…a flood of memories came rushing back. I was transported to the floor of our basement playroom. Orange shag carpet, light filtering in from the single window, the floor littered with dozens of naked Barbies. My sister and I would mosey down there and just plop ourselves in the middle of the madness. We had a large wicker basket that resembled a treasure chest with a hinged lid. That was where the Barbies were supposed to live. However, they seemed to be more comfortable just sleeping on the furry carpet.
We had a huge cardboard under-the-bed storage type box that was just bursting with doll clothes. From ballgowns to bikinis, some of the most fun was sifting through that box looking for the perfect outfit or trying to find that other pesky hot pink high heel.
We could never remember whose Barbie was whose, so lots of the time we would ‘auction’ them off before playing. Sounds complicated, but it usually consisted of me trying to convince my little sister that the Barbie with the squooshed-on head or the sticky rubber band in her hair was ‘pretty’ and that she would really like playing with her. (Oh the things big sisters do, and oh the things sweet little sisters fall for. Hopefully there are no hard feelings Katie. I was six, and bossy and almost impossible to play with.)
So, as you see, our day-to-day lives as little kiddos were inundated with Barbies. That’s why I fell head over heels with Margaux Lange’s whimsical recreations of this classic toy. I want one of each!
Sometimes some of the best dishes are just plain and simple. That’s the case with this recipe for roasted fingerling potatoes. No need for a lot of fuss, just a little seasoning and the delicious natural taste of tiny fingerlings.
Start with one pound of fresh fingerling potatoes. I got these at the local Marietta Farmers Market. They were just too cute not to pick up a little bundle.
Poor guy, I know he was just trying to agree with me and make me feel better. You have to kind of feel sorry for them, women are uberly complex and complicated creatures. I am a woman, and I don’t even understand myself half of the time. It’s funny, I do want his honest opinion, but when he gives it to me I then decide that I didn’t want it in the first place. Ha! He deserves a bit of a reprieve for those comments. I am pretty sure he was acting in a moment of desperation. Who would want to see their wife cry over a hair cut. I am pretty sure Shakespeare himself could not have crafted words to make me feel better in that moment. It was just something I had to work through on my own.
I’m over the crying. Don’t get me wrong, I am still mad about all the hair she whacked off, but it will grow back. And don’t worry, me and Mr. Blue Eyed Yonder made up over a double waffle at the Waffle House. Nothing like syrup and butter to smooth things over.
So tell me, do you have any hair disasters or funny “men” stories? I know you’ve got ’em, let me hear ’em sisters!