Archive for July, 2008

The Cow Story

Last night we fell asleep to the frantic cries of mama cows separated from their babies.  I tell you, life on a farm can be really noisy.  If it’s not the bulls bellowing to everyone how … randy they’re feeling, how they really want to … be affectionate with the females, then it’s the mamas bellowing how they want their babies back NOW. 

Before you go all animal activist on me, this is a natural part of raising livestock (listen to me all sounding like I actually know what I’m talking about).  The calves get separated from the mamas, get vaccinations and get tagged.  Then they’re weaned from mama’s milk and sold for a pretty penny, or ground up into hamburger meat for our freezer.  It’s just that natural cycle that cattle farmers live by.

Lance’s dad keeps cows as his hobby because he’s really weird strange bored interesting.  I had the ahem, pleasure, of experiencing first hand being around the cows one weekend in the wee hours of dating Lance.  Reitzel carried (in the South you don’t say drive, you say carried, it’s just one of those cute little Southernese things) me and Lance over to his farm of beasts to go “work the cows”.  I didn’t know what he meant, maybe making them run around the field in a kind of cow-aerobic exercise to make them lean?   

* Aside:  let me give you a brief glimpse into the back story.  I had never, ever, ever been on a farm.  The nearest I had gone to a cow was the hamburger I purchased at McDonald’s.  I had never touched one, smelled one, been pooped on by one nor had I ever really been near manure.  I had no clue that manure was not a hard substance but is really a runny grass stain that simply hardens into roundish pancake-like things that litter a field.  I was a city girl through and through. 
 
So here I am, surrounded by cattle of various color and scent.  Reitzel, my father in law, handed me a stick and stuck me in a far corner of a field and told me that I was supposed to wave that stick and herd the cattle into another portion of the field.  So I waved that stick, and those dumb cows just stared at me in my purple Columbia jacket and Adidas shoes they were itching to stain with their projectile grass stain poo.  So I waved harder and started running, tripping over hard and fresh piles and not having one clue as to what I was doing.  Secretly, I think Reitzel was just messing with me. 
 
Well, eventually, we got the cows all herded together and the separating began.  Oh, the sounds!  Mama cows hollering “give me back my baby, you evil farmer!” in their mooing and baby cows hollering “Mama, where are you?” in their tiny moos.  By the way, moo isn’t really how a cow sounds.  It’s more kind of a merrr, I’m just saying.  That Old McDonald really got it wrong.  And cows only really go merrr right before they poo everywhere and then flick said poo with their poo-covered tails.  I can’t believe we eat these things.
 
At first, Reitzel and Lance were in one pen with all the calves doing whatever, wrestling them or something and I was in the other pen with all the belligerent mamas.  They kept looking right at me and shouting “Merrrr!“, like it was MY fault that they were in there with me and the babies were over there with the meanies.  A city girl can only take so much so I started merrring right back, like “don’t blame me, sister!  I don’t want to be here either!”.  We had our little merrring conversation going until Reitzel said “You know, they can get mean and charge you, right?”  Uh, that would be a no, but thanks so much for letting me know and um, can I come over there with you away from the angry cattle that might CHARGE ME!!
 
It was really no different with the calves.  They looked at me and merrred at me like it was my fault, too, but I thought if one of them charged me, I could take ’em.  So there’s lots of merrring going on around me and Reitzel hands me this ginormous needle/gun thingy filled with what looks like the worst yellow pee ever and shows me where to stick it in the calf.  Yuck.  I was NOT born to be a vet.  I think I did just one of those and that was it. 
 
After all the vaccination fun, then began the castration.  Yes, you read that right- castration.  The cutting off of the male genitalia.  MUCH MUCH merrring.  At least I didn’t have Lance’s job which was wrestling the calves to the ground while Reitzel sliced away.  Talk about poo-it covered Lance.  Yuck.  Once the testiclely stuff was cut off it just sort of laid around on the ground, covered in dirt.  One part of me was totally grossed out and the other part of me was fascinated.  I don’t think Reitzel appreciated me prodding the bits and pieces with a stick, so he sent me to the Farmer’s Co-op to buy some earrings for the calves.  Ok, so they’re really not earrings, but they’re ear tags that go on the ear, so big difference. 
 
I climb in the truck that’s circa 1956 and head off in the general direction of the Co-op.  I go in, ask for some cow earrings- er, ear tags.  When it came time to pay, I told them Reitzel wanted them charged to his account so they got out an invoice and actually made me sign it as “Lance’s girlfriend”, that’s right-not “Kearsie” but “Lance’s girlfriend”.  Geez.
 
I climb back into the old truck and head back to hell the farm.  Now begins the ear tagging.  All the calves looked the same to me, but Reitzel had been there for most of the births so he knew which calves went with which mama cow, which is pretty amazing.  He numbered and tagged all the calves and let them loose to grieve graze. 
 
We were done.  I was dirty, sweaty, and stained.  My Adidas never gleamed white again, they looked kind of nauseous from then on with their grass stain poo tinge.  My jeans were torn and poo-covered, too.  But I had a great story to tell everyone when I got back to the college.  It became such a hit that it was requested I re-tell the story at our wedding rehearsal.  The best part was when Reitzel’s father, Lance’s grandfather, about fell out of his seat laughing. 
 
So last night when we heard all the bellowing, I had to smile and remember this crazy story.  Perhaps the next time you chomp down into a cheeseburger, you’ll remember this story and realize you are eating a dirty, slobbering, stinky, poopy cow.  Bon Appetit!
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Sentimental musing

I wasn’t one of those moms who wept uncontrollably when her baby went to school for the first time.  Don’t get me wrong-I might have grieved a tiny bit that my sweet baby that I held practically nonstop her first few months on this earth was big enough to go off without me and learn stuff.  But I took it in stride.

But it hit me this morning that my second child, the baby, would be heading off to begin her scholastic career as a Kindergartener.  And I wanted to bawl. 

What happens to time?  It’s like you blink and your oldest child is about to be seven, who wants her ears pierced and talks about having her own babies.  Am I going to blink again and they’ll be going into high school?  Will I have been paying attention to each spelling bee, every art project, memorizing their little faces when the light bulb comes on and EUREKA! – they learn something new?  Will I have tried to, everyday, connect to them in some way and communicate to them how very special they are and how much they’re loved?  I certainly hope so, because the alternative will make me crazy. 

Is this just something mothers feel?  How about you, dads?  Do you choke up thinking about your kids growing up and moving off to start their lives?  Do visions of weddings and grandbabies give you pause? 

I used to keep a journal when Emma was a baby.  Sometimes I wrote letters to her, sometimes it was just journaling what I was dealing with having a new baby.  Being a parent is hard.  You have this alien being that it’s up to you to care for in every way.  As newborns, they’re relatively easy.  I mean, you feed, burp, diaper and cuddle.  The only really hard part is they do this every hour so sleep kind of becomes a prize.  But it’s when they get older and need more that I had anxiety about.  Did I feed them cereal?  How much?  What about table foods?  What about allergies?  Anyways, that’s what I journaled.  My sweet sleeping creature began to be mobile and loved to turn off the computer, or pull books off the shelves.  Cause and effect, I guess.  She was a daredevil (still is!) and panicked me horribly when she would jump off the bed or climb on precarious furniture.  That’s what I journaled about, too.  I wrote a lot about how I wanted to be patient and not get so frustrated with this little person who had a will all of her own.  How I was scared of what might happen if she got hurt.  How much I wanted to be a good mom.

It’s funny, when I wrote all that, worried about all of that, never one time did it cross my mind to just enjoy each moment.  To burn into my mind how she looked as a baby, or when she learned to laugh.  And I kind of feel sad for that.  Because she’ll never be that little sweet bundle again.  It’s over.  That time has passed and now we’re on to bigger and better things.  She’s riding a bike now.  No training wheels.  She’s reading and writing.  She can swim like a fish.  She loves to make up songs and has a pretty good voice for a six year old.  Emma is an awesome kid.

When I had Addie, I was worried all over again, but for different reasons.  I so wanted Emma to never feel left out.  I felt I needed to include her with everything.  While I nursed Addie, I would read to Emma.  If I snuggled with Addie, I kept the other arm free for Emma.  It’s strange tho, Emma never really wanted that.  She wanted to get up and run around and line up all her toys in bizarre rows and have pretend conversations with her stuffed animals.  All that worry, again, was for nothing.

I’m not sure if all mothers of multiple children feel this way, but it feels like my baby grew up faster than my older child.  Now Addie is swimming, learning to write her name in that sweet kid writing where the E on the end of her name is five times bigger than the A.  So sweet.  She’s singing songs and learning to joke.  She and Emma have “knock-knock” joke marathons where the punch line makes not a lick of sense to me, but make them laugh hysterically and usually includes the word “poop”.  To each their own, I guess.

I wish I could just freeze time for just a few minutes and really look at my girls.  Memorize each freckle, each loose tooth.  Because the next time I blink, I’m going to be watching them walk across a stage receiving a diploma, and I won’t have that chance anymore.

T.G.I.T.E.O.T.T.W.W.

Thank God It’s The End Of The Traditional Work Week

(Yes I realize that’s really long and lots of unnecessary wordage but I really tire of old sayings like “T.G.I.F.”.  I was going to put Thank God It’s The End Of The Week, but it’s only Friday and we have still one more day to get to the actual end of the week.  Then I was going to put Thank God It’s The End Of The Work Week, but some people will still work tomorrow, like my husband, so that wouldn’t make sense.  I know, I know, WAY TOO MUCH THOUGHT went into this.)

I’ve been drowning in paperwork here at The Job.  It’s not much better at home where I’m drowning in laundry.  You know, this whole full time employment has it’s benefits, like providing money for the Black Hole that is our debt, but lately I’m beginning to feel like all my efforts are futile. 

At home, I cook dinner and feed the family.  Then I clean up.  The kitchen will be a mess again in less than 12 hours and the children will be hungry again exactly 30 minutes following the meal I’ve just prepared.  Also, one of the girls will spill a drink on my newly washed floor, it’s inevitable.  I do laundry, mounds and mounds of it, wash clothes and towels, fold clothes and towels, only to have nine new piles of laundry to wash and dry the next day.  I clean the bathroom, only to have it a science experiment by the end of the week.  I’ll vacuum, only to have the girls bring in a project they’ve made at summer camp that involves sand (because the workers at summer camp hate parents) and said project will make it’s way into the very fibers of the carpet and thus create an oh, so pleasurable grit that will never ever ever vacuum up. 

At work, I perform my menial secretarial duties with nary a “good job, menial secretary!”.  Instead, only my mistakes are brought to the public eye.  People call to tell me I misspelled a word, or forgot a period.  In the legal world that’s a BIG DEAL, and so then I must amend all those documents, killing more trees and exerting more human effort.  Sigh.

I really can’t complain.  First of all, I’m grateful to even have a job.  How many years did I try to find a job only to be stuck babysitting or working in a church nursery, my own version of hell.  (Yes I just wrote that and I have children, that doesn’t make me evil, I’m just being brutally honest.  Some folks live and breathe to hang out with kids, I am not one of those folks.  Let’s stop talking inside of paranthesis, shall we?)  I have a college degree, but rarely do I use that degree for an actual JOB, one that pays money.  Sure, money isn’t everything and it’s as fleeting as a shadow.  But it takes money to do simple functions like put gas in the car so I can zoom off to important places like Walmart, my favorite place of investment.  Secondly, I signed up for this.  I knew the risk.  I knew how difficult it would be to do, basically, two full time jobs.  Because, being a parent is as full time as you can get.  Can I get a woop, woop, moms?

What I’m battling is finding contentment where I’m at.  To stop saying ‘it’ll be better when so and so happens, when we pay off our debt, when I lose a million pounds, when the kids are older, when we move out of this postage-stamp sized apartment…’.  There’s such a temptation to just SURVIVE and not really LIVE.  And frankly, I’m tired of this kind of thinking.  It’s exhausting.  It’s frustrating.  It’s not good.

SO NO MORE!!   (I’m down with the bolding today!)

One new venture I’m excited about is selling some crafts and things that I’ve made.  My new current exciting craft is making hooded towels that are usable for older kids.  When you have babies, you get a plethora of hooded towels that work for a year, tops, due to the fact that they’re awkardly shaped and your kids grow really fast that first year.  My two girls received some hooded towels from a friend of mine that are just regular towels with a washcloth sewn on as the hooded portion.  They are still using them today.  So that’s one of my new projects.  I’m going to make a whole slew of hooded towels bedecked with buttons, ribbon, patches or anything else I think that would look great on a towel and still wash well.  I’m also going to work on sewing purses and knitting scarves for some craft fairs that are coming up.  I’m excited, because not only does it keep my hands busy and my days grounded in something that could potentially be profittable but it’s also a creative release that weird folks like me crave like crackheads crave crack. 

AND our office is going to start recycling.  We’re just going to work on cans for now, but I’ll tell you, when you think of the hidden resource that is aluminum, you’ll be grabbing all the tin cans you can find and hauling them to your nearest recycling plant.  I know a family that takes their vacations using monies they received from recycling aluminum cans.  In fact, according to a website for our local recycling plant, some people are “mining” landfills for aluminum. 

* Strange aside:  I can get sort of panicky thinking about our world’s trash problems.  I know this is bizarre, but, hello-have you met me?  I am bizarre.  Anyways, there have been nights where I’ve laid awake thinking of all those landfills just brimming over, spilling into our waterways, polluting the environment.  I even came up with a fantastic plan but so far no one agrees it’s fantastic.  My plan is, let’s stop giving criminals a free ride with three square meals, college educations and time to work out and read.  Let’s put them to work in our landfills, sorting trash finding resuable materials.  Give them safety suits, protective gloves, but let’s put them to work!  Well, I don’t care what anyone says, I think it’s a great plan.  And before you start the glazing of the eyes at words like “recycle” and immediately begin to label me as a “tree hugger” or “liberal”, just realize that this is an issue of importance.  Not that I’ve actually begun to recycle at home, but I’m thinking about it, so it counts!

Anyways, Lance thinks he should set me up a website to sell some of my homemade crap crafts and try to do a mail order business.  What do you think?

The history of bad hair

I often say I have chronic bad hair.  I think most people probably read that and think “haha, cute” and go on with their day, not realizing that I am being 100% honest and truthful.

Last Friday, I went to a local hair cutting place intent on hopefully, at last, getting a hairstyle that doesn’t look like this:

Roseanna Roseannadanna aka Gilda Radner

Roseanna Roseannadanna aka Gilda Radner

I walked into the hair salon and sat down on the turning chair and began giving Carole, the hairdresser, a rundown on the malady and affliction that is my hair.  I told her right away that I was cosmetically challenged (read, please don’t suggest I purchase a $150 flat iron or nine different hair products) and when she just laughed, I told her about past hairstyles to prove it.  There was the poofy bang phase, the times I tried to use a curling iron only to realize I was using it backwards so I had that oh, so beautiful crimp right on the edge of my bangs and the mullet with the feathered sides.  I told her how my hair is very frizzy, especially like right now, when it is, as Robin Williams says in Good Morning, Vietnam, like the setting for London Broil outside.  She just laughed again.

Soon we were talking about more personal things like where we were from and children and marriage.  I usually leave ministry-related things out of my doings with most folks, not because I am ashamed of it, but history has taught me that keeping my mouth shut has its benefits and shouting from the rooftops that I have a theology degree usually clams people up.  But somehow I let it slip that my husband was a pastor and we were preparing to start a church in the near future.  I saw her in the mirror raise both hands, look to the ceiling and mouth “Thank you!”.  I wondered just how bad her day had been. 

Carole began to tell me about her husband who passed away several years ago at too young of an age.  She told me how her son had withdrawn into himself and didn’t share his grief with anyone.  She told me how she had been taught not to cry.  I asked questions now and then, but kept my comments to a minimun, because I sensed she just needed to be the one to talk.  She told me that when her husband had passed, that she handled it in an unhealthy way, which I took to mean she turned to the party scene, or something equivalent.  She told me that she had been very angry with God.  Here is where I said as kindly as I could, “He can handle that, you know.  God is big enough to handle your anger.”  And then I shut up again.

All the while, Carole had been chopping away at my hair.  The only instruction I had given her was that I was trying to grow my hair out long, despite my belief that older women with long hair looked ridiculous, like women trying to look like teenagers.  Despite that belief, I wanted to grow my hair out.  I had been looking at her face as she was cutting so I didn’t realize until later that she had been using a razor and had not been shy about it.  There was enough hair beneath my chair to stuff a pillow (remember that episode on Frasier where Frasier dates that hippy woman who cut her hair and stuffed it into a pillow?  Funny…)  Then she began to actually fix my hair.  Using a hairdryer, a flat iron and a curling iron, she made my hair actually behave. 

We had reached the end of our appointment.  I asked Carole what I needed to use to make it look as good as she had made it look.  She told me I needed to go out and buy a flat iron, some hair spray and a big round brush.  Sheesh, so much for being cosmetically challenged.

Ya’ll just don’t know.  I’ve had the worst hairstyles imagineable.  Want some proof?  Here’s 12 examples of my rotten style.  *WARNING*  If you have something in your mouth like gum, spit it out lest you choke on laughter.

12.

The rat-tail hairstyle.

The rat-tail hairstyle.

You can’t see it, but there is a sizeable rat-tail dangling from the back of my head.  Why my mother let me walk out of the hair salon with a rat-tail is a mystery.  Also notice in the picture that my shorts are shorter than the hem of my shirt.  Nice.

11.

Boy hair.

Boy hair.

Apparently I tired of the rat-tail look and decided to look just like a boy.  Notice the multi-colored shirt.  You can’t see them, but I’m also wearing stirrup pants.  Sigh, it only gets worse, folks.

10.

Awkward and gawky at 11 years of age.

Awkward and gawky at 11 years of age.

What’s better than a boy haircut?  Growing out that boy haircut.  I especially like how I’ve buttoned the top button on my shirt.

9. 

Punk rock girls.

Punk rock girls.

…There are no words.  Squint really hard and you’ll see we have gold hoop earrings in our noses.  Also, those are bermuda shorts that are folded up. 

8. 

Family picture, sans my mom because there was no room due to poofy hair.

Family picture, sans my mom because there was no room due to poofy hair.

Wow.  Blame humidity.  Blame hairspray.  Blame Olan Mills. 

7. 

7th grade

7th grade

Notice the skin tight acid wash jeans, the rolled up sleeves and the friendship bracelets.  This was soon after the mullet ‘do.  And yes, I was expecting a flood.

6. 

8th grade prom

8th grade prom

Apparently, I lost the memo that pink lace was in style and chose to go with classy black.  I’m never on the same page as everyone else.  And you can’t see it, but in my left ear is a large peace sign earring.  My BFF was wearing the other one.

5. 

Tacky tacky tacky

Tacky tacky tacky

Why, yes that is a hockey jersey underneath that neon-colored winter coat!  What a good eye you have!

4. 

10th grade winter dance

10th grade winter dance

Wear a dark color for a winter dance?  Nay nay!  Let’s go for the bridesmaid dress I wore to my mother’s wedding!  Yes!  A sure fire way to NOT be asked for a dance by a member of the opposite sex!  Also, how did you fix your hair, Kearsie?  Nothing to it, I just slicked it into a sloppy ponytail!

3.

School IDs, precursors to bad DMV photos

School IDs, precursors to bad DMV photos

The top one is of 9th grade.  I call it “the Ogilvie Home Perm disaster of ’89”.  The bottom one is 11th grade, looking stoned.  No narcotics were used, I promise.  The middle one is my senior year.  No eye contact with the camera, no smile. 

2. 

No bangs = klingon forehead

No bangs = klingon forehead

This was our first real family photo.  I’m wearing a man’s sweater that is at least 4 sizes too large and I’ve given up attempting stylish hair and shoved it all into a hair clip.  I’ll wear this hairstyle for several years, unfortunately.

1. 

What I call "The Jumper Years"

What I call "The Jumper Years"

This was at a wedding for some friends of ours.  Lance cut out the wedding party, because frankly it just looked sad with the gorgeous bride standing next to shapeless me.  But look how cute Emma was!

So you can imagine my delight when I finally looked in the mirror and saw how nice my hair looked after Carole hacked most of it off.  Here’s a picture.

New hairstyle

New hairstyle

However, now I’ll need to find, purchase and learn how to use one of these scary contraptions.
The Flat-Iron.

The Flat-Iron.

Thank you for joining me on my walk of shame.  Maybe next time I’ll show the pictures of the Granola Girl phase, aka do absolutely as little as possible with my hair or the discovery of mousse and crusty hair. 

Proof I’m not a killer of all things green

Back in May, I had Lance and the girls out in the vastness of the backyard, preparing for a new family project.  We were attempting a great feat- a sunflower garden.  I found the idea in a Family Fun magazine

Lance, being way smarter in the gardening category, hacked and hewed a giant U shape in the dirt and then mixed all the soil up with horse manure.  It was oh, so fragrant. 

The backyard has a new horseshoe shaped design.

The backyard has a new horseshoe shaped design.

Then me and the girlies used packs of differing sunflower seeds to sow into the horseshoe.  I got four varieties:  Mammoth sunflowers that are supposed to grow up to 12 feet and actually produce sunflower seeds, some regular sunflowers that are supposed to grow up to 6 feet, some red sunflowers that are supposed to grow up to 5 feet and some kid-sized sunflowers that are supposed to grow up to 3-4 feet.  We had a pretty good assembly line going.  I, using a ruler and a teeny shovel, made little holes, Addie would fish the seeds out of the packs and Emma would drop them in and fill in the hole. 

Some of the seeds we used.

Some of the seeds we used.

Our assembly line hard at work.

Our assembly line hard at work.

Then we watered and waited.  Mother nature took her sweet time but eventually we began to see some teeny shoots grow taller.

Proof of life!

Proof of life!

Hardly the promised 12 feet, but getting there.  We noticed the birds had snacked on the seeds we planted into the ground.  They particularly liked the red sunflower seeds, so our little garden will lack that color. 

There was only one real snag.  Because I am super duper smart, I had Lance dig the horseshoe smack in the middle of the yard, which is really really really far from a water spigot.  So we had to rely on rain to water our little flowers. 
Sunflower!

An actual sunflower!

Whole buncha sunflowers!

Whole buncha sunflowers!

Everyday the girls and I trek out into the minature jungle and marvel at the new stalks that have sprouted and count how many blooms we see.  We also get really creeped out by the bugs that swarm around.  Like these things:
Creepy green bugs that live in our garden.

Creepy green bugs that live in our garden.

But the girls especially love finding and capturing these:
Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home...

Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home...

 

Butterflies...flowers that fly and all but sing. --Robert Frost

Butterflies...flowers that fly and all but sing. --Robert Frost

I have no idea if it’ll rain again, so I may need to break down and actually water the durn things.  And so far, the Mammoth sunflowers look anemic.  But we’ve had an awesome time, me and the girlies. 
Eight packs of sunflower seeds:  $8.00
Dirt tilling tool:  $25.00
Sweating in the dirt with your kids and watching nature work:  PRICELESS 

A day in my life as a blogger

Sit down, turn on computer.

Check email.  Delete 3 Viagra offers.

Check myspace.  Read bulletins.

Check facebook.  See who is online.  Read latest flair sent by friend.  Consider rearraging flair board to include new flair and decide it’s too much work.

Check wordpress for any new comments.  Squash disappointment and open a new post.

Stare at screen.  Blink.  Blink.  Try to think of something funny.  Consider using the word “poop” over and over, it’s such a hit with Emma and Addie, my audience at home.

Go back to facebook and play a game.  Lose at Mahjong for the 14th time in a row.  Close facebook.

Get up and visit with co-workers.  Sit back down at computer and stare at screen.

Open a new tab and stalk visit all the bloggers I know.  Forty minutes later, go back to new post and stare at screen again.

Get up and get a Diet Coke.  While up, get a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup and sit back down. 

Consider what I would do if I met Mr. Reese.  Shake his hand, then punch him.  Curse the perfect blend of chocolate and peanut buttery goodness. 

Stare at the computer again.  Open a new tab and surf around.  Get kicked off of the internet forty seven times and commence cussing at the computer whispering sweet encouraging things like “You can do it!” while stroking the screen.  Realize how dusty the screen is and clean computer for 12 minutes.

While I’m at it, I rearrange files on my desk.  Decide I need something salty, so get up and get a handful of Cheez-its.

Stare at the screen and decide it needs some decoration.  Place SIGN HERE tabs around the edges of the screen to resemble a lion with a neon yellow mane.  Wonder what has happened to my life that I must resort to such loser-ish activity.

Get up and get a Kit Kat.  Go on youtube and watch old Mitch Hedburg clips for an hour.

Give up writing for the day and play Scramble.  For the rest of the day mentally break down words and drive myself crazy. 

Go home and repeat the whole process over again tomorrow.

Photo fun

I love to find interesting bloggers and read their archives so I can stalk them  read their works.  It’s like finding a new author and reading their collection.  Anyways, I’ve recently been stalking reading www.mom2my6pack.blogspot.com and going through Dawn’s archives.  So much fun, she’s really a hoot to read and will be having a book come out around Mother’s Day next year.  She’s worth stalking reading!

Anyways, she had posted some pictures of herself using a website called Face of the Future at  http://morph.cs.st-andrews.ac.uk/Transformer/.  The instructions are simple, you just insert a photo of yourself and choose how you want your photo to be morphed. 

Here’s what I created:

This is the normal me, no morphing added, I swear.

This is the normal me, no morphing added, I swear. Now the morphing fun begins.

Me as a Baby.  Someone call Gerber.

Me as a Baby. Someone call Gerber.

Yo, this is the Afro-Caribean me.

Yo, this is the Afro-Caribean me.

This is the East-Asian me.  Not too far of a stretch being Eskimo and all.

This is the East-Asian me. Not too far of a stretch being Eskimo and all.

West-Asian me.

West-Asian me.

Masculine me, which is just wrong, wrong, wrong.  Am I hot, ladies?

Masculine me, which is just wrong, wrong, wrong. Am I hot, ladies?

Manga Cartoon me.  I especially like the real hair and fake face.

Manga Cartoon me. I especially like the real hair and fake face.

Me as an Ape Man.

Me as an Ape Man.

Botticelli me.

Botticelli me.

Modigliani me.  Very realistic, no?

Modigliani me. Very realistic, no?

Mucha me.

Mucha me.

Older Adult me.  Wow, I'm going to be a hottie.

Older Adult me. Wow, I'm going to be a hottie.

Drunk me.  I can only assume this is what other people would see if they were drunk.  Motivated to stay clean, folks?

Drunk me. I can only assume this is what other people would see if they were drunk. Motivated to stay clean, folks?

So visit Face of the Future and have some cheap and fun entertainment!