Tomorrow is writing prompt day.  Today was going to be a food post, but then I got sidetracked.

And by sidetracked I mean ‘I had the kind of day that drives a woman to drink.’

[Note to Rachel - just kidding.  No rehab-related confessions will be forthcoming.  No-no-no.]

I’ve noticed that days like this rarely begin with sunrise.  Typically they start around 3 pm, when the girls have been home from school for 15 minutes or so, and they’ve gotten over ‘missing each other all day’ and reverted to ‘annoying each other as usual.’

But yesterday was the exception to this.  Yesterday’s bad day actually started the night before, when I got a very disturbing email.  So disturbing that I didn’t sleep a wink, my skin crawled, and I jumped out of my skin with every little creak and squeak that occurs in the middle of the night.  The quiet noises that one rarely notices seemed to scream directly into my psyche on Monday night and right on through Tuesday morning.

This discomfort was no doubt amplified by the multiple pots of coffee I consumed, and the lack of anyone to talk to about aforementioned email.  It being the middle of the night and all.

I talked to myself about it, though.

I told myself what I knew everyone else would say to me. What I would say to them, if the situation were reversed.

It’s just an email.

Nothing bad is going to happen.

You’re being way too paranoid.

Step away from the Google.

Lay off the coffee.

Didn’t work, though.

I looked for my usually reliable middle of the night friends, but none of them were online.

You people and your precious ‘sleep’.  Pffft.

This may have been the only morning I can ever remember when I had to fight the urge to wake the kids up early, just so I could get some company.

Daylight came eventually, and I admit the hustle and bustle of the day did help.  Even the girls’ typical afternoon fussiness and general chaos was a welcome alternative to the silent stewing I had done the previous night.

Until they spilled water on the hardwood floor and didn’t clean it up and then I didn’t see it so I went sliding across the floor, involuntarily pulled into a split deeper than I’ve done in 20+ years, thereby causing me to spit forth incoherent ramblings like ‘mmmffarblistablatgumph’ and likely pull a groin muscle in such a way that will leave me walking funny for days, an incident immediately followed by Catie stepping over me to jerk open the front door and ram it into my foot, ripping off half of my right baby toenail.  That part was less than welcome.

But as I write this, the violent freaks precious angels are tucked snugly in their beds, dreaming away.  The house is quiet again, and I am left alone with my too-numerous thoughts.

It’s feeling like another sleepless night, and I am accepting applications for 3rd shift friends.

Or bodyguards. Bodyguards are welcome, too.

For now, I think I’ll just drink up.

This book is an easy read – in my case it took one evening.  It’s a light read – it likely won’t change your life.

But it’s also a profound read in many ways.  One of the most insightful books I’ve had the pleasure to happen upon in recent years.

I related to Lillian, who saw food as a means of healing.

I found myself in Claire, who lost herself in her children.

I longed for a love like that of Carl and Helen, who weathered a marital storm and because of that drew closer.

I ached for Tom, mourning his unthinkable loss.

I cook like Charlotte.  [garlic - hello, lover]

I am naive like Chloe.

And I have never before read a book so that so completely captured me in so many ways.  I was startled more than once to find that the exact words in my head had seemingly been snatched and copied, right there on the pages.

I was moved.

I am a foodie.  I love food from a place deep within my soul.  As far as completely personal hobbies go, I’m not sure I could name anything I do that gives me more pleasure than cooking.

And this book – oh, this book!  It so fully encapsulated the passion and sensuality of food, I am almost at a loss for words to describe it properly.

As corny as I know it sounds, this book touched something deep inside of me.  It stirred feelings that I’ve pushed aside for years.

It inspired me.

And I’d like to see if maybe it would inspire you, too.

I am giving away a copy of The School of Essential Ingredients.  If you’d like to win your very own copy, just leave me a comment with your favorite ingredient, food, recipe, family meal memory…  Whatever you’d like.  Share a foodie thought with me and you’re in!

Drawing will be held this Friday evening, September 10, at 8 pm EST.  Or whenever my kids get to bed.

And don’t be surprised to find lots of recipes here this month – I’ve been cooking up a storm.

In looking for embarrassing pictures of myself (which unfortunately, are not hard to find. At all.) I came across several that clearly illustrated what a trendsetter I was.

I rocked several looks a good decade + before the Kardashians did.  Sadly I didn’t look nearly as good in doing so, and I got paid nothing for it, and I’m not close to my sisters like they are…but I had the [inferior] look, and that’s really what’s important here.

Since the money isn’t forthcoming.

Anyway.

The way-too-harsh up-do:

The One Who No Longer Exists

Edited so no one [me] vomits.

Hey check it – she’s got my earrings, too!

The one-shoulder black dress:

No. Eyes.

[Which incidentally, I, too, retired - after seeing this picture.  One-shoulder dresses are not the friend of a busty girl. I look like I weigh at least half a ton here.]

And of course, the super-long hair overkill:

(mine’s all real, thanks)

And this isn’t a beauty pageant, for the record – I’m not that kinda girl.

I think I’d go by Kassie.

And I’d have to introduce them to church.

But otherwise, clearly, I’d fit right in.

I wonder how I’d look with black hair?

Jesus called the children to him and said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.” ~Luke 18:16

I have ‘friends’ who are also trying to improve themselves.  Four of them are doing P90x.  Four!  What are the odds that I would have four such insane highly motivated friends all at the same time?  I think a couple of them are gonna have to go.  Especially since they’re posting pictures of their sculpted abs on Facebook, demoralizing me while I’m trying to goof off and eat a donut.

Just kidding of course. Anyone who knows me knows that I wouldn’t really be eating a donut.

Maybe a bowl of pasta.  With pesto.  And garlic bread.

And any other carbs I can scrounge up on my way back to the couch.

So yeah – my version of self-improvement involves ramping up the amount of time I spend sitting on my butt in front of the computer.  Yey me!

I’m not full-fledged committing, but I am aspiring to NaBloPoMo this month.

Don’t hold me to it.

But we’ll see.

Have a good holiday weekend!

The phase when I fancied myself a poet.

It lasted less than a year, I think, but looking back I’m sure it was a very long year.  How incredibly tedious.

Of course, not everyone agrees, because I’ll have you know that I was published in a very prestigious book of poetry that anyone who buys their way in to the $60 book few people have on their resume.

Yey me.

The worst of the worst cream of the crop?

The Desire of Him

She sees what she is out to find

And yet her heart does not accept

Does not truly believe

That what she looks at with such admiration

Has seen her

She drinks every detail

With a passionate, driving thrist

But like a river, the end is never reached

And like the warm rays of sun

She gazes upon his intensity

But cannot look directly.

It is not known to her

Whether this feeling is returned

But neither does she know if she

Can hope to achieve

All that her heart wishes to give.

Suddenly, without her motion or movement

Without encouragement or expectation

And overcoming the fear for what was never said

And now might never be said

He notices.

Best line? Without a doubt,

Like the warm rays of sun, she gazes upon his intensity, but cannot look directly.

So deep.

So much depth it’s amazing I didn’t drown in the very deep pool of drama that I was obviously wallowing in.

And I walked around looking like this, which really helped the ‘I’m such a misunderstood artist’ vibe I was throwing out there

Oh.My.Goodness.

Let me just tell you, crap like this is something I do not look forward to when I one day have three {three!} teenage daughters.

But obviously I will deserve it, since my poor parents had to put up with me.

Yoi.

Note to Jen:  I think I went above and beyond here this week, and the balance of power has clearly shifted. {insert evil laugh here}

Humiliation week – over and out!

I wasn’t one of those goth people.  I didn’t wear black lipstick or white face paint.

I was just in black – always.

School, clubs, dances, church, my sister’s wedding shower and rehearsal dinner – all black.

And all with combat boots.

Again, let me repeat that I wasn’t a goth.

I’m not sure what inspired this.

My love of weird music?  A Sweet Valley High book?

Whatever it was, I was all ‘Hey let’s listen to Jane’s Addiction and dress like we’re funeral bound!’ for way too long.

As you can see, it’s a very flattering color for a girl with my skin tone:

And I look nothing like a mime here:

Oh good – here’s a glimpse of the boots:

That was apparently my favorite dress, because I’m not sure I ever took it off for at least a 6-month span.  I’ve been photographed in it all over the country, from my sister’s wedding rehearsal (where she was none too pleased that my boots made an appearance) to church to dances… it was my little black dress that wasn’t so little.

{You might recognize some of these people. They’re famous now.}

Can barely see eyes…

Even more pathetic unusual is that I appear to be wearing the same necklace with the same dress in all of these pictures.  Not too creative, apparently.

You know, when you find what works and all.  Don’t mess with perfection.

Yeah, black is definitely the way for a milky white girl to go.  A walking study in contrasts.

Especially with an overdose of hair.

You cannot even see detail on my face because I am so pale.  I actually reflect light.

What would really finish this off beautifully would be if I had pictures of some of my other go-to looks.  Like cutoff Daisy Dukes, worn with black fishnets and combat boots (natch).  Or when I dyed green streaks in my hair.  Or the purple, red, and blue ones.  Or when I pulled it all up into a ponytail, and shaved off the lower part.

You know, like this

I was a weird girl.

But not as weird as the guy I dated once, who sported a mohawk like this

And I mean literally once, because when my dad met him.  Well.  That was the end of that.

I believe a direct quote would involve something about ‘ripping that earring right out of your ear, son’ and possibly a shotgun.

Come to think of it, that guy could have gone in my Bad Judgment post too.

I’d like to say that I’m older and wiser now…but somehow I’m afraid I’m just older.

And PS) I still love black. Some things never change.

Edit – last minute addition – I almost forgot about these.  A chorale concert, I think, and my mom tried so hard to get a decent picture of me.

It wasn’t working though – you can barely see a glimpse of my face at the corner of the music stand.

A little closer, but nope, still covered.

But at least she can snap one of me when I walk down the aisle!

Sadly, no – I looked the other way, and I stuck out my tongue.

‘You with the tongue Heather.  Why is your tongue always hanging out?‘

Sorry Mom.  I blame MJ.

And since I know you are wondering, yes, actually I was wearing the black dress [and combat boots] under the black robe. Why wouldn’t I be?

{Quick, name me something you wore in 1989 that wasn’t hideous!}

But also, I always made my own dresses.  At least twice a year I set my creativity loose and designed and made my own formal wear.  And let’s just say how very ironic these pictures are, considering I now design children’s clothing.  Clearly, my artistic vision has changed over the years.

Take this monstrosity, for example

Hello, everything red ever made!

I had no ability to edit.  I loved red and I was ready to show the world.

It’s a darn shame this picture doesn’t capture my red earrings, red shoes, and red purse.  I can’t say for sure now because my brain is very old and tired, but something tells me my underwear wasn’t white.

And my date for said prom (who is probably reading this and laughing at me right now…or possibly feeling relieved that his picture isn’t here, forever attaching him to crazy red blob girl) was told specifically to bring all red flowers.  I feel strongly that he also should have sung ‘Lady in Red’ without prompting, but that didn’t happen.

With or without the prompting.

Seriously dude, could I have dropped any more hints?

And what do you think that look on my face is about?  Is it, ‘Mo-om, stop taking pictures of me!  I’m super cool and you’re making me look like a dork here!’

Or was it ‘I know that my former BFF is behind me and she looks sooooo much better in her ruffled cupcake dress than I do in my big red blob. Plus her hair is bigger than mine! Dangit!’

[I'm struck by irony because as I write this, the last song we ever danced to came on Gen X radio.]

The next year I’d like to say I learned something, but, um, not really.

Enter ‘faux sequins’

Oh, and also the first time my hair went brown, though this time it was accidental.  I have to accept responsibility for all future misadventures with a bottle.

Note to self: If you don’t have the patience to hand sew thousands of individual sequins, then pick another style. ‘Sequin-like fabric’ is in fact nothing at all like actual sequins, and very, very tacky.

Lesson learned.

Prom that year went better.  I lightened up on both the color and the bling.  Unfortunately, I lightened up all the way to white, which makes it look like I was a teenage bride.  And judging by my date’s ball cap, I’m thinking this wasn’t the wedding of the century.

White – not a good color for a pale, sickly girl.

Try again – Cinderella Ball, the following year.

Ok, so the color is better.  But the hair?  The hair is not good.  And also, looking back at this and knowing how old I was in this picture, I cannot believe that I wore/my parents let me wear a dress that low cut.  It looks like the see-through fabric stops just shy of my navel.  Klassy.

[And lest you think less of me, the date was just a friend.]

I reverted to my old ways for the next prom, too.  Wedding #2

Two minor changes this time.

1) I wore Ivory instead of white.

2) I knew I’d be shaking my booty all night and had the good sense to wear sneaks.

My only regret here is that they weren’t Chucks.  Or combat boots.  Either would have made for better pictures.

Have I ever told you that I wore tennis shoes under my wedding dress, too?

In college I seemed to learn my lesson.  I looked much better…but had dates that I couldn’t stand to see again, so you won’t be getting pictures there.

{Besides Jen, this is really all for you, and you’ve already seen the worst of that.}

It started young, when I was sporting a polyester leisure suit at my birthday party

Now this doesn't date me at all...

And it just grew from there.

For example, the date that felt chinos and no socks would be appropriate for a semi-formal.

No socks.

Who does that? Blech.

But hey, remember when boxer shorts as attire was popular?

No eyes when I smile. Seriously.

Yeah – me either.  But it certainly helps to make them look cool, the way I have them hiked up to my armpits.

Dear Heather,

Circa-nineteen-whenever-overalls-were-popular

Overalls – not good.

Moving on…

Where to even begin with this one?

Pretzel legs

Oh, I know – how about we start with the pictures of the creep plastered all over the wall behind you? Bad. Judgment.

Also, you are still wearing boxers, and you still have no eyes when you smile.

Oh, and this?

Driving Miss Daisy

You are at least 20 years too young to wear a dress with a matching shirt.  A dress that stops mid-calf, AKA the least flattering length known to man.

And it’s amazing this one didn’t get me arrested

Sullying the good name of Nemo

since quite obviously, I appear to be pants-less in Disney World.

I’m not, for the record.

A – Not fat, just pregnant. I know I say that a lot, but it’s true.

B – Wearing short shorts

C – Wearing my husband’s pullover which is way too big for me

D – Too stupid to look in a mirror

I had that ‘too stupid’ problem here, too.  This is the day I learned that when taking pictures, your neck should be pushed out, not pulled in.

Hello, double chin!

Dear Heather,

Shield your eyes from the glow

Don’t take pictures in the pool unless you’ve discovered the sun.  Or at least a decent self-tanner.

I’ve had several [failed] attempts at hat-wearing

But at least I don't have poodle hair!

Am I playing dress-up here? Why are the clothes hanging off of me?  Gross! Eat a burger, pronto!

Let’s try again

The furry scarf really sets it off, don't you think?

Ok there, fatso. Back off the burgers now.

Maybe feathers would be better?

Practicing my routine for Vegas

As it turns out, no. And where are my darn eyes?

The mortification fun ends here today.  More kicks to the gut laughs tomorrow!

My friend Jen has been on my case about the ‘serious’ nature of my writing recently.  At her request, I am lightening up.  And because I once embarrassed her so badly she cried [and then tripped and fell down the stairs in front of a guy she was trying to impress, which of course made me laugh hysterically, and then she cried harder, because her friend is a jerk and also her finger was broken] – I owe her.

Welcome to ‘embarrass myself’ week.  Because Jen?  I love you that much.

I have issues with my hair.

I was born with quite a lot of it, thick and bushy and black.  I’m not sure why, but it’s a family thing I guess – my daughters were just the same.  It never fell out either, just slowly turned to blonde.

The problem is that when I was a child, I was a tomboy.  I had no patience for ribbons and bows, and I couldn’t be bothered to brush it.  My mom’s solution?  snip, snip

First with the too-short, uneven bangs

Age 2

It got a little bit better (read: less crooked)

Age 4

So of course that had to be rectified pronto

Age 5

For a couple of years that shaggy, mullet-like cut stayed

Age 6, and inexplicably petting a dead bird

[Man, I totally rocked the velour tummy shirt. Go me.]

These experiences scarred me.  I was like, 12 when I finally got my hair to grow out.  And there was no stopping me then, baby.  I was all, my hair is never going to look bad again!  Which is why even when playing basketball, I was fully curled and plastered with hair spray at all times.  Sweat couldn’t stand a chance against a half can of Aqua Net.

Big hair

[I'm just gonna go ahead and apologize for that whole 'global warming' thing, if you believe in it.  There's no doubt that my 4300 cans of aerosol hair spray had something to do with that.]

Eventually I gave up the big curls, and traded (up?) to extreme length

I could almost sit on it. For real.

Enough already Heather.  Get a haircut.

19 inches later

Oh hey, that’s not half bad. [Except for the coat. #9, AKA The One Who No Longer Exists]

Thankfully I got rid of that good haircut ASAP – wouldn’t want to look normal for too long.

Not fat, just pregnant

Nice headband.

Hmmmm….maybe shorter would be better?

Shortest hair of my adult life

Yes, that is better.  It must go.

I have no eyes when I smile

Curls – because that’s never worked before.

Ok, try again.

Again, not fat, just pregnant

Yes, that’s better.

Let’s ruin it.

Failed attempt at shag

Note to self – you are not nearly as cute as Meg Ryan and you cannot pull off her haircut.  Also, you look fat in that outfit, and you don’t have pregnancy as an excuse.

Princess Leia hair

Note to self – you aren’t Carrie Fisher, either.

Perhaps the wrong hair color would help?

Reddish-brown - not good

Maybe I should just give up, and sport nothing but ponytails and twists.

Present day

How much worse can it get?

Humiliation – we’ll be here all week.