Strong bindings, first editions, and leather bound boards make me giddy; original illustrations, gilt edges, and fanciful end papers make me swoon. A bad day? No problem, so long as a bookstore is nearby.

Given the choice between a fabulous set of heels and a beautifully bound book, I’d be hard pressed to make a decision. There are many a book in my library that should have been Salmon fillets, or maybe a new skirt.

It’s not my fault, mind you. Much of the blame rests with my parents. My mom long encouraged imagination and books often found their way to me via gifts; and my dad . . . . well, my dad simply led by example. He’ll read anything and everything. I still remember him reading the tables at Wendy’s (they were designed in vintage newspapers). And don’t expect much when he’s reading. If you happen to choke on a chicken bone while my dad has his nose in a book, good luck. It’s not that he wouldn’t want to help; he’ll just be unaware of any pandemonium outside the covers of that book.

Despite my upbringing, however, I try to blend in . . . I try to appear normal. When speaking, I try to talk about the world, at large; when at a gathering where I’d much rather be reading, I rarely let on.

Still, every once in awhile something comes along that gives it all away. Something like tissues, nestled in a book designed box . . .

One glance, that’s all it takes, and I cave like Superman lounging on a settee of Kryptonite. My eyes grow wide and try as I might I just can’t stifle that squeal.

It’s over. I’m done.

And there it is, for the whole word to see: my nerd card.

Of course, lucky for me, I’m usually much too happy to care. So there’s that . . .

::PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT::

Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow!

Now, before you don sackcloth and ashes, keep in mind there are other whistle-pigs. Dunkirk Dave (NY), Susquehanna Sherman (PA), General Beauregard Lee (GA), and Shubencadie Sam (Nova Scotia)–just to name a few–all announced an early spring. 

Personally, I think Punxsutawney Phil just likes to play with us.

So six more weeks of winter, be damned. Let’s raise a glass in celebration–to absurd little holidays, woodchucks, and the coming of spring . . . 

Cheers!

It’s all a blur from there, literally. I simply recall looking out the smudged window of that bus to see my house blur by. With that, I did the only thing for a shy, 5 year-old to do . . . I slid down in the seat, wishing for a cloak of invisibility.

It didn’t work.

The bus driver finished dropping off the elementary kids and promptly drove to his next stop–High School. Waiting for the release bell, he walked the aisle, looking for things left behind. Boy, did he find something–mainly, a small, strawberry blond. He had no choice but to take me along for the ride, dropping me off at my school, last.

Eyes wide, I reported the whole experience to my mom–they were all drunk! 

What can I say? I didn’t hang much with teenagers. As a matter of fact, the only high school students I “knew” were those from Welcome Back, Kotter.

Naturally, with the death of Robert Hegyes, I’ve thought a lot of that show in the last few days. As with most things from that decade I remember only bits and pieces–Horshack’s whiny voice (and goofy laugh), Epstein’s notes, Barbarino’s dance, Washington’s swagger. Being a child, I had no idea the controversy surrounding the show; I didn’t know there was an uproar over delinquent kids, in a racially integrated classroom. 

What I did know, however, was you could always count on the sweathogs for shenanigans–and they always made me laugh. Even if the subject matter wasn’t necessarily funny. How could we forget Gimme some drugs, gimme some drugs, gimme some drugs?  Sure, it made us laugh at a very serious topic; but in doing so, it highlighted the ridiculousness of it all. And show that can pull that off, can’t be all bad . . . no matter how questionable the fashion.   

So for those of you who remember, a trip down memory lane. For those of you who haven’t a clue what I’m talking about, this was the type of TV show we watched in the 70′s. It may explain a lot  . . .

I’m assuming you’ve heard the hoopla surrounding Uggie, the thespian pup? A true rags to riches story, he began as a pups no one wanted; now he shines on the red carpet. There’s even a Facebook campaign to give him the chance to be nominated for an Oscar. I’ve yet to see his performance in The Artist, but I loved his work in Water for Elephants.

It’s about time animals got some credit for their work in film. What about the dog in Sherlock Holmes? Or the cat in Breakfast at Tiffany’s? If it weren’t for that particular feline {and maybe the fashion} that would have been two hours of my life I’ll never get back!

Surely, you’ve got a favorite. For that alone they should get something. If not an Oscar, at least a name in the credits . . . and maybe a few extra pets.

You know, some things seem like a good idea at the time. Things like opening that gift bottle of wine that lay chilling in the fridge–just a little something to make a party of Christmas cards. So fun!

Until you awake the next morning to read the response to your address confirmation, made midway through the Christmas card hullabaloo: 

“Stuart . . . not Stewart . . . but other than that, yes, it’s correct!”

Even with the address right in front of me, I couldn’t get it straight. Imagine all that could have gone awry when I actually attempted to string sentences together.  

Oh well, only nine days ’til Christmas, my friends–Cheers!

It would behoove you to maintain a regular exercise routine throughout the year–maybe throw in a yoga pose or two, for good measure. Sure, if you don’t, you’ll have a ready made resolution come the new year; but you’ll also have a hard time explaining how wrapping gifts could make your muscles so sore, or cause you to hobble about like an old man. Somehow the fact that you were sitting Indian style for two hours, popping up every now and again for paper, ribbons, or tags, just doesn’t seem to cut it.

Who, me? Um, no, thank you. I prefer not to be scared. It’s best for us all, really.

I remember one year, in particular, my cousins were visiting for Halloween. We were at my grandparents when an aunt called to invite us all over to her friend’s house. She thought it would be fun.

Sure, fun like a root canal, maybe. 

Their whole front yard had been turned into a graveyard. Not only did you have to hike up a hill and wind your way through tombstones, but you had to hazard the undead, too. 

The promise of chocolate did not even begin to lure me from the safety of that old, blue, Chevy Malibu wagon. Of course, the undead can smell fear a mile away. Before I knew it, they were lumbering down the hill, arms outstretched, crazed eyes targeted on our car. 

Now, I was old enough to know better. In my mind I was quite aware they were my aunt’s friends, dressed for Halloween; my imagination, on the other hand, knew they could just as easily be fantastical creatures ready ready to suck the life from our very bodies. In which case, you can never be too prepared. So I started screaming. They shambled faster. When a zombie stuck his head in the door, I came completely unhinged, throwing myself back in the seat, and mashing my poor little cousin’s face against the car window–the other side of which, leered a werewolf.

I’ll tell you now, I love you and all, but if zombies do take over the world, it’s every man for himself.  

If you can’t imagine, just think of that episode where Ellen scared her writer . . .

Sure, even I chuckle when I watch the clip; but it’s more nervous laughter. It’s really not that funny.

Interestingly enough, we’re both named Amy, we’re both writers, and we both tend to completely FREAK OUT.

Also, remind me never to go on the Ellen show. 

But I digress . . .

So without further ado, a Happy Halloween to you, my friends–may it be frightfully fun, and not the least bit scary!

Scott and Kristi dedicated Josiah on Sunday and asked my mum and I to join their family up on stage. So sweet! What was not so very sweet, however, was my attire. Due to mammoth amounts of comfort food the last few months, I’m down to one skirt {that’s nearly as old as I am}, and one faded t-shirt. They are the only Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes I can wear and breathe at the same time.

Needless to say, after a few hours of unsuccessful attempts at sucking-it-in, I thought perhaps it time to cut back where I can.

So imagine my delight when I happened upon Fitbie’s Simple Ways to Shave 250 Calories. I flew through the first slide–the photo was of a fruit smoothie. Not a big fan. But the second . . . the second slide suggested you replace that chocolate chip muffin with a chocolate donut.

THE BEST ARTICLE EVER!

So, what were some other examples, you may ask? Yeah, I have no clue . . .  I never made it past the chocolate donut.

Happy National Marshmallow Toasting Day!

You know, I’ve long felt the toasted marshmallow deserved a holiday all its own–especially those marshmallows burnt to a crisp on the outside, and soft like butter on the inside. Let’s just take a moment to reflect on that gooey goodness …

Sigh.

Growing up, toasting marshmallows was as much a part of summer as lemonade and slip n’ slides. We’d head for the hills and find the perfect spot. While dad built us a camp fire, my mom, brother, and I would scour the grounds in search of the perfect roasting sticks. Then we’d all sit down to execute our s’mores preparation.

My parents were meticulous in their tatics, patiently turning their sticks near a bit of smoldering coal to produce the perfectly browned marshmallow. It’s a skill, my friends. After all, there’s a fine line between accomplishment and annihilation. Take the marshmallow out too soon, and it won’t be done; leave it in too long and it will melt right off the stick. As for me, I’ve always taken more of a shock and awe approach: set the ‘mallow ablaze, blow it out, and you’re done. It’s a crispier form of perfection.

One evening, while away at college, the subject of s’mores came up. I’m not sure the context; but through the course of our conversation, a couple of friends mentioned they had never before toasted a marshmallow. Obviously, it was an issue that had to be remedied. Of course, it was late, in the inner city, and nary a car among us. So we made do with what we had–mainly, candles, mini marshmallows, and corn picks.

Just goes to show, you don’t need a camp fire, or even a fire pit, to enjoy the sweetness a toasted marshmallow has to offer. A little flame will do.

So yes, the next time life hands you lemons, by all means, make lemonade. But the next time life cuts the electricity? Make s’mores!

It’s home week here at the Magpie & Muttonfly household–neck up, if nothing else. My  hair has been drying exceptionally big and my face is breaking out. To add insult to injury, I awoke yesterday morning to the unmistakable tingling on my upper lip. Cold sores are so wrong, on so many levels.

That said, stray greys, crows feet, and the occasional age spot aside, I totally look like my teenage self. It’s positively unnerving.

I’ve got to admit, if I were to take a dip in the fountain of youth, big hair, breakouts, and cold sores would not exactly be my features of choice. Skinny ankles, perhaps; bright, dewy skin, definitely; thighs that kept their distance while walking, yes please. But this? No, thank you.

Oh well, what can you do? Except maybe hide out until this particular predicament passes.

Perhaps I’ll just go with it. Perhaps I should just pull my hair to the side in a scrunchy, throw on the jelly bracelets and leg warmers, whip up some peanut butter popcorn, and watch 17 Again–all while working on a Rubik’s Cube, naturally. After all, I do so love a good theme; a good theme makes everything better …