Stripshow on the Prairie

I think it's time I joined "Little House on the Prairie Anonymous".

It's such an old show.  It began airing in 1974 and ended in 1982.  But some television is like cheese.  It gets better with age.  TV was better back then, full of morals, happy endings, God-fearing people, and clean humor.  And what was so wrong with that?  Why did we have to shift everything to vulgar, grotesque, and immoral?

Aside from content, the plot lines are simple and easy to follow.  One episode of Little House in the Prairie is all it takes to hook me.  Even when I have no background knowledge of previous episodes I can jump right in.  Many commercials for modern shows are confusing enough and it only takes five minutes of an episode to send my head spinning with over dramatic scenarios of some doctor trying to save the life a drug addict with pin worms while one of his nurses argues with a surgeon because he's sleeping with the secretary who's already pregnant with the doctors baby.  Oi.

It's too much.

Simplicity should be celebrated.  We need a holiday for it.  There are already a plethora of holidays dedicated to dressing up our homes with tinsel, trees, stockings, painted eggs, carved pumpkins, and lights framing houses.  I need a holiday to celebrate simplicity.  Maybe that's what spring cleaning is.  Once a year as the sun comes out from winter hibernation I can come out too, open all the dusty blinds and welcome back life.  It's time to clean out old closets and cluttered desks and really enhance mine and my husbands lives by simplifying.

Wow, enough about that.  The weirdest thing just happened.  Weird may not be the best word to describe it.  Embarrassing. . . no, awkward. . .  maybe.

The winter is beginning to come to a close and that means one thing for the Rowberries.  It's gonna get HAWT!  I'm not talking about, "Hey, can we turn on a fan, it's getting a little warm in here?"  I'm talking: "Sweetie, The thermostat says it's ninety degrees!  I've already opened all the windows, and I think my shirt is melting.  See, it's dripping on the floor.  Oh, wait.  That's sweat.  Nevermind!"

As much as I've been anticipating the arrival of sunshine and tan(er) skin, the hotness of home is not quite so welcome.  Today was the first day of the season we began to feel it.  But, stupid me, I didn't think to open a window.  So naturally, the Southern sun beamed through our windows and we retained every bit of its warmth.  No, really, every bit.

It's Sunday, a day of rest, a day of relaxation, a day where I can do minimal house work because it's the Sabbath.  Paul and I got home from church at about 2:45.  The house was a bit warm, but not uncomfortable.  I made some turkey pesto grilled cheese sandwiches which turned out quite tasty.  We turned on the TV.  Hey, I have a Little House on the Prairie problem, and I know it.  And as the apartment got hotter we began pulling off our Sunday layers.  Not wanting to miss the action of Miss Laura Ingalls I draped my skirt across a pillow and Paul's tie dropped lazily over the arm of the couch.

Eventually, Paul retreated to the back of the apartment while I opted to stay with Laura in the living room.  My laptop sat on my thighs as I attempted to write on a day where I really just wanted to nap, and as the warmth of it's battery superheated my legs the rest of my layers came off.

Yep, I was sitting in the front room wearing nothing but my undies, modest undies, but undies nonetheless, watching PBS and trying to focus on my blog.  It's not like anyone ever just pops in on us so I had no worries.

Except today was a day where someone decided to pop in on us.  I've decided to rehash the experience in a poem:
 

I in my undies and Paul in his shorts

Had settled right in and weren't watching sports

When out on the door step there came a "ding dong"

It pulled me from the prairie and that a lovely theme song

I ran to the office and beg Paul to answer

He had on more layers (but I threw on some pants-er. . .)

There were voices from the door and I heard my first name

I was still shirtless, isn't that lame?

My bra had gone missing but I found some pajamas

They were covered in penguins, not monkeys with bananas

I dashed to the front room to greet my sweet neighbor

I was flushed and out of breath from all of that labor

Her husband stood behind her and so did her son

This was so unexpected but I like them a ton

So, I scanned the room to assess the damage

And was mortified at the clothes left unmanaged

I grabbed them real quick and tossed them back with the wash

And apologized profusely for the scene that they caused

The conversation was nice and the company, exquisite

But it was getting late so they ended the visit

I was a little embarrassed at the timing today

But I guess that irony doesn't rest on Sunday

Eventually, I'll post the finished product, but here's a sneak-peak of a top secret project I'm working on:

Hair today, gone tomorrow

On Monday Kayla got a new toy. . .

And she's decided to start up a business. . .

(For whatever reason, this picture won't upload right side up. Forgive me. Tilt your head to read.)

Every customer is treated with care.  Our salon is not just a salon.  Many of our customers say "it feels just like home."  It can also double as a kitchen so you  have the luxury of snacking while your hair is being molded into a custom masterpiece.
Price for snacks vary according to quantity consumed.

(We are not responsible for any hair that you may or may not find in your food.  It's probably your own anyway.)

We offer a great variety of cuts that you can have customized to fit your individual style!  Some of our favorites include:

Ear Round, which we offer Year Round!  How about that?  When you just need a little work done around those awkward ears to keep you looking sharp, this is a perfect cut!

Price: $4.67

Ear Round Extended.  For those with exceptional ears who want to make a statement.
Price: $12.90

Jail Bars.  What better way to have fashion in prison than by sporting these bar-like stripes!

Price: $23.42

The Flat Faux-Hawk.  All the fun of the Hawk with out the chill of baldness on the sides.  And for those with lack of hygiene we leave out any hair product so you can go days without showers and still maintain that 'non-greasy' look. ('Non-greasy' results may vary.)

Price: $51.94

(Side view of the Flat Faux-Hawk)

For those with expensive tastes, try out Spiked Faux-Hawk!  It screams, "Rock on!"  We can load this baby up with as much or as little hair product as you desire because you pay for the product by the ounce!

Price: $51.94 + $6.78 per ounce

(Front view of the Spiked Faux-Hawk)

One of our most popular cuts, the Fonytail.  For men or women who can't get the length for a real pony we offer the opportunity to fake it.  With the Fonytail you'll have coworkers and strangers in the grocery store commenting on the beauty of those luscious locks.  Won't they be shocked to find out it's not real!
Price: $65.23

(Rear view of Fonytail)

Most importantly, we can keep the hair we've cut off and save it in case of future hair loss.  We offer the best quality hair plugs, extensions, and toupees because we actually use your own hair!  Preserved in a freezer that maintains a temperature of 3 degrees below zero, your hair will look just as fresh when restored to your balding scalp as it did before it ever came off.

Price: $102.11 + $32.92 fee for every year stored

Our customers leave happy and satisfied every time!

Come on down and see what we can do for your hair, because we believe on every head there's a masterpiece waiting to happen!
(Prices may vary by location.)

I'm alive!

This was a good week, finally.  I had a couple hard days but, overall, it was very pleasant.  I got to have, not one, but two dates with my boyfriend/husband/love of my life.  What a cutie!  No person knows me so well or can make me so happy.  I've missed him like crazy.  We've both been so busy with work and school that we haven't had a lot of time to actually be together aside from eleven o'clock when our heads hit the pillow.  We're both so exhausted that it doesn't take long for one or both of us to fall asleep.  Tuesday night as I laid in bed beside my sweetie I started to talk to him about my day and my ideas and spiritual thoughts I'd experienced in the past week.  In the middle of one of my ocean-deep pontifications I decided to ask for his opinion.  Silence.  I asked him again.  Silence.  I poked him.  Grunt.  He had fallen asleep.  Poor guy.  He's been working himself to death.

Either that or my thoughts are very boring.  No, he is probably just exhausted.

I found out I'm going to be an aunt in August to a beautiful baby boy.  This is super exciting to me.  When I married Paul I inherited two nieces and two nephews.  About nine years ago, my nephews died shortly after they were born so I never got a chance to meet them.  My nieces I have met.  They live with Paul's parents.  But this new baby is different.

He's the first little person to come into my life from one of my siblings/sibling-in-laws that I got to be a part of from the walk down the aisle to the phone call announcing the pregnancy and now the 3-D pictures of his little face and hands.  Sharing his parents joy has been a wonderful experience.  I can't wait for him to arrive.  I can't wait to hold him and be his aunt.  This is so exciting!

The only thing better than a new little nephew would be a new little son.  Not that I need a baby.  I'm thinking about getting a gold fish to keep me company and to be my baby.  What do you think?  He can live in my bathtub and we can bond over showers.  His name will be Squishy and he shall be mine.  He shall be my. . . Squishy.

Fish are easier than babies.  They can poop anytime they want and I don't have to clean up after them but once a week.  Feeding them is a breeze.  A little pinch of fish flakes and tah dah!  Done.  They don't need played with, and when they die it's a quick trip down the porcelain express and off to the fish store to find a replacement before Paul gets home. I suspect they are cheaper than a baby as well.  Man.  I gotta get me a fish!

Demons in the night

Ahh, customers.  Can't live with them, can't live without them.

This past week I had the "privilege" of working all nights and I noticed something.  The evening customers are CRAZY!  This nightly crankiness probably occurs because each guest that enters the store has gone through much stress in the day (as have we all), and they are in search of an outlet.  There is one lady I'm having a particularly hard time with.

To preface this story I should let you know that I love helping customers.  It's my favorite part of my job.

Two weeks ago on a Monday night, I walked through my dairy filling and facing.  An older lady stood not far off in produce staring at our flats of wheatgrass.  I smiled at her, letting her know I was aware of her and could be approached if she had a question.  She half-smiled, half-grimaced back at me and began to open her mouth.  I got excited because I was about to get helpful.

"Excuse me," She said rather sweetly.  "Could cut this flat in half?"  Ooh.  I thought about the times before when I'd been asked that question and I thought of what the produce manager always said.  I gave her a sympathetic smile and began my rehearsed yet kind apology.

"I'm sorry.  We aren't allowed to do that.  We don't get credit for the second half."

Her pleasant demeanor went instantly dark and a look of evil shock spread across her face.  "What?" she asked indignantly.  "But you always cut them for me?  What do you mean you're not allowed?"

Wanting to calm her I told her I would step into the back and ask the produce guy if there was anything he could do.  As I walked away she shouted after me, "Take the flat with you because I know he'll just cut it in half!"  I turned, already near the door and told her to wait a moment-- I was going to ask.  She humfted and added that if I didn't take it back with me she would take it to my manager.  She was threatening me.  My smile was gone and I took the flat from her without a word.

I explained the situation to the guy in the back.  He said he would cut the flat in half to appease this ruffled lady.  This bothered me.  I hate rewarding people for bad behavior.  It teaches them that in order to get what they want they have to act CRAZY.  On the other hand, just giving her the half-flat would get her out of the store faster, and I was all for that.

This past week that same woman returned.  We were out of half flats again.  Go figure.  She grabbed a whole flat and marched up to Customer Service, bypassing me, for which I was grateful.  But I, too, had business up front so I got to witness what happened.

She approached the booth and sat the flat on the counter.  "I want this cut in half, please."  The store manger was closing that night.  The store manager is the head honcho.  The guy who calls the shots.  Our fearless leader.  He looked at the woman and answered politely, "I'm sorry.  We aren't allowed to do that.  We don't get credit for the second half."  I knew what was coming next.

"What?" she said in her deceptively shocked tone.  "But you always cut them for me!"  So, what does he do?  He has it cut in half, just for her.

I suspect she will continue to treat us like this because she's discovered that if she's angry and upset enough we will do anything.

I miss working mornings.  Morning customers are so much nicer and easier.

My Dearest Reader,

Although I try to post every weekend, you may have noticed that one never surfaced these past couple of days.  I apologize for my negligence.

This blog began as a place to heal my soul. . . my retreat.  But it has evolved into more than that.  Every weekend I write with a goal.  I want my readers to leave feeling something, hopefully something good-- whether it's a smile on your face, an idea for a cake, greater appreciation for simple things, or a deeper love for our Savior.  If I can help that happen then I've accomplished something.

This past week has been filled with trials and heartache, and I'm having little dark, negative thoughts.  I wish I had something beautiful to give right now, but I don't.  Please forgive me.

I'll be okay.  God hasn't abandon me yet and I don't think he'll start.  I have a wonderful family and husband who remind me that this, too, shall pass.

So I'll be back next weekend with something of substance, I promise.  Stay tuned!

Love,
Kayla

Sarcasm by any other name

 I know that babies may be a subject I visit often in my mind and on the occasion I might leak a comment about those beautiful little darlings, but I assure you today's post didn't originate from my own mind.  It was brought up by cjane and the slew of comments that followed her blog about naming the child brewing in her tummy.

Maybe I'm a little old fashion but I don't understand this trend of child-abuse names.  Corbinien, Talullah, Shaifali, Romy, Kalylah Sephi Lynn, Rye-Elle Kai, Feira Madelynn, and Sauno Albert Nelson were just a few that people mentioned as having actually used in child naming.  Frightful, I know.

One woman wrote, "My oldest is 9 & her name is Sloan (it was my maiden name) Since things didn't work out with her dad she ended up with the name Sloan Sloan. Yes I always get the double take. She is okay with her name."  Let's hope she gets married to a man whose last name isn't Sloan. 

I guess what disturbs me the most was the general consensus that a mother has a right to name her baby what ever she wants because it's hers. Her creation. Her offspring that she sweated and grunted and screamed and pushed to bring into the world.

Part of this is true.  The baby is her child technically.  Same DNA.  She also has the ability to name it whatever she chooses.  She will have to say it over and over again.  But just because she can doesn't mean she should.  What none of these mothers posting on that blog seemed concerned about was the child.  The general attitude was: the child will grow into the name because they will be stuck with it, and children are resilient.

People!  It's not just about you.  Please consider how your child may feel being named after a fruit or a gun or something completely made up all together like Rogaletta or Chastify or Brunez.  I'm not suggesting we name every child Ashley and Jason, but perhaps when picking baby names we should think about more than trying to give a child a name no one else on the planet has (or wants).

Rant over.

Blog entry over.

I need to go discuss with my husband the possibility of naming a daughter Princess Contessa or Beluga Whale.  Tease-proof and I like them.  That's all that matters, right ladies?

Mustard Love: a romantic tale

I'm considering the fact that it's Valentines Day as I post because I wish to be sensitive to those who will actually read this today. A day dedicated to love is rare and a day dedicated to getting chocolate and flowers is even rarer. As to not spoil the mood of the day I chosen to stay close to the theme so this five minutes you spend reading will flow harmoniously along side staring into your true love's eyes, sharing blissful chocolates dipped in chopped nuts (or not, depending on your preference), cuddling on the couch after three hours of church, or telling your significant other that they are the love of your life while you smooch only to be interpreted by your child's protest of "Gross!!" and "Eww, break it up. Break it up!" (Sounding all too familiar, Mom? I retrospectively apologize.)

So, grab your love and gathering in to read Kayla's Valentine gift to you-- a romantic tale of a dryer. . .

A dryer of. . . love. . .

Stay with me.

I have always longed for a washer and dryer. My heart ached like a mother aches for a child. When searching for an apartment I insisted we find one with hook-ups to prepare for the day when I could cradle warm, dry, sweet-smelling. . . clothes (and babies) in my arms while my feet were planted in on the floor of my own abode. We were blessed with a place with such a hook-up. However, poverty is patience-inducing and we were forced to wait for the day when we would go through the labor. . . of carrying for nine. . . minutes a washer up the stairs to our apartment (Thanks for the help, Dad!).

Because the government is kind enough to return some the funds we have chucked at it all year, Paul and I decide to use some of that money to buy these washer and dryer things we had heard so much about. Thursday night Paul received a text message from his best friend asking if we needed one or both of those remarkable machines. They happened to be upgrading and found themselves with two sets and needed someone to take the older set of their hands free of charge. He happened to know of a little wife who desperately wanted a washer and dryer, and free is a great price.

Friday night my father and husband drove down the street to retrieve my Valentine's Day gift while my mom and I stood in the living room talking about lamps. I heard the rumble of my dad's truck pull up and shortly thereafter the grunts of two men trying to maneuver the bulky machinery up the steep steps. The front door pushed open to reveal my brand-new, very used, missing a foot, mustard yellow dryer. It was beautiful!

I believe in love at first sight.

The boys wrestled in the washer next which weighed three times more. There was so much love in that living room. Love for my parents who drove across town to aid us in this major event, love for those Paul's who nearly toppled down the stairs with the washer, love for the washer which, thankfully, wasn't the color of a condiment and had all four feet, but mostly it was love for that beautiful dryer which would help me fulfill all my fantasies of warm jeans on a cold morning and hot towels around my shoulders.

They spent no time at all hooking cords and tubes to the wall. It was time to test them. The washer was turned on and how wet and wonderful it seemed as it hummed it's 'zigga zigga' hum. We moved on to the dryer, that beautiful dryer. The knob was turned and then the button was pushed. . .

The most awful noise of banging and crashing bellowed from it's rotating drum. "Turn it off!" I cried. We peeked inside only to find papers and booklets and metal hose parts that the previous owners place in there in case we needed them. What a noise they made. They were promptly removed and we turned the dryer on for a second try.

Imagine the looks on our faces as the dryer roared up again with out much change in volume. I'm sure it was the sound of a dryer shouting and proclaiming it's love for me. It was so happy to be siting on flooring of equal vintage and in my presence that it could not contain itself. I was flattered. . .

And a little repulsed. I felt my heart close off to that machine as I imagined a baby sleeping on the other side of the wall and a tired Kayla trying to do laundry before nap time was over. I imagined turning on that dryer and the infant dying of fright. I imagined the apartment toppling from the sonic waves and me, covered in rubble, holding Paul's hand as we took our last earthly breaths. "I love you," I imagined I'd say.

No, that dryer must go before Paul and I reproduce for the safety of our future family. The love affair is over and we still await a tax refund so we may purchase a new used dryer that won't be the Rowberry destroying angel.

(I suggest you turn your volume up to get the full effect.)