My mom and I went Christmas shopping last Sunday. We were in JCPenny's, looking at watches for my brother. She picked one up and said "Mmph?" I replied "Mmf." She put it down. I picked one up and asked "Mhm?". She promptly answered "Muhum."

A lady stood by and stared at us talking in grunts.


How close can a family get when its members begin to communicate without words, when even with the slightest tilt of the head, raise of an eyebrow, murmur, each one knows what the other is thinking.

My dad has the bad habit of never finishing his sentences sometimes. Yet, we all know exactly what he's talking about.

There's a kind of sublime unity that a family reaches when its members truly care for each other.

This Christmas I realized what I enjoyed every year was not opening my gifts but watching everyone else open theirs.

Pictures to come later.

Normally, I can make some scrumptious delectables. In my home, I'm known as the Muffin (Wo)Man as I don the traditional red apron and wave my spatula like a madman at whichever miserable soul wanders into the kitchen while the bakelust is upon me.

However, it seems I've lost my touch recently. The last batch of cookies I made turned into a fiasco. The dough was too sticky, the cookies melted into huge flat circles that looked like they got run over by a truck. And somehow the edges burned but the center was still undone. I threw my hands up in despair while the Brother gorged himself on them anyway out of desperation.

I shall go forth on another sally into the kitchen. Perhaps, just maybe, I'll be able to salvage my dignity and reputation.

In other news, I received a pink present from Molly in the mail.

I've spent that last few days shaking it and attempting to divine what could be inside it. My guesses:

1. Another scarf (the easiest way to make me happy)

2. A sweater (you know, 'cuzz I'm always cold. Must be because of my icey cold heart.)

3. Some gorgeous headbands made by none other than Molly's cousin (tell her to get an Etsy shop Molly!)

4. A pony.

More later.

Summer Song

This song reminds me of hot summer afternoons, eating dinner on our porch as the drizzling honey sun drips onto us and lights up the tile floor and flower pots and yellow checkered pillows on the old wooden bench with euphoric resplendance. Later, my parents play songs from their childhood and ours too and we dance barefoot on the cold floor until our souls give out and we drift off to blissful repose on pillows of nostalgia.

Mmm, I can't wait for the summer.

Summer by zemotion

Summer Escape by exoticpeach

Summer Horizon by Leonard Art

Chilly, ain't it?

All the Single Ladies

I just happened to be traipsing about the Fedora Lounge and found a link to this sparkling little gem. A Guide for Single Ladies from 1938.

Don't you think these rules (well, most of them anyway) should be revisited by today's society? I was shocked by the dancing one. I always try to be friendly with guys I dance with, just to ease the awkwardness of being so close to each other and not knowing who they are. Do you think this rule applies to guys today?

The Undead Post

You thought I had fallen into a coma, didn't you? Admit it. Once you took a look at my blog and had seen no new updates for several days, you gave it all up. You lost all hope. But suddenly, a glimmer of hope rises in you with the lemon drop of a winter sun and you return to where you had last seen me. And lo and behold, I have returned with a post!

Tricked ya, didn't I?

So as I crawl back into the monotony of three more weeks of school until Christmas break, I awaken from the immortal slumbers of bliss to give you an update on subjects you don't care about at all but you need to waste some time and procrastinate so why not let your brain fall into a numb contentedness and read my blog?

Ah, Thanksgiving. The feast of gluttony.

A trip to San Jose ended the week quite nicely. The day we got there, a wedding had overtaken the hotel's ballroom and as we took a stroll outside to visit the downtown area, ancient limo reminiscent of the car from The Great Race pulled up and deposited a peroxide bride.

I waited impatiently for Tony Curtis to leap out after her but to no avail.

Ah, but I must toddle off now. My chemistry book awaits.

'Til later.