin' an oops upside my head by the biting wind and monochromatic, grey days of another Michigan winter. At least my days will taste like summer. It's a well laid plan if you ask me. But so was shanking Old Man Winter so I guess we'll see.
For the moment, the sun is shining and the weather is sweet so Jack Frost can kiss my tan-lined ass. I'm going to the pool.

   

It's Friday and I'm Showing You My Panties

Hey...nice to see you, glad you came back. Now I don't have to come looking for you. Seriously, a huge heart-felt thanks to you, my sweet, sweet reader. This venture into blogger-dom is still a journey without a clear destination for me. Until I get all the coordinates mapped out I appreciate that you will sit in the passenger seat and just enjoy the ride. Now, I don't need a backseat driver telling me to turn left, it wouldn't be right. So sit back, buckle up, hold on and shut up the eff up. Besides, it's my blog and I'll do the talking. It's one, of the many things, I do best.

I know I'm a big blabber mouth. It's one of the many reasons you love me. However with respect for your time, how about we agree that Fridays will be light hearted and considerably more brief than I am becoming known for. More a snack than a meal it took me and my blog pot three days to brew. Fun, frivolous, fabulous, fantastic, frisky and maybe even fruity. Think pink hearts, yellow moons, green clover and blue diamonds. Magically delicious. Like me.

Ready to co-sign? Done.

Hold on, I'm putting the pedal to the metal, the gas is smashed, let's goooooooooooo!

First stop? My underwear. Okay, their not really mine, yet. But given it's late summer and my children are home EVERYday the days are blending together in a "I've been sucked into a sidewalk chalk, cartoon network, freeze pop vortex" kinda way. The only way I can be sure what day it is is to look at the calender. That's not always convenient. I'm getting these so I can sneak a peek at my "sweets shop" and let my panties do the talking. Thank goodness these knickers can't really talk cause after I wear 'em... the tales about my tail they would tell. I'm willing to bet I couldn't get a word in edgewise and this is MY blog, remember?

Stella McCartney days of the week undies, $195. Just like the ones my momma never bought me at K-Mart.  Silk blend, lace trim and pretty little floral embroidery. They come in a mini-dresser box. The eighth drawer is labeled "bits and bobs" and I am dying to know what's inside.

And to check out my booty in these cuties...

Angel wing mirrors. The website where I found these little pieces of heaven quotes price as 179 pounds. That's $277.77 for us American devils. That's a big pile of corn just to check out the junk in my trunk. And that's okay cause I think my ass is worth it.