My Aunt Calls Me Hally Berry

the evolution of the heating pad.

When I was little, I didn’t know what a heating pad was. I only knew of the frying pan.

Whenever I had a stomachache, my mother would put a frying pan on the stove, turn the knob to “HIGH” and let it soak up the heat. She would then turn off the stove, wrap the frying pan in an old towel (the kind that once graced a bathroom rack in the guest bedroom, then became a rag for spring cleaning, then the towel for drying your dog after summertime baths outside, and finally — in its winter days — it became the frying pan towel), and place the blazing towel-wrapped cooking appliance on my stomach as I lay sprawled in bed. I remember the warmth soaking through towel and tee and straight to where the pain was; after a half hour of applied heat, my stomachache would subside and we’d go fry bacon.

This was never odd to me until my mother’s friend Theresa was babysitting and I had an unbearable stomachache. “FRYING PAN!” I cried at Theresa, who was running around trying to appease my seemingly random desires. “FRYING PAN!”

After Theresa’s tale of the girl who cried frying pan, my mother went out and bought a heating pad. And I’ve owned one ever since.

thankfuls.

As my toes get cold on the porch that has splintered my feet and ushered in midafternoon naps throughout my life, I am thankful for all the completely predictable basics: my family, friends, boyfriend, job, home and the access I have to all of the above (including porch splinters). I am a lucky girl who picks up lucky pennies all the time, and I am grateful for every bit of coppery and non-coppery luck I receive.

On this particular day, with the ocean whipping about and the stuffing simmering in its turkey womb, and the Macy’s Day Parade transforming into the National Dog Show and the National Dog Show transforming into the Packers versus the Lions game, and with cousins’ boyfriends and cousins’ half-sisters milling about snacking on appetite-curbing Double Stuf Oreos, and half-read novels and half-empty soda cans peppering all the tabletops that will soon be laden with champagne bubbles for as far as the eye can see (in my dreams), I suppose I am just thankful that the “OUCH!” just shouted from the kitchen as the turkey was pulled from the oven was followed by a slew of laughter and not sirens.

Indeed, I have a lot to be thankful for.

just beachy

A preview of photos and thoughts to come from my Thanksgiving break on Edisto Island.

My life lately looks like this. Treks downtown for work, getting caught up in surprise midday parades, flowers and champagne, huge projects sent out and Friday breakfast clubs.

Disclaimer.

I’ve decided to make my Tumblr a bit more bloggy, personal-y and journal-y. (If I add a “y” onto it, you completely understand the adjective I’ve made, right? Yeah you do! You’re so genius-y.) The truth is, my handsome man-friend and my badass fellow redheaded writer friend write their Tumblrs this way and I admire their sweet, sweet words.

I’ve been neglecting my own sweet, sweet words lately.

As for you, thanks for reading. Or unfollowing. Here’s a bird between some blinds.

Are Ya Kidding Me, Pumpkins.

This past weekend, four of us got in a red PT Cruiser and drove up through you’re-going-get-murdered-in-these-hills-if-you-stay-in-a-cabin-here mountains in search of autumnal splendor. One part of this sentence upsets me greatly.

You guessed correctly: PT Cruiser.

At the end of an hour+plus drive (which means more than an hour in my vernacular, but now I’m imagining an hour with additional time built into it, which would be AMAZING for naps, days at the beach and watching really horrible TV shows when you should be running errands), we rounded a bend and were met with a field full of pumpkins known as Burt’s Pumpkin Patch.

Convertibles carrying curved-stem, glorious gourds and wheelbarrows heaving orangey orbs made a fall fantasyland I’ve never experienced. Burn the tip of your tongue on some hot apple cider, and it’s my personal most wonderful time of the year.

This Is Halloween

I haven’t carved a pumpkin in years, probably back since the era when my dad did most of the carving business and I recommended small changes whilst stuffing candy in my face. Tonight I stood at Trader Joe’s (a theme of my Tumblr posts, undoubtedly) and picked out a pumpkin. This took time. I had a runner-up that I rotated several times and debated with my roommate, and when I walked away from it a man who’d been staring at it enviously throughout my inspection snatched it up. I wondered about my decision — if that guy wanted it so badly he was willing to wait for it, how could I walk away so easily? Jack-o-lantern jealousy is an amazing emotion.

On a porch with high school friends, we carved our chosen orbs of orange. It was surprisingly satisfying, the thunk of the knife as it sliced through the pumpkin, the scraping of pumpkin gut and carving of a face. It’s a rather scary word selection for such a sense of childish glee.

Weddings

Every time I go to a wedding, I learn a little something more about humanity. Sometimes I don’t like it, sometimes I do. Weddings are perfect microcosms of what a couple and their families think is important: is it the food and drink? The ceremony? The dress? The location? The number of guests? The formality? The simplicity? Suddenly you’re in this tiny day they built to their own specifications and you’re surprised about what you find there.