I confess that I don’t allow the same butter knife to be used for buttering toast and dipping into the jam jar. At least while I’m looking. Once my daughter pointed out that a particular mom-friend of ours did allow this. I feel secure in my method, no matter how unsound.
I cannot compare myself to my own mother. When I was growing up, she came into my school, at least once, and did a talk about being from Germany for International Night. Okay, I made the last part up, but it’s the best I can recollect. Maybe it was during the day and we were studying Europe.
My mom was the only one who ever mowed the lawn. Maybe my brother did, too, once he was a teenager. I’ll have to ask him.
My father was the one who grilled the steaks. I don’t think we ate hamburgers from the grill. I am not sure why. I think because my parents were European and they didn’t know how these things were done in the US.
I was what you call a “picky eater” when I was young, but I think it’s an unfair label.
There are many things I won’t eat; I’m not adventurous like some of my friends. But I’ve come around to some degree.
Back in Kent, Ohio, I had a massage client who traveled the world for her job. She is the one who taught me that it is rude to turn down food you are offered when visiting a foreign country. This may be one reason I’m averse to traveling to certain places. She told me the 2 strangest things she ever ate were 1. pickled reindeer horn (Sweden?) and 2. monkey brain (China). Am I making this up? I don’t think so, but sometimes details are sketchy. She was a cool person, very energetic, blond, sexy. She lived in an underground house, built into the side of a hill. Someone gave her a clock made of a cast-iron frying pan and she felt obliged to put it on her wall, but she hated it. She drove a red Saab, a rare sight in Kent. A couple of years after she became a client of mine, she had a terrible car accident, was hit sideways by an 18-wheeler. Her car was slammed into the center-guard rail on the interstate. One of her MDs told her she was millimeters away from becoming completely paralyzed from the neck down. She came out okay. I could tell you more that I remember, but I’m sure this is one of those things that is not mine to tell—I’ve already revealed a lot. It’s just so interesting. I will never forget some of those details.
I feel young and hip because I recently put a little streak of reddish-pink into my hair (I believe the official name is “candy apple red”). This is from last week; the color has already faded out more. Last night, I put a faint purple tint in, but, to my surprise, I don’t like it as much.
I’m sure no one reading this would EVER click on the photo and use the close-up feature to try to look at my pores. To my horror, this is possible so I’ve begun to make sure you can’t do this. Because my pores are not my best feature.
What is my best feature you ask? My sparkling personality, of course.
♥ ♥ ♥
twinklysparkles 