Advice for a Teenage Daughter

I came across this today...I really liked it & wanted to share...

Advice for a Teenage Daughter I Will Never Have

Even if you have just been shot with a tranquilizer dart for elephants, don't sleep in your makeup. Or contact lenses.

What separates a professional eyebrow arch from the amateurs is scissor-trimming. This is the least important item on this list, but It took me 38 years to find out, and I have to pass it onto somebody.

Wear the bikini every chance you can, and use the sunscreen.

Every year you can possibly delay having sex will ultimately make sex that much better. Think of it as the difference between spending every allowance on cheap shoes that don't last, or saving up for some really fabulous Jimmy Choos. Not that you have to go without even touching a pair of shoes in the meantime. Or marry your first pair of Jimmy Choos. Don't tell your mom I said that.

As long as you are in your teens, avoid dating anyone more than three years older than you. At your age, a romantic relationship with an older man is actually neither romantic or a relationship.
You look ugly when you gossip.

Throwing up drunk is not a good look for you.

Save this for later: the person you are now is not the way you behaved then.

Someday, a girl who is horrible to you now will request to be your Facebook friend. And though your cursor will linger a long and delicious moment above the "ignore" button, you will click on "accept" instead, and know that you have grown up.

Go to your prom. Wear the corsage. Stand under the arch. Get the pictures. Really.

Don't waste youth and resiliency. Have adventures. It will never be more appropriate for you to be inappropriate, and society will never be more forgiving. But avoid risks that will narrow your future. Skinny-dipping: yes. Filmed skinny-dipping: no.

Most importantly, hang around for womanhood. I promise, the best is yet to come.

If you liked it as much as I did, jump over to Kyran's blog and tell her!

It's the little things that annoy me...

Okay, so I just need to let.it.go. I know, I know, get on with it. Don't let it get to me. Well, isn't that what a journal is for? Write about it & then get over it. So I'll share it with you...the blog that no one is reading (LOL...I'm laughing alone here, I know).

So today I receive in the mail a membership drive packet for an association for which I am a member. Not only that, I serve on the board. Not only that, I designed some of the original documents for last year's drive. The printing looks great. The color is good. The concept works. The design is screwy.

Okay, so I'm a stickler for detail...I'm picky about layout & design...alright, I'll admit it, I'm anal (that always looks so much worse in print than it does when you say it out loud).

You see, my eye is automatically drawn to typos (not my own of course) and layout flow. So on the very first page I see a bulleted list that isn't set correctly. Okay, so I designed this thing in the latest MS Word (.docx) and the new person needed old Word (.doc). So someone did a save-as for them (I knew it shoulda been me!) and they obviously didn't know how to format bullets.

Okay, breathe Shelly, it's okay, no big deal, let.it.go.

Next page, whew, not one of mine. Oh ick! It's a survey page and they used spaces instead of tabs to line things up, oh ick, they put the answer lines at the END of the sentences! Okay, visual needed here...imagine this...

Survey question number one.      _ _ _ _ _
Survey question number is longer.       _ _ _ _ _
Question for the survey.                _ _ _ _ _

Well, you get the picture. And why put them at the end? Never mind that they used some weird dotted line thingie - why not put them at the beginning of each sentence? ugh.

Okay, last "marketing" page is the application. This one WAS mine (& by "was" I mean it no longer is because someone else made changes to it). All of my check boxes were changed to some weird character (that I later learn is a Euro money symbol). So rather than checking the boxes for your interests, or for your payment choices, etc., you're supposed to what, circle your choice?

Oh the horror of layout and design!

Okay, I'm feeling much better now. Thank you for listening...er reading...er, who am I kidding, I'm alone out here! Well, if it weren't for the whole Facebook thingie, my blog would never get read...so thanks to all my FB peeps....but if you feel compelled to leave a comment, please click on the "View Original Post" link & put it on my blog. It would make me feel more loved. I'm just kidding folks! No really, I'm serious......Okay, I really need a fresh cup of tea now.

How will they improve it

I've been condition to believe medicine won't make me well unless it tastes nasty. My kids enjoy tasty medicine.

We looked forward to days off of school so we could do nothing. My kids want to know what I'm going to do to entertain them.

McDonalds was a once a month treat, my kids don't understand why I refuse to only let them eat that once a week at the most (and we didn't get happy meals either!).

So many things that as kids we wished we had, so when we grew up we made it happen for our kids. What will they improve? What else did we improve?

And yes, I did walk a mile in the snow to school, up-hill, both ways...with plastic breadbags for boots! ;-)

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Sometimes it is the destination

I got an iPhone for Christmas and all thru the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse (because we set traps).

The stockings weren't hung, because we couldn't find the drill, and for our trip to Texas we packed in a hurry because its a thrill (well, not really, I'm making a rhyme).

With my husband and children all bundled into the car, we started off for a long ride afar. We left at 20:50 which was way later than planned, but were excited to get started and at work had been slammed.

But what should my eyes see from above? A whole lot of rain, ice & snow in a blizzard coming down on our car (hmm, no rhyme there!).

With cars in ditches and trucks jack-knifed, we made our way thru the treachorus night (it was mostly during the day by then, really).

With many delays and blinding white outs, we pushed ahead until it was again lights out.

So much for our 18 hour drive, it turns out we're in for a record breaking 25 (okay, so it was really 23 but I'm rhyming here!).

But finally after those long hours on the road, ready to strangle my family from head to toe, we arrived safely in Clyde, Texas, grateful to arrive in one piece and ready to say, Merry Christmas to all and someone get me a drink!

Gift Idea: Journal in a Jar

I came across this idea from an email newsletter I subscribe to and thought it was a great idea.

You've seen, I'm sure, stuff-in-a-jar kind of gifts (cookie mix in a jar, jams in a jar, etc), there's even a booklet from the same source I got this idea detailing loads of idea. Well, the premise of this one is to give someone a journal with a nice pen and a jar filled with ideas on what to write.

For a little kid, there would be things like "Draw a picture of your favorite pet or animal. Draw a picture of your favorite thing to do in the summertime. Draw a picture of your favorite place to go."

For an older child or teen the prompts could be more like: "Tell about your favorite pet–-what kind of animal is it? When did you get him/her? Tell about your hardest day at school. What is your favorite band? Why do you like them?"

There's even ones for adults: "Why was your name chosen for you? What was happening in the world when you were born? What is your earliest memory of home?"

Then the piece of paper would taped/pasted onto a journal page and let the memories and writing begin.

I decided I would try this gift for my niece and nephew this year (11 & 15). My nephew is not so much into writing, so his journal won't have lines so he can do more drawing than writing. I'll post a photo of the finished gifts...once I do the in the jar parts.

I'm sure you're thinking "how on earth will I figure out what to put IN the jar", well my source even provides this for you! She has links on our site to PDF & Excel files that contain plenty of ideas...so many that you'd probably be hard pressed to think up ones that aren't already provided...but feel free to add to it! Then you cut up each idea and put it in the jar.

My husband thinks the idea is cheesey, but I did confirm w/ my sister-in-law that she thought it was a good before doing it. She thinks her kids will love it, especially since I'm using nice sketch pad for my nephew instead of a lined journal.

Let me know what you think of the idea...cheesey? ingenious? love it? hate it? Feel free to leave me a comment.

...and of course, happy holidays to all!

As promised...pix of the journals...

My niece's journal - it looks dark, but it's actually a nice shade of pink

And this is my nephew's sketchbook/journal.

And this is what you get when you buy cute small jars...more journal ideas than you can fit in one...take my advice - buy a bigger jar! These are extras for each journal in a jar set.

Stories that make your heart swell

I grew up reading stories from Reader's Digest, I especially loved those short quips at the end of the page. It made for a quick read, and they always lifted your spirits. I received the following story via email and of course, me being me, had to go to the Internet to see if it was a true story (it was!) and then decided I had to share it here as well. This story was originally printed in 1966 in Reader's Digest. If you'd like to download a text version of the story (for sending via email), you can download it here...or just copy it from below! Happy Monday.

A TRUE STORY
by Paul Villard

When I was quite young, my family had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I remember well the polished oak case fastened to the wall on the lower stair landing. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I even remembered the number - 105. I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother talked into it. Once she lifted me up to speak to my father, who was away on business. Magic! Then I discovered that somewhere inside that wonderful device lived an amazing person - her name was "Information Please" and there was nothing that she did not know. My mother could ask her for anybody's number and when our clock ran down, Information Please immediately supplied the correct time.

My first personal experience with this genie-in-the-receiver came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the toolbench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer. The pain was terrible, but there didn't seem to be of much use crying because there was no one home to offer sympathy. I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway. The telephone! Quickly, I ran for the footstool in the parlor and dragged it to the landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver and held it to my ear.

"Information Please," I said into the mouthpiece just above my head. A click or two, and a small clear voice spoke into my ear. "Information." "I hurt my fingerrr-" I wailed into the phone. The tears came readily enough now that I had an audience. "Isn't your mother home?" came the question. "Nobody's at home but me," I blubbered. "Are you bleeding?". "No", I replied. "I hit it with the hammer and it hurts". "Can you open your icebox?" she asked. I said I could. "Then chip off a little piece of ice and hold it on your finger. That will stop the hurt. Be careful when you use the ice pick," she admonished. "And don't cry. You'll be alright".

After that, I called Information Please for everything. I asked for help with my Geography and she told me where Philadelphia was, and the Orinco--the romantic river I was going to explore when I grew up. She helped me with my Arithmetic, and she told me that a pet chipmunk--I had caught him in the park just that day before--would eat fruits and nuts. And there was the time that Petey, our pet canary, died. I called Information Please and told her the sad story. She listened, then said the usual things grown-up say to soothe a child. But I was unconsoled. Why was it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to whole families, only to end as a heap of feathers feet up, on the bottom of a cage? She must have sensed my deep concern, for she quietly said, "Paul, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in." Somehow, I felt better.

Another day I was at the telephone. "Information," said the now familiar voice. "How do you spell fix?". F-I-X." At that instant my sister, who took unholy joy in scaring me, jumped off the stairs at me with a banshee shriek-"Yaaaaaaaaaa!" I fell off the stool, pulling the receiver out of the box by its roots. We were both terrified--Information Please was no longer there, and I was not at all sure that I hadn't hurt her when I pulled the receiver out. Minutes later, there was a man on the porch. "I'm a telephone repairman. I was working down the street and the operator said there might be some trouble at this number." He reached for the receiver in my hand. "What happened?" I told him. "Well, we can fix that in a minute or two." He opened the telephone box exposing a maze of wires and coils, and fiddled for a while with the end of the receiver cord, tightened things with a small screwdriver. He jiggled the hook up and down a few times, then spoke into the phone. "Hi, this is Pete. Everything's under control at 105. The kid's sister scared him and he pulled the cord out of the box." He hung up, smiled, gave me a pat on the head and walked out the door.

All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. Then, when I was nine years old, we moved across he country to Boston-and I missed my mentor acutely. Information Please belonged in that old wooden box back at home, and I somehow never thought if trying the tall, skinny new phone that sat on the small table in the hall. Yet, as I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversation never really left me; often in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had when I know that I could call Information Please and get the right answer. I appreciated now how very patient, understanding and kind she was to have wasted her time on a little boy.

A few years later, on my way back to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had about half an hour between plan connections, and I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister who lived there now, happily mellowed by marriage and motherhood. Then, really without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, "Information Please." Miraculously, I heard again the small, clear voice that I know so well:"Information." I hadn't planned this, but I heard myself saying, "Could you tell me, please, how to spell the word 'fix'?" There was a long pause. Then came the softly spoken answer. "I guess," said Information Please, "that your finger must have healed by now." I laughed. "So it's really still you. I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during all that time...." "I wonder," she replied, "if you know how much you meant to me? I never had any children, and I used to look forward to your calls. Silly, wasn't it?" It didn't seem silly, but I didn't say so. Instead I told her how often I had thought of her over the years, and I asked if I could call her again when I come back to visit my sister when the semester was over. "Please do. Just ask for Sally." "Goodbye Sally." It sounded strange for Information Please to have a name. "If I run into any chipmunks, I'll tell them to eat fruits and nuts." "Do that," she said. "And I expect one of these days you'll be off for the Orinoco. Well, good-bye."

Just three months later, I was back again at the Seattle airport. A different voice answered, "Information," and I asked for Sally. "Are you a friend?" "Yes," I said. "An old friend." "Then I'm sorry to have to tell you. Sally had only been working part-time in the last few years because she was ill. She died five weeks ago." But before I could hung up, she said, "Wait a minute. Did you say your name was Villard?" "Yes." "Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down." "What was it?" I asked, almost knowing in advance what it would be. "Here it is, I'll read it-'Tell him I still say there are other worlds to sing in. He'll know what I mean'."

I thanked her and hung up. I did know what Sally meant.

Paul Villard
Originally published June, 1966 Readers Digest; reprinted with permission in the December 1999 issue of the Singing Wires newsletter, TCI club.

Daddy's Gonna Eat Your Fingers

Received this via email...and just had to share...I love this one!!

This will make you smile!

This one is for everyone who...
a) has kids
b) had kids
c) was a kid
d) knows a kid
e) is going to have kids.
I guess that means all of us!!

DADDY'S GONNA EAT YOUR FINGERS

I was packing for my business trip and my three-year-old daughter was having a wonderful time playing on the bed. At one point she said, 'Daddy, look at this,' and stuck out two of her fingers.

Trying to keep her entertained, I reached out and stuck her tiny fingers in my mouth and said, 'Daddy's gonna eat your fingers,' pretending to eat them.

I went back to packing, looked up again and my daughter was standing on the bed staring at her fingers with a devastated look on her face.

I said, 'What's wrong, honey?'

She replied, 'What happened to my booger?'