To Bead or Not To Bead

    As Shakespear puts it - "That is the question", at least for today...

    Let me back up...in my usual over the top ambitious style, I have worked my little fingers to the bone over the past few years creating jewelry. Some pieces were created for show and donated to worthy causes...

and some were custom pieces for friends

but most pieces were created to sell to fashion conscious friends

     Even though I have never copied any of the necklaces that I have created (save a string of pearls, as those are classic) the pressure of dreaming up new one-of-a-kind creations for a big show is enormous...and exhausting. I do all my designing in the middle of the night and wake up the next morning and produce the piece. Needless to say, I don't sleep well. I become obsessed. I am crabby.

     This past holiday season, I decided to forego the normal December show as I had too much on my plate already keeping me awake nights. And after some 6 years of making sparkly baubles, I think I just ran out of creative juice. And as of this morning, I'm not sure that I have retrieved it as yet. And I must admit, it's pretty defeating to walk through a Charming Charlie store and see the array of beautiful (and inexpensive!) jewelry.  It's hard to compete with all that plastic. I even buy it.

    In a fit of "Gee, that one's ugly" and "I wonder why this beauty didn't sell?" and "I really hate that piece", I removed all the offenders off "The Wall" last night.  Even if I am not inspired to create this morning, I am inspired to destroy!

    With pliers and wire cutters in hand I face the pile...it's going to be a good day!

Chasing Victoria

Over the years I have read many magazines.  Some issues I have kept, largely those that have recipes that I want to make some day.  When we moved into our retirement hacienda, I did in fact toss boxes of Bon Appetit, Food and Wine, and other foodie magazines that I had saved for years, and, I might add, rarely cooked any of the recipes. 

Generally, after the year's subscription to a magazine is finished, I usually let it run out, as I am bored with the lack of content and overabundance of advertisements.

There is one exception:Victoria Magazine, published since the mid 1980's, and I have subscribed since 1989.  They stopped publishing Victoria for a few years in the mid 2000's and I was devastated, but rejoined when they started the press rolling again.  My mother first introduced me to Victoria, and she handed down her collection...and I have saved them all!

It's not so much that I love the Victorian era, or tea parties, or funky vintage clothing. Where Victoria started out with that theme, it evolved into a intriguing peak into the lives of amazing women, what they do, what they like, how they create...all exquisitely captured through the lenses of very talented photographers.  Who doesn't want a bed and breakfast...or at least stay in one? Who doesn't dream of owning a cute little shop full of antiques, lace and china?


And that's the hook: I can sit with a Victoria over a cup of coffee and dream about the things I could do, the changes I could make to my home, my lifestyle, and my creative pursuits.  I get lost in the beauty of it all, and let's face it, no one can make life prettier than Victoria.

Here's the reality:  my home is a Spanish style ranch house with a courtyard.  It doesn't snow here, my garden is lacking English randomness, and I decorate in bold purples and olives.  Hardly the Victoria style.  But it is beautiful, cozy and full of artistic touches that are all mine. It sings. 

After perusing the January issue with it's stunning pictures of "white" stuff, I realized that I too can create a Victoria moment.  I grabbed my camera and snapped some artsy pics, just to prove to myself that a picture does indeed say a thousand words and my stuff is worthy of a magazine page.

Pretty, pretty....

But in the end, it's just a picture...a photograph exquistly lighted and perfectly exposed.

Out of range of the camera lense there are dishes in the sink, cat hair on the sofa pillows and soap scum in the shower. Ah...if only life were as beautiful as Victoria...meawhile, take a few photos and dream.

Revamping Laurel's Quill

It's 2012, and I'm in the mood to start this puppy back up, but with perhaps a different slant. I bought a publication called The Artful Blogger, and not too coincidently, it was all about the way I wanted to change my blog. Go figure. So I'll be working on it...wish me luck and much persistance!!

Finishing Well...a Christmas Letter

Christmas comes at just the right time of the year, near the end. It is during this festive time most of us put on a new spirit of generosity, grace and forgiveness, and of course love. Despite our shortcomings throughout the daily grind of life, we strive to finish the year well, being the kind of people that God wants us to be. It is after all, a joyous celebration of the birth of Christ, the greatest "finisher" of all.

I wish I could say that I too was a great finisher. I am, rather, a great starter. I start books, and after the first few pages if the author writes in a style that I don't enjoy, I don't finish it. I start knitting projects, but if the garment looks like it will fit a small cow, then it goes in the pile of abandoned yarn. I start diets, but they are much to hard to stick to, especially at Christmas time, so I quit in the same day I started.

I spend a lot of time daydreaming about projects and tasks to start. I started this blog some time ago, and because I love to write, I thought I would keep it up. Not so. I think about starting another art quilt, but the challenge of what to do is overwhelming, so on that one, I decide not to start at all. For all my good intentions, the days just get away from me, and I end up just living life and taking care of what needs to be done.

Let me assure you that I have much to be thankful for this year. Dave and I have our health, our home, and our family. On the homefront, after years of driving over potholes and stubbing our toes on exposed aggregate, we were able to finish our new concrete driveway and courtyard this year. The result was a dramatic change to our home and our IRA (sigh). So no big vacations this year, right? We did sneak in a short jog up to Seattle with Mom to see my brother. Our kids are doing well, and the grandkids are a never ending source of joy and amusement for Dave and I. Dave continues to golf and fish, two passions that he will never finish. And I have spent a lot of hours since May helping out with our church's expansion project which, God willing, will be finished in February, 2012. Life is good.

I had a spiritual epiphany this year. I finished a book "The Green Letters" and learned more about myself than I have in all the 20 plus years that I have been a Christian. I learned that it's not so much surviving in my faltering humanity but standing firm in my position in Christ, day by day, moment by moment. I am grateful that God has a time schedule for me and that I don't have to worry so much about finishing. He will accomplish His good work in me, just as He has promised. I just have to rest in Christ. May each of you have a blessed year ahead...finish a book...live a dream...love well.

10 Things I'd Rather Do Than Seam a Sweater!

They say that knitting is a great activity for those of us who have anxious, worrying personalities. And since I can make a mountain out of a molehill in approximately 3.5 seconds, it does seem to calm my spirit in periods of mental chaos and turmoil. I love to knit. I love wearing the things that I make, though they would never win a blue ribbon by any really good knitter's standards. It still pleases me.

But today I must face the inevitable point all knitters reach after making the cute little sleeves, enormous back, and stylish fronts of a new sweater: If you want to wear it, you have to sew it together. The "Mattress Stitch" - the two worst words in the knitter's vocabulary. Maybe some people get some kind of sick joy out of seaming together a sweater, but I am not one of those people. I hate it. I dread it.

I heard from a friend of mine that she just pays someone to "put it together for her". That's a great solution if you're a good knitter. But I couldn't stand the shame of passing on my sleeve with the big knot on the wrong side, or the the left front that doesn't exactly match the right one, or the back that had a rather irregular gauge going on until I reached my pearling stride 20 rows up.

So, I'll just gut it up and get going. But as I was thinking on this beautiful Sunday morning how I wanted to finish this sweater for my Mom before we take off for Seattle, and my mind wandered to all the things I'd rather do today than seam a sweater. Like for instance:

1. Have a root canal



2. Dig a drainage ditch with a wooden spoon



3. Iron clothes



4. Walk accross Death Valley in my bare feet



5. Eat dirt



6. Eat liver



7. Peel a lug of over ripe peaches in the hot sun



8. Put on snow chains in a blizzard



9. Drive across West Texas



10. Undergo Chinese water torture

Did I mention that I'm a great procrastinator too? Time's a wasting, Laurel. Get to it.

The dumbing down of Macy's

It is widely accepted in the world of lingerie that you can't hold up D's in a strapless bra. But for those of us who hadn't figured that out yet, we head for the store that houses the largest selection of lacy little pretty "nothings", the Bra Mecca of the Free World, Macy's. As we glide up the escalator to the third floor, we are confident that somewhere in the maze of wall displays and spinning racks of Wacaols, Maidenforms, and Lilyettes, we will find some kind of structural underpinnings to enhance our menopausal figure. And because taking off your clothes in a 2 X 3 foot mirrored closet is abhorrent to most women, we have put off this fun shopping experience to the very last minute. We need that bra NOW, TODAY.


Remember when department stores actually had people to help you find what you came looking for? Macy's used to be known for their customer service years ago, but somewhere in the shrinking economy, point-of-sale computers, and people who won't work for minimum wage any more, finding help is like looking for water in the Sahara. Yea, I know..."go to Nordstrom - they will even fit you!" Nordstrom, however, is 8 miles away and we don't have time...and surely in the middle no less than 3,598 bras, we can find one over the shoulder boulder holder that will work.

After about 20 minutes of wandering aimlessly and combing through the AA's and B's, pads and foams, wires and straps, a sweet little sales lady bearing at least 50 bras dangling from her arms and around her neck asks in broken English if we need help. Upon explaining our frustration with finding sizes, we are dismayed to learn that she will have to go to her computer to see if we have one "that big"...which of course is 100 yards across the department. She totters off and we dive back in. By the time she comes back we have already located the one and only D in that model, which she sweetly verifies. Thanks.

So into the Hall of Mirrors we go, armed with our selections. And because strapless bras must fall down all the time (we don't know this, because we've never owned one), they are made with all kinds of weird feeling rubber and heavy duty elastic bands that look like they would hold up the spans on the Bay Bridge. Getting into one, much less than getting it hooked is a feat that would make even Houdini cringe. While wrestling the thing off the hanger, amid groans and deep breaths, elbows banging on the closet, another little sales lady knocks on the door..."are we okay??" We ask for a bigger size, but to our dismay, she is only the hanger-upper of all castoffs left in the dressing rooms. We put on our clothes again and forge out onto the floor again. This process goes on and on and on...four, maybe five trips back and forth to the closet.

It's a miracle! We find one that will hold up our voluptuous figure. Frazzled and tired we head for the "Customer Service" counter for our purchase. "Oh, you found one", she exclaims giddily. Yes, and thanks again for your help. "Can I put that on your card?" Just coming off the heels of a bad card experience in Sears at the other end of the Mall, we are not inclined to drag out our plastic again. "No, a check". Who said that? A check?

Not having written a check in 10 years, we assume that it just as easy as it used to be and she should be able to handle it quickly. Write the amount, sign, show ID, and you're out of there, strapless D's in hand. Not so, little grasshopper. Even though the sales associate ( that's what they call them now) can see me - I'm right in front of her - and the picture on the ID even looks like me, and the signature matches my driver's license, and I have 50 other forms of identification and a Macy's account, the computer needs an authorization code to complete the sale, and my sweet little sales lady with less than perfect communication skills must call the giant Macy's Customer Service in the sky.

We are not normally a belligerent person, but we have just spent an hour wrestling bras in a closet, gotten dressed and undressed one too many times, and we are sweaty and already late for an afternoon party (where we plan to wear our new strapless D's). And like Sears down the Mall, the person on the other end of the Customer Service line must have a communication problem, cause neither of these two know what the other was talking about or what to do next. When she finally gets the magic authorization code, she hands us our receipt and proclaims blessings on us for a wonderful "rest of the day" and to "stay cool". But we are still reeling from the entire experience and using our inside voice, we want to know (right NOW!) why the need for the authorization of our personal check. It's only $35 for crying out loud - It's not like we are purchasing the Hope Diamond. "It's for your protection - you know...to make sure you are who you say you are.." Are you kidding? Like she can see us through the phone, honey?

Maybe and 8 mile drive to Nordstrom would have been just as quick. In a bit of irony, we proudly modeled our new purchase under our cute little cami-top, the hubby looks and says..."I don't see a real difference, honey - I thought you looked just fine without it." That is all we need - off with the rubber contraption and let the D's be free!

Red and Bernie

My friend Peg lost her dad this week. Bernie was 94 years young and even though he lived a rich life and it was his time to "dance" in heaven, as daughters we are pained to the core to lose our Daddies. I can tell Peg that I know what it's like, since Red died almost 15 years ago, but it's really of little comfort. Intellectually, we can accept their death as the natural progression of an aging parent, or that they are far better off than enduring a prolonged sickness. We can even rationalize that they are "in a better place", but it never makes it any easier to bear.

Losing a father is sad, period. It doesn't matter whether he was strict or a pushover, we are molded by the extraordinary impact our fathers had on our formative years. And how we remember them is significant. Not every Dad was a hero, nor is every memory necessarily pleasant. After all, we live in an imperfect world, and sadly, some fathers just didn't have it in them to nurture, love or respect their children.

My Mom would say that I have a very childlike, idyllic hero worship of my Dad, and she's probably right. But who cares? My memories of Red are as sweet and nostalgic as the oak-laden countryside where I grew up. We jokingly called him Dudley as we aged because of his ability to do anything, make anything, fix anything. Hence, most of my memories of him have building and creating themes - "Dudley can do it!" I remember sitting in the driveway next to a greasy canvas covered with valve stems, rocker arms, nuts and bolts, watching him carefully clean the parts in a can of gasoline. I couldn't put an engine together to save my life, but I know what a head gasket is. I used to brag that I could skin a deer, but Mom's right - that would be a slight exaggeration, even though I do know how to wield a hunting knife fairly well.

My Dad built roads all over California. It took him away most of the weekdays of the dry summers, leaving Mom to be the disciplinarian. So when the weekend fianlly came, I was the first one to wake to the smell of Dad's frying bacon. Our memories are powerfully linked to our sense of smell, and to this day I love to cook bacon on a Saturday morning. I can't drive buy a field of fresh mown hay without opening the window to take in the earthy warmness and remember hours of driving a tractor in circles with a baler in tow...or walking through a mountain meadow and rustling the skunk weed without thinking about camping trips without a tent under the stars.

Today, I putter in my wannabe garden of three tomato plants and two zucchinis, a pathetic tribute to the memory of a half-acre maze of corn, tomatoes and every kind of vegetable that I, along with my siblings, were made to weed. Dad would brag at dinner that everything we were eating was grown in our garden or raised in the barn. I credit him with my love of eating good food, despite the fact that he made my mother cook his vegetables to a frazzle. But even my foodie friend Peg would acknowledge that green beans cooked on the stove for three hours with bacon still invoke a warm, comfortable feeling of "home" - Martha probably cooked them for Bernie that way too.

I can conjure up flashbacks to wood cutting days in the Fall with buzz saws and brush fires and enjoy them as much as Summer evening rides in the back of a Chevy pickup over to Dad's old ranch a few miles away. I can picture my Dad laying on the lawn on a hot summer evening with a piece of grass dangling from his mouth, laughing a his uncles' bad jokes and tall stories. Red could tell a joke better than anyone, and that's probably why I love to laugh.

Granted, my memories sound idyllic and childlike, and probably not altogether acurate, but I cherish them never the less. Some country singer wrote a song about "Daddy's Hands", and amazingly, that's one of the things I remember more vividly than anything else about my father. I guess that's because he used them in so many ways, his whole life was carved into their freckled, gnarled fingers. Thankfully,I don't have my Dad's hands. And truthfully, my hair only had a hint of his red. In fact, I am my Mom all over again - her eyes, her mouth, her skin. But I love that I am Red's daughter, through and through. It isn't June 20th yet, Happy Father's Day anyway, Dad.

Mercy Me

I am loath to say that I have never been a particularly merciful person. My "buck up and get over it" upbringing created a strength and fortitude in which I took enormous pride over the years. Though I have never parked in a handicapped parking place, I would recoil at the seemingly "healthy" woman in the Corvette who waltzed into Nordstrom, with little sympathy to her hidden body limitations, assuming she had one. And to me, there was just "something fishy" with the local woman in a wheelchair who stormed the doors of the Squeeze Inn and other local establishments, lawyer in tow, only to sue them for lack of ADA compliance.

That was before I broke my right arm...my jewelry making hand, my treble clef hand, my risotto stirring hand. Okay, it's not the same as being a paraplegic confined in a wheelchair, or a man being chained to a dialysis machine four times a week, or a women loosing her hair to cancer treatment...I know that. But even the slightest impairment or loss of your usual physical abilities can be painful, frustrating, humbling, and yes, even illuminating. Our bodies are so fragile and we take them for granted. It's a wonder the majority of us stumble (literally) through life without an injury or serious disease. And as one of those people, I never realized how profoundly your life can change in just the blink of an eye.

The little imaginary man on my shoulder who says "buck-up, Laurel" must be the same little creep that said "you can cross that creek, chicka..you're a country girl!" But he is wrong, and I have had a hard time not feeling sorry for myself in what has seemed like an ordeal to me. And those of you who know me well, know how easy it is to slip into the morbid places...i.e "what if I had a stroke? I'd never be able to cope with that!" Life function limitations like not being able to shower properly, wash your hair, brush your teeth properly (forget flossing!)are difficult to cope with for a mere six weeks, but what if you couldn't do it for an extended period? What if you never could?

God is ever gracious to us in our hour of need, and I am grateful for my broken wing. It opened my eyes to people who must struggle with limitations every day just to survive. I am blessed that my injury is only a temporary inconvenience, and not a life sentence. I am blessed that other people have been more "merciful" than me by their willingness to help me out, wash my hair, carry this, open that. Life is not about bucking-up and getting over it. It's about letting others share your pain and struggles and giving you mercy and grace, and it's about giving it back in return. Thank God that He has given us the best example of grace and mercy in Jesus Christ. Why does it take so long for so many of us to get it??

From the Internet - LMAO! "The Dummy from Hell"

I have been seriously considering buying a professional Dress Form after getting hooked on Project Runway, a quasi reality TV clothing design competition I have sewn for years and have always wanted a dress form so that I could make my own patterns. I started researching different types on the internet, and thought the Uniquely You brand might suit my needs. Upon researching comments from owners of this product, I came across this post from a would-be consumer who had a less than an optimal experience with the Uniquely You Dress Form. I have never laughed so hard in my life...and suffice it to say I will not be buying one of these. Thank you Peter Leppik, Mirabelle Severn & Thames, whoever you all are!

The Dummy From Hell

For the sewing-impaired, a Uniquely You dress form consists of a foam core shaped like a well-endowed woman, and a cloth cover which you sew to fit your own dimensions, then stuff the foam core inside, yielding a dressmaker's form with your own measurements.

From: close@lunch.asd.sgi.com (Diane Barlow Close)
Newsgroups: alt.sewing
Subject: Re: Problems fitting Uniquely You (long!)

Mirabelle Severn & Thames writes:

I recently bought the Uniquely You dress form, and my mother agreed to fit the cover for me. Well, about 1/3 of the way through the fitting, she is running into problems she didn't expect, and doesn't feel secure trying to finish the project. Can anyone give advice?

Okay, I think I'm brave enough now to tell everyone about my experiences with” Uniquely You". I ordered mine from National Thread and Supply Company (in Atlanta, Georgia) who, in turn, get their supply directly from the UY folks but arable to discount it quite a bit. I ordered the "extra small" form and from the measurement range given it should've been just fine. Unfortunately for me, I ordered at the time that the U.Y. folks were trying out a new foam extrusion mix. Somehow I got one of the "test" dummies instead of the real thing. The problem with the new mix was that it discolored and expanded (greatly) when faced with humidity. I didn't know that when I got my dummy; I just knew it looked a bit mottled and way too big to "squish" down to my size. In fact, the dummy had a 44 DD bust! I called the UY company about this but they assured me that I must be wrong, that the bust couldn't be that big and that even if it was it would shrink once the cover was applied. They explained that the foam was much bigger than the cover, but that the foam would compress greatly and that Should just go ahead and make my cover and all would become clear soon. They explained that a lot of force was needed to compress their foam, but compress it would and I should just try it and see. After I got off the phone, I remeasured the bust and it was, indeed, 44DD (it was HUGE). It looked like some bizarre, life-sized headless Barbie.

Encouraged by the phone conversation with the UY people, I started sewing up my cover. I fitted the top half, on me, just fine. I zipped it off and tried to zip it on the dummy. It wouldn't go; it wouldn't squish asked my husband for help. Eventually we had the dummy on the floor with my husband kneeling on top of the breasts and me pushing from underneath the cover trying to compress everything into place. Then we started wondering what this must look like to our neighbors, so I got up and closed the curtains! :-) Continuing our wrestling match, we managed to stuff MOST of the breasts into the cover, but we couldn’t, for the life of us, compress them so they all fit into the cover. We managed to get the cover zipped into place but there was "breasts" popping out all over the place! We decided to see if we could squish the breasts into place any further. My husband pushed from above while I pushed from below. Whammo, side seams gave away and we had breast "leaking" out the side. We tried again. And again. It was a hot and humid summer day and we were not enjoying this strenuous activity very much. Finally we achieved some measure of success, with the cover "centered" over massive “breasts" peering around all sides. We stood back. BLAMMMO! The cover seams all gave way at once and blew off the dummy, leaving "Barbie" once again standing naked before us. Not only that, but the "breasts" appeared to have grown! They certainly looked bigger to me, and a check with the measuring tape now clocked themat 50 DD!! Help, it's Barbie from Hell! :-D

We called UY and complained strenuously this time. I pointed out that my dummy was "growing". They put the owner/creator on the phone and he realized that we had gotten a "bad" dummy, that is, one made with the bad experimental foam. The discoloration was the key to recognition. He asked me to send it back to him for inspection and replacement. You’d think that would be the end of it, wouldn't you? Well, think again! :-) I packaged the dummy up, in the original box, and sent it off UPS-insured. I got a calla couple days later because UY had *refused* my shipment! I couldn't believe it! After they had asked me to send it back directly to them! I couldn't figure out what must’ve gone wrong so called them back, immediately. The told me they didn't take damaged goods. What?! What did they mean "damaged" goods? I sent back an intact product! It was a defective product, but then they knew that as they were the ones who had asked me to send it to them for inspection. Unfortunately the person who handled the shipment was away and all the woman on the phone knew was that the shipment had been refused due to "damage", so I would have to wait a few days for the original person to return to explain why she refused my shipment. I got my answer a couple days later when a "hit and run" UPS driver lobbed a grotesquely-deformed (previously-a-box) shape over my fence and ran for the truck. It seems that somewhere along the line the package must've fallen off the truck and been backed over several times by a truck. The rectangular box was now a triangle and the remains of the dummy had tire tracks on it. Not only that, but it seems it had expanded some more, in transit, and one breast had blown a hole in the box and was now sitting there "staring" at the world rather ominously. The other breast had been ripped off, mostly, and was attached to the dummy by only a wee bit of foam. Numerous other cuts and scrapes told tales of some type of weird raging battle that had been fought between this dummy and who-knows-what! :-)

I called up UPS wondering how the heck they managed to turn my package into the deformity before me and they offered to send another driver out to pick it up for inspection. By this time I wasn't about to trust another "ride" on the truck, so I insisted that they send out an inspector directly to inspect the damage here. Under the circumstances, and considering the amount of money involved, they agreed. When the UPS claims person came out to inspect the damage she asked me what on earth this "thing" was used for. She treated it like she thought she could get Bubonic Plague from it. She started shaking her head and complaining about all the weird sextoys she was forced to inspect now that she was based out here in San Francisco and not back in good old Illinois... I tried to explain that it was a mannequin for sewing and fitting clothes, not some "sex toy". She didn't believe me. She wrote it up as “inflatable foam doll" and treated it like it had some disease she didn't want to catch. She had to remove the dummy from the box, and in order to do that you had to compress the one "escaped" breast to get it back through the hole so the rest of the dummy could come out of the box. She didn't want to touch the breast. No sirree! She was NOT going to touch another breast, not even a foam one! It was very amusing to watch. She honestly believed it was some kind of sex toy and I was some kind of pervert... :-D I finally got the dummy out of the box for her, but even then she wouldn't touch it to inspect the damage. :-) It was very embarrassing! She quickly agreed that UPS would give me a full refund and I don't think I've seen anyone leave my house so quickly... :-

Anyway, all's well that ends well, and I got my money back in full from UPS. I didn’t have the nerve to try another "Uniquely You". I bought a Dritz Double. I don’t really need the "fits your shape" capability of UY, as I'm pretty well the industry standard shape anyway. Yes, I'm one of the rare few who can use patterns directly from the envelope and have them fit perfectly. Do the Dritz Double turned out to be
just fine for me. I hope this helps someone! :-)

Peter Leppik

Arm Candy

She approached the raging creek with trepidation. It had rained the night before and the familiar rocks which guided her usual steps were submerged under the icy waters. Intelligence suggested that she was taking a risk as she gingerly sought a dry rock. First one, then another. As she reached the half way point, the only stable rocks were no longer dry, and not wishing to finish her 4-mile walk in wet shoes, she hesitated...just enough to loose her concentration and her balance. Backwards she careened, finding the only surface in the creek with slimy moss on which to regain her balance. With her life passing quickly before her eyes, and thoughts of drowning in the abyss, she went down. She totally forgot the "tuck and roll" of her combat days, and in a last ditch effort, saved herself from certain doom with a simple backward stretch of the arm. And when it gave way, her head crashed back on a single rock put there just for stupid people like her who try to cross creeks like they were 12. Hel-lo!!!!!!!

Actually it was a tiny little stream of water...and my brain said 'no, don't do it, dummy' and my 12 year old ego said 'yea, you can.' Hence my first ever broken arm, sporting a bright red fiberglass cast. Having this arm candy has certain advantages and disadvantages. People do ask what happened, and you can make up all sorts of tales to inflate your bruised ego: 'I was climbing Mt. Whitney and my rope gave way and I fell 50 feet onto a ledge' or 'I got it caught in my rope on my last bull ride' or 'I didn't like the way my hands were aging so I am having them replaced with robotics.'

But casts are a pain in the ---. You can't get them wet..evidently they start stinking or growing some kind of mold...so showering is a challenge. You can't operate a can opener with a broken arm, and you can't play a piano. Opening your Ibuprofen bottle is tricky, as is trying to flip a pancake. But they are hard as a rock, so you can use them as leverage for certain tasks, like cracking nuts or cutting wire for jewelry making...

All in all, as cute as my little red cast is, I would rather wear a bracelet.