the art of letters.

I'm really into buying stationary. Love the stuff. It's why I fell over at this vintage Strawberry Shortcake scented red polka dot stationary. And yes - I'm talking about the original shortcake -- not the disturbing new version (but hey! what's not to love about turning childhood toys into sex symbols! i love america!).

Sadly, the stationary was a little too old and the scented part did wear off (but I imagined myself in a field of strawberries while I wrote a letter out. I'm sure that's what the original scent smelled like, friend).

Last night, I sat and wrote a letter out on this adorable paper.

As much as I shouldn't admit it -- it was actually rather difficult. I realized that most of my thoughts to other people come out in 160 character text messages or three sentence emails that I can type at the speed of sound (or at least, close to the speed of sound.).

Letter writing takes time - you think a thought and then spend an entire minute - I'm talking at least 60 entire seconds - putting that thought down on a piece of paper - - which requires you to really spend some time with your thoughts. They linger. They hang out. They get another drink.

I'm out of practice, hanging out with my own thoughts -- thinking these thoughts and then seeing them written out, staring up at me, accusingly. And then even more, sharing them with other people without the use of a computer or a cell phone or conversation.

Part of me wanted to share my deepest journal-deserving hopes and dreams...while the other part of me just continued to ramble on about the weather.

My hand hurt at the end of the letter. And I'm still not sure if I managed to say anything or just kept falling back on a smiley face here, smiley face there. (sidebar: i think i hate smiley faces.)

But I think -- I think -- I might actually use more of that stationary I've hoarded up through the years and try another one of these letter things.

yawn.

I'm sleepy.

I tried to distract myself tonight by baking -- I put on an apron and used things like measuring cups and baking powder and mixed things and tried to wake up. (it didn't work)

But damn, I did finally find a martha recipe I liked. Went with a good old fashioned buttermilk cupcake. So far, in the household, we've consumed five of them. Impressive, considering my last few attempts we hid in the back of the fridge so we wouldn't remember we should be eating them.

Then again, me not understanding that "unshelled" pistachios meant actually taking the shells off could have contributed.

I have that deep kind of sleepiness that usually accompanies rain. Maybe I'm just hoping it rains again soon so I wear my new (amazing) rainboots. They are insulated with the softest fabric -- I really appreciate shoes that feel like slippers, but aren't slippers.

It's like a really comfortable summer dress that feels like a nightgown, but is yet appropriate to wear to the grocery store. Unlike an actual nightgown, which I now know is not appropriate.

secret love.

Still unpacking from our holiday road trip and it's fun, going through the loot, eating the smashed hershey kisses at the bottom of the suitcase, etc.

Although I shouldn’t admit it, I love stuff. I know that’s the wrong thing to say. I’m supposed to say keywords like “simplicity” and “simple” and “living simply.”

How about, “I simply love stuff”?

Does that work?

When we were little, we always got to open a present on Christmas Eve. It was always either pajamas or a board game. This year, my dad went rogue on us and changed it up.


You see right. Those are definitely three snuggie wearing ladies.

And being the stuff-loving lady I am, I’ve taken to this blanket with arms like a fish takes to water. In other words, I love it. No, really, I love this damn thing. It’s actually embarrassing. I’m embarrassed. I’m blushing right now. With embarrassment.

The worst part is that it’s so cozy, being all curled up on the couch completely covered up (yes, even my arms) while doing something (yes, like drinking coffee or reading a book or yes, even using the remote control!) that I get lazy and warm and when I want to refill my coffee cup, say, well, I stand and apparently hope that my snuggie somehow becomes a robe that I can walk in to the kitchen and back.

It doesn’t. Become a robe, that is.

In fact, it becomes a dangerous long blanket that drags in front of me, tripping me up and mocking my constant attachment to the thing.

I’m actually quite worried that if I don’t manage to separate myself from this thing while doing normal things like walking, I’ll be found by my loved ones in a mangled heap on the kitchen floor, the damn snuggie wrapped precariously around my ankles, empty coffee cup rolling away.