How To Have Baby Cheeks

It's Friday afternoon folks... which can only mean one thing. 

My face is sticky. 

Since it will remain sticky for about the next thirty minutes, I have nothing better to do right now than sit down post about it.

Friday, you see, is the day I give myself the Friday Facial. 

I give myself a Friday facial because that traveling man I married comes home on Fridays, and I just think he ought to come home to something a little more pleasant than the menopausal fifty face I usually wear.

I give myself  a homemade facial because I'm a cheapskate who really doesn't like to pay for a product that might or might not work. Plus, I'm kind of an earth girl who likes to use stuff found in nature. Plus, I just don't need one more bottle or tube to clutter up my vanity...

Plus, it works.  

No, really... It does for pennies what I have yet to see another product do as well. That's why I'm yakking it abroad in blog land.  

I must warn you, though, the ingredients are very exotic. 

Here ya go:

Dissolve 3 tablespoons of white sugar 

in 3 tablespoons of very warm water.

Put one of those cheap circle face thingies into the mix 

and let it soak up the mixture.

(You could probably use cotton balls or something like that, but I like the circle thingies.)

Gently apply all over the face, even the eye lids if you're careful. 

You might want to avoid the lips if you're on a low carb diet. 

And don't forget the throat.  

There's absolutely no point in having baby cheeks 

if you're just going to stick them on top of a chicken neck, people.

Leave on about 30 minutes. Then gently remove it with warm water. 

Follow up with splashes of cold water. 

And there ya go: Baby Cheeks.

That's my beauty tip of the day.

I'm pretty sure that everybody has a favorite  beauty tip or two.

What's yours?

I need all the help I can get.
"Cause I'm 50, remember?

The Great Kitchen Demolition... and a little craft too

Have I mentioned that The Duchess is getting a new kitchen?
Well, she is, and we're tickled pink about it.
This is actually a long anticipated and auspicious event in the family that has been 36 years in the making. Mom and Dad built their home in 1974. Over the years, they added, updated, and improved just about every other area of their house.

But her kitchen, the heart of the Duchy, has received only cosmetic changes. There are several reasons for that:

1. The kitchen was built smack dab in the middle of the 1970s. This means, of course, that it reflects that era, complete with built- in oven and counter top range. To update her kitchen is no minor task, people.

2. The Duchess is fond of the big “TA DA”. She had determined that when she did renovate her kitchen, it was going to be the Big Kahuna… cabinets, counters, appliances, and floors in one big moment.

And big moments take time…
And planning…
And cash…
Well, of course.

But when she walked into the kitchen that Sunday after church and sniffed the air… and didn’t smell her ham cooking, she knew that old oven had given up the ghost. And she also knew that the she could wait no longer.

And so she sketched.
And planned.
And designed.

And Finally, we began the process of tearing out the cabinets.  I say “we” because I played a vital role in the endeavor.

I narrated.

Actually, it was Newlywed Nephew who stepped up to the plate for the big demolition.

Here he is, studying the little mess that the women had made in our enthusiasm.

That’s his new mother-in-law looking over his shoulder.

The Duchess was slightly to her left.

 I took the picture.

Because every new husband dreams of flying solo
tearing out a kitchen... 

 filled with family heirlooms,

 spectating in-laws,

and an oddball with a shiny red Kodak.

Well, of course.

We He demolished the entire room.

We kept that coffee pot going until the last possible moment.

We do have our priorities you know...

We even found this little fellow wedged between two cabinet sections.

Then we helped by lugging cabinets to the lawn for garbage men
or clever bloggers
to collect 

I wanted to take some cabinets home myself, but they wouldn’t let me.

Let’s just call it an intervention and leave it at that.

I do have to confess to returning later and grabbing some cabinet doors and hardware. I had a project in mind that I wanted to try.

You will be very proud to know that I actually did bring that craft project to completion. It's nothing special, but it's the real subject of my fabulous Friday yakabout. 

I started with this 

I had to sand all that shiny white paint from her first kitchen makeover.

Then, I just repainted it with some nice heirloom white

 and decoupaged some scrapbook paper to the insert.

And reattached some of the original handles to the side.

I really love the old handles.

And TA DA, a  pretty little tea tray. 

 Total cost: $0.42 for the paper. Not too shabby.

Now, what I’m going to do with all of these,

 I am not sure...

Shhh.

Stay tuned.

And please stay tuned for more reveals of the Duchess's Great Kitchen Adventure... which is a whole lot more stunning than my little tea tray.
Here's a little sneak peek in process...

Sharing this here.

Fabulous Friday Yakabout: Apron Strings

Have you ever had the “If my house were burning, I would save ______” conversation? Sure you have. One of the first things that comes to my mind (and out of my mouth) is a treasure from my grandmother.

My grandmother, whom we called “Grama”, was the personification of humility. She had no jewelry except a wedding band, a mother’s ring, and some lovely brooches. I call them that. Grama didn’t. She was so simple and plain that she wore “pins”.

When Grama died too many years ago, my grandfather asked me if there was something that I wanted to keep from her jewelry box. I responded that instead, I would love to have this:

A worn out old apron.

And it’s the subject of my show and tell this Friday.

Grama was of the dress wearing generation. Only one time in my life (hers too, I think) did she try to don a pair of slacks. It was back in the ‘70s when the “pant suit” was in vogue. Remember those hideous things? Her daughters, knowing best as daughters think they do, thought that “Mother” ought to try a pant suit to cover her legs during the cold winters. They bought her a navy pant and vest set a la Maude with a matching striped blouse. Grama wore it exactly one time before she proclaimed it foolishness and banished it to a drawer. Grama put her foot down about very few things. Wearing a pant suit was one of them.

Because Grama wore dresses.

And sensible shoes.

And always, always, wore an apron.

Because of Grama, and because I am a left handed butterfingers, I wear an apron too. I have several; one even has the Trading Spaces logo emblazoned across the front. It was given to me during the years that I suffered from that particular addiction. I have pretty aprons. I have quirky aprons given to me by former students. I have this Christmas apron which was made for me by an invisible friend who lives in my computer.

I love it.

Oddly, the apron that I most commonly wear is actually not my prettiest.

 It’s this one.

Yes, that's livestock marching across the top.

 It was purchased at a craft fair long enough ago to have a matching one for a little daughter.

Does that qualify it as vintage?

Please say no.

I even used my legendary sewing skills to make one for my favorite Newlywed Niece.

 Hers is reversible…

See?

I traced a pattern from my favorite one, and the rest was easy peasie. I think it makes a sweet linen shower gift for a new Mrs., don't you?
 Just doing my part to pass along the apron gene to the next generation.

But of all my aprons, this threadbare old piece of pink and blue is my treasure.

I love the worn old pockets.

I love that the bodice is yellowed, and I'm pretty sure that more than a bit of that stain came from peanut butter and jelly hugs.

It’s my inheritance from a woman like whom I most want to be. For a while after she died, I tried to wear her apron, as if somehow it would be her arms, and not her apron strings which wrapped around me. Soon, though, I realized my treasure was too well worn to risk daily use. So I boxed it away with other treasures which live in a special box in my eaves.

The eaves off of my bedroom.
The ones with the little Polish doorway.
The ones which were so crammed full of shoe boxes and wicker baskets that I couldn’t have possibly saved the treasure box from the flames if I tried.

Guess which meandering motormouth detoured down Memory Lane during her Great Eave Purging Adventure?

Show and Tell

Would you be surprised to learn that my my favorite grammar school tradition was the Friday afternoon Show and Tell? Well, it was.

Emphasis on the telling part.

Based on the behavior of many school aged kids, I have a hunch that most schools no longer set aside time for Show and Tell. What a shame. Show and Tell taught us not only to stand and speak but to listen to others speak as well. It followed simple golden rules.

1. If you did not listen to the others, you did not get your chance to speak.
2. Keep it brief. There was a room full of classmates waiting after all…

And for goodness sake, try to be interesting. (I always added that part in my head while waiting.)

Life skills…

How we labored over our weekly choice! Sometimes, we received a gift or came upon some little eureka and could hardly contain ourselves until Friday. More often, we reached the end of the week without a plan. Then, Thursday night included the great explore throughout the house for the Fabulous Friday Yakabout.

Blogging is kind of like that.

Sometimes, I happen upon some tasty tidbit and can hardly wait to spill it on the page. Other times, I stare at the empty screen and feel the need to whip out the bloggadoodle.

So which case applies today? You be the judge.
Because today is Show and Tell.

Debbie, do you have something to share with the class?

Why yes, I do...

...and it’s this.

Prairie Hens

Ok, technically old yard chickens. But these are very special old yard chickens. They are the ones that I yakked about HERE. After my meander down memory lane, I started thinking about those old prairie hens. I asked the Duchess what had become of them, and she directed me to the vast wasteland behind her garden shed. So I ventured out… and there… half buried in dirt like a forgotten memory, I found Mama Hen and one of her little chicks.

I learned something that day.

It is very difficult for a 48 year old woman to do the happy dance while lugging a 50 pound concrete chicken. I dragged them out, dusted them off a bit, and ran inside to get the shiny red Kodak. I think I might have been squealing.

En route, I worried that I would be forced by good nature to share my treasure with my sister, the poke bonnet pal of my prairie years. I admit to considering an offer of Little Chick in return for custody of Mama. Finder’s fee and all…

I needn’t have worried.

The sister grinned at me like I was a little Polish and promised me that she would put up no chicken custody battle. They’re all yours Debski. 

Now, what I will do with them, I do not know. Suggestions?