Wednesday, December 18, 2013


Mother Nature is a skank ho' bitch.

Because I hate summertime so much, I feel like I can't complain about winter. I like winter, for the most part. Except when there is a snowstorm and I have to drive somewhere. And then I freak out. Mr. Floozy was out of town in early December and missed the ginormous storm that blew in and dumped a sleigh-wad of snow on my driveway. Which is fine, sure, except that my snowblower was broken and I couldn't get out of my house to SAVE MY CHILDREN. The school buses weren't able to make it up the mountain, so I had to rely on the kindness of neighbors and family members to get my kids home. I know a lot of nice people.

That was not a fun day.

After that zodawful snowstorm, Utah dropped to frigid levels and stayed that way for weeks and weeks. Most of the time the temperature lingered in the single digits and occasionally dipped into the negatives. I did not mind it. What I did mind was that my teenage daughter refused to wear a winter coat. What the! I told my mom about this ongoing battle I have with my daughter and she laughed and said that I deserved it because I refused to wear a winter coat when I was a teenager. And so the cycle of voluntary coatlessness continues....

December has been a good month for my subversive embroidery business, so if you have bought something, thank you! Because of your money, I was able to replace my old fire-happy microwave with a new one.

I have also spent this month socializing with friends. Which is good for me, because sometimes I go all Ted Kaczynski and hole up in my bedroom dressed only in flannel and unsupportive underwear, writing manifestos about the evils of above-the-rim milkshakes that ARE NOT MILKSHAKES. Milkshakes are meant to be milky enough to suck up through a straw! Not to be eaten with a spoon! Not to be so thick that they can casually hang out two inches above the edge of the cup!

The Cotton Floozy's Milkshake Manifesto
1. The Milkshake Revolution and its consequences have been a disaster
   for the human race. They have greatly increased the frozen-expectancy of
   those of us who live in "advanced ice cream" countries, but they have
   destabilized society, have made life unfulfilling, have subjected
   human beings to indignities, have led to widespread psychological
   suffering and have inflicted severe damage on the natural world. 

Socializing with friends has resulted in a few precious moments that I would like to share with you.

This precious moment.

And this one.

Those are a few photos of me using the new Christmas gift that I got at a White Elephant party. Even the giver of the gift did not know what this thingey was, except that it was from Korea and that he brought it back from his Mormon mission many years ago. 

Okay, seriously! What is the usage of these mystery tongs? 

very pretty pastels

reasons for golfball-like dents unknown

"Made in Korea"

As I demonstrated in the photos, I think that this is a personal back massager. It actually felt pretty good when I thumped it on my back.

There are so many possibilities, though, that I can't rule any of them out. Is this thing used for picking up mini-golfballs? Or for gently catapulting ladybugs away from the garden? Or to be shaken as a musical instrument? Tell me what this weird contraption is! If it does indeed turn out to be a musical instrument,  I plan on using the mystery tongs as maracas when I exercise to Miranda Hart's new exercise video "MARACATTACK.

This looks like the only exercise video that I would ever be willing to do. Please please please watch the video. It involves Miranda eating cheetos off of a moving treadmill. Need I say more?

If you can tell me what these mystery tongs are for, you win a pretty prize. I am not sure yet what the prize will be, but it will be awesome. And no, I am not giving away the mystery tongs. Those are mine for keepsies.

Wednesday, December 4, 2013

The Inside Part

A lot of my friends don't like Christmas, and I get that. I personally love Christmas but only because I have good memory associations with it. As long as I don't spend any time in a Wal-mart (or Val-de-mart, as I like to call it) in December, I think that I can continue to love Christmas.

Oh hey, look. I can spell my store name correctly.

And I love selling my crafts at Christmas. This photo was taken last Sunday at Craft Sabbath by Ai Levy. She has a beautiful blog called Textile Tree. It’s in Japanese, but Google can (kind of) translate it for you. 

Things were a bit slow last Sunday, but I met and talked to a lot of really cool people. I love it when someone finds my booth and knows all of the nerdy pop culture references. If you visited me last Sunday, thank you! Let's be friends.

Except for you, Mrs. Weird Lady. 

Mrs. Weird Lady wanted to buy one of my frames if she could take out "the inside part," meaning the hand embroideries. Uh, what what. She couldn't understand that I was not just a store that sold picture frames. She held a picture of her baby son next to every frame to see "which one fit." I'm like, sure you can buy a frame and give me my embroidery back if you pay full price, but why don't you just go to a store and buy an empty picture frame. Derp! 

Right now I am swamped making embroideries for the December 8th Craft Sabbath and custom orders so my Etsy is sad and bare. I should be able to restock it next week. So instead of linking to my own shiz, I would like to share with you the stores of some of my favorite fellow crafters and artists. 

Please let me know your business website (if you are small and not pervy) and I will post it here. 

Shop small businesses!

Where I got my cool necklace and chalkboard sign up thar in that photo of me at Craft Sabbath. Jennifer is my craft festival buddy and we often carpool and talk talk talk. Her stuff is as cool as she is.

I adore Nicole Maki and her art. I have two of her mixed media collages in my house. Also, I like to be annoying and tell everybody how Nicole once went out on a date with David Duchovny many years ago when they both lived in Canada. 

I now own a kabillion zillion of Shantel's beautiful scarves.

I met the owners of Peck’s Vanilla at a Craft Lake City mingle party. They are the ones who gave me the great stitchable quote, “I love not camping.” I love love love their vanilla and vanilla sugar. We are breakfast-for-every-meal-of-the-day people, so we sprinkle the vanilla sugar on everything: waffles, crepes, buttered toast, etc.

I would consider piercing my ears just to wear her bitchin’ earrings.

Eerily beautiful prints. And Desarae in person is a delight. True story: We once took turns holding a flashlight while the other person peed in a port-a-potty, so basically, we are bonded for life.

I love Sarah. I own a few of her things and she owns a few of mine. Someday we will meet in real life! 

We did a trade a few months ago. She got a Jack Skellington embroidery and I got an inspirational print of her altered landscape painting SHARKNADO.

for all of your Harry Potter quilt needs.

Be prepared for the adorable. Are you prepared for the adorable? Then go ahead and click the link.

Amazing historically accurate clothing and accessories

Seriously. Love. Words. No can express.

You know you need a mini terrarium full of crocheted mushrooms.

I am addicted to chapstick and currently my favorite is the Spotted Hippo’s grapefruit lip balm.

Awesome crochet hats, scarves, and blankets. And the prices are ridiculously affordable!

The owner is having a baby soon so you should buy something because you don’t hate babies.

Pretty much all of my friends (and me) own a shirt by Sorry Clementine. Cute and comfortable.

I am so blown away by this store. The Patrick Stewart cross stitch makes me dizzy with its awesome.

Wednesday, November 27, 2013

Tips for Black Friday Shopping


  1. Before you leave in the morning, temporarily store your soul in a jar, or a “spirit trap,” so that you will not be encumbered by pesky feelings of ethics or societal moral codes. You can create your own spirit trap with either an expensive crystal beveled decanter or a humble mason jar.  
  2. Footwear is extremely important. Wear comfortable shoes that are designed to convert from heels into flats, except wear them as flats only. When some jerkwad gets in your way, take off a shoe, flip open the pointy heel, and brandish it like a switchblade.
  3. It is important to have your hands free, so avoid carrying a clutch or a purse that easily slides off your shoulder. Instead, store your wallet and valuables in a baby sling carrier hidden under a fake baby. 
  4. Carry a small child on your shoulders who can use his little monkey hands to reach the coveted items on tall shelves.
  5. Crowds are a real bother, so easily clear an area of tightly packed people by coughing loudly and chunkily. Soak a surgical paper mask in old tea water and then put it on as directed. To those around you, it will look like you are so sick that your bird flu mucous has soaked through. Have the child who is riding on your shoulders (see Tip 4) spritz random people around you with a spray bottle full of kale juice.

Tuesday, November 12, 2013

Recipe Cards From The Edge

A domestic viking, I am not. 

Here is a picture of my linen closet as proof. 

Just kidding. That's Monica's secret messy closet. (I am a product of the 90's. And if you don't like Friends, whatever. Could you be any more judgey?)

Okay, here is my linen closet for realsies.

Did you hear that sound? That was the sound of my mother's sharp intake of breath.

Occasionally, I tidy up this closet, mostly because it is right next to the guest bathroom, and when a guest accidentally opens this door, I don't want anyone's headstone to read "death by collapsing towels."

This reminds me of a story. At my junior high graduation program there was a slideshow. Proud parents watched the montage of memorable junior high events. Photo after photo of the popular kids wearing sunglasses and making duck faces. And the occasional photo of the nerdy kids performing in school plays such as, The Hobbit: The Musical! When a photo of someone's incredibly messy locker was shown on the screen, the entire audience laughed. My mom whispered under her breath, "I really hope that's not Marie's locker."

It was my locker.

The rest of my house isn't as bad as the linen closet, but somehow my sofa pillows and quilts are magnetically drawn to the floor.

That banana chair is the coolest and you know it.

Domesticity includes cooking, right? Well, a few months ago, I made another stab at it. And it has been going okay. Mostly because my children have outgrown their Xtreme pickiness. They now eat food. I am not sure what they ate before, but I think it was a combination of dust particles and tenacity.

More importantly, I have tried to stop cooking with cream-of-something soups! I KNOW. It's like at any moment the governor of Utah might send Homeland Security to my door and deport me to Connecticut. 

I have found a few recipe websites that I love, including my sister-in-law's, Culinary Goods. Right now I am infatuated with Mel's Kitchen Cafe. She takes those homey Mormony foods that I love and tweaks them until they are cream-of-caboodle free! For example, she reworks Hawaiian Haystacks. If you don't know what Hawaiian Haystacks are, you are probably not from Utah, but it is this bizarre food creation where you begin with white rice, and then you add everything weird you can think of, traditionally: pineapple tidbits, olives, coconut, grated cheese, almonds, onions, and CHOW MEIN NOODLES. And then it is all mortared together with a sauce made out of cream of chicken soup and sour cream.

HAWAIIAN HAYSTACKS. Click here for the recipe!

Are you okay? Do you need to sit down on my banana chair and take a moment? Oh, you are heading to the bathroom to vomit? DON'T OPEN THAT DOOR IT'S MY LINEN CLOSET.

Friday, October 25, 2013

My First Haunted House, I am Not Proud

Last week I went to my very first haunted house ever. (The Haunted Mansion at Disneyland does not count.) In the past I have joined a haunted house line a few times, sometimes even making it all the way to the this-is-your-last-chance-to-escape! exit before dodging out of the line, mom-running to the safety of the park benches next to the churros vendor. 

yeah, BOO... whatever

Before I tell you about my first haunted house experience, let's talk about video games. I don't like most video games. I can't stand playing anything that involves face-to-face combat. Even Super Mario Bros freaks me out. The reason? I can't separate pretend from reality. This is a problem. I can't even stand playing real-life games. Whenever I played tag as a child, I felt like I was literally running for my life. If a person charged me and made me "it," I cowered and crumpled into a ball, accepting my fate to be a dead person, doomed to haunt the sprinkler system of my neighbor's front lawn for eternity. Maybe I was a melodramatic child? 

Maybe I am a melodramatic adult.

The only video games I like to play are tower defense games. You know, where you set up all of your defenses-- towers, lasers, glue traps, and whatnot-- and then you sit back and watch while your team does all of the work, taking on the bad guys. I am addicted (and surprisingly good) at games such as Plants vs. Zombies, Creeps, Field Runners, and Kingdom Rush. 

I'm sure that this surprises no one, but, I did not do well at my first haunted house. Perhaps I would have been okay if I could have had a tower defense system. If I could have attacked all of the spring-loaded clowns and screaming zombies with corn cob cannons or laser guns, I might have been fine. Unfortunately, the best that I could do was set up my husband and my little ten-year-old daughter in a defense formation -- daughter in the front, husband in the back, me in the middle-- as we made our way through Lagoon's Fun House of Fear.

Guys? In the very crowded, dark, and clown-infested labyrinth of cheap prosthetics and teenage actors? In my very first haunted house in the history of me?

I lost my shit.

Things that I screamed while making my way through the haunted house:



3. #$%! #$%! #$%$!!!! BLEEEP BLEEPITY BLEEP BLEEP!

I am not proud of myself. 

Truly, the experience has made me question who I am as a person. Why is it that people jumping out and invading my personal space sends my brain into convulsions of terror? WHY. I can promise you this, if you abandon me during the Zombie Apocalypse because I am a mewling coward who is only holding you back, I forgive you. Ego te absolvo. 

For the rest of the time at the amusement park, I had my family escort me, protecting me from the halloween actors who ramble through the park, randomly scaring people. Hovering over my forehead there must be a giant black arrow that reads EASY PREY, because these "actors" (sadistic teenagers in halloween makeup) continuously crept up behind me, yelling BOO in my ears, in my mother-effing SACRED personal space, scaring the crap out of me. If I wasn't a chronically constipated woman who never ever unclenches, I would have shat myself right then and there.

Will I ever go to a haunted house again? NO. But more importantly, will my husband ever try and convince me to go to a haunted house again? N to the O. As scared as I was during the haunted house, I think I scared my husband more, making him wonder what the hell kind of crazy he married. It might take me awhile to get the scary images of the haunted house out of my mind, but it will take my husband even longer to get the image of me, mascara-racooned, gibbering, and spastically screeching, out of his. 

Monday, October 14, 2013


When I was in high school I had a history teacher who had a few phrases that he used over and over and over again. Such as, "he didn't know his left foot from a pump handle!" and, she was "dumber than a crowbar!" Last week, I did something that made me dumber than a crowbar. Everybody makes extraordinarily stupid mistakes sometimes. In fact, this same history teacher once filmed himself for a school board review with his zipper down the entire class time. We all do stupid things. But what makes mine especially epic was that I MISSPELLED THE NAME OF MY OWN STORE.

Oh hai, my name iz the cotten floozy
I have spelled my name countless times. I type it several times a day. But somehow my brain got tripped up while I hand-chalked it on this lovely sign. Ever since I conked my head last year, I have these dementia moments that are so spaztically stupid. Once my friend mentioned in a conversation that she was going to go and visit "Melissa and John." I replied, "who are they?" She looked at me worriedly, "Your brother and his wife." DOH. Because I am used to saying "John and Melissa" instead of "Melissa and John," my brain couldn't recognize the pattern.

I am worried that I am going crazy.

I might definitely be going crazy.

So when you see the photo of me and my booth in The City Weekly, please go easy on me.

Luckily, I wasn't wearing pants so there is no chance of my zipper being down in the photo. Not that I wasn't *not* wearing pants. I was wearing a dress. Oh crikey. Speaking of zippers down, watch this little video my daughter made on her nintendo ds.


I think my daughter is straight.

Monday, September 30, 2013

A Really Bad Goat Metaphor

Tomorrow my daughter becomes a teenager, which means that tomorrow will not be that different from today. I like teenagers. They are as moody as hell, but fun and awesome. Plus, they finally start laughing at my jokes. Which is very condemning, because often my jokes are inappropriate. The other day, while driving past a hideous, blocky purple-painted building, I offhandedly told my son that it was "Tinky Winky's gay bachelor pad." He scrunch-faced and laughed and laughed. A few years ago this wisecrack would have gone over his head. See? Teenagers! They laugh at my patently groan-worthy jokes! I should rent them out to my funny friends.

Is it bad that I like my kids more when they are in school? Probably. Do I care? NO.

This summer while I was driving along a country road a few miles from my house, a fat goat that looked like a corncob with legs ran straight at my minivan. I slowed down and swerved away from the goat. Several yards behind the goat there was a man with a lasso, and several yards behind him was a woman with flushed cheeks. The goat owners. Meanwhile the goat was running as fast as he could with a gleeful expression on his face. If there had been a thought bubble above the goat's head it would have read, "I'M FREEEEEEEEE." 

Being the friendly helpful person that I am, I drove down to the out-of-breath woman, rolled down the window, and said, "hey, do you want me to drive you closer to your goat?" (Notice how I didn't stop and make this offer to the man. What. He had a lasso.) She said sure! and climbed into the passenger seat. I u-turned my minivan and headed goatward. Her husband motioned for me to stop, so as not to spook the goat, and the lady got out of the car with a polite thanks. The goat had finally slowed down, looking winded. As he watched the man and woman approach him, his thought bubble read, "You have goat to be kidding me." (<<< Punny! My son would have laughed.)

I drove away, feeling mighty good about doing a good deed. And then I thought some more and started feeling really sorry for that goat. 

The day that my kids (<<< more goat puns!) start school is the day that I feel like that goat, running happily down the road. 

The day that my kids get out of school and summer starts is the day I can feel the goat owners closing in on me.

But until that dreaded day in May, I'M FREEEEEE, BITCHEZ.

Monday, September 16, 2013

LifeTouch is EVIL

This year my three kids are attending three different schools: an elementary school, a junior high, and a high school. These schools have one horrible thing in common. They all employ LifeTouch for their school photos. And every September, I put a second mortgage on my minivan and pay LifeTouch my LifeMoney for crappy photos. 

Here are the three options for "poses." 

I may not be the squeakiest toy in the kiddie photographer's basket, but these are not poses. These are different crop sizes. 

In elementary school, it is no big deal, because I buy the minimum amount and then scan them so that they will survive in case my house burns down. We take our own nice pictures of my children. In multiple poses. Without a cheesy backdrop. But in junior high and high school, there is the issue of yearbooks. I still have all of my yearbooks. You might have a lot of yours. There is a sort of traumatic permanence to those crappy school photos. Proof: my 7th grade yearbook page.

I am the only one in the entire yearbook who was honored to have my photo taken with POSE #4. 

When I was growing up, all of the school photos were taken by LifeTouch or Olan Mills, who naturally, has been acquired by LifeTouch. Hmmmm.... there's a word I'm thinking of....hmmmm.... start's with the letter "m," rhymes with schonopoly.

Perhaps the thing that pisses me off the most about LifeTouch is that at least a few times a year they send my children home with a packet of photos that were taken without my knowledge. These photos are generally cuter than the ones taken in the fall. They look like the photographer actually paid attention before snapping the photo, correcting the child's posture or making sure that the kid's chin isn't spaghetti-sauced. What could be wrong with a packet full of nice photos of your beloved child?!  Here’s the catch. You have to pay X amount of money to keep the photos, but if you don’t want them, you have to send them back to school with your child. Basically, LifeTouch has you by the LifeBalls. If you keep the photos, you can no longer afford to pay your electricity bill, but if you send the photos back you feel like a bad mom. FUN CHOICES.

Today I called my son's high school and asked if I could submit my own photo of him to the yearbook to replace the LifeTouch one. The very nice lady was confused. I think that I am the first person in the history of the world to ask if there is an alternative. She promised to get back to me. 

We should start a revolution! First order of business: let our schools know of our dissatisfaction with LifeSuck. Second order of business: ask our schools to pretty please stop serving spaghetti for lunch on picture day. Although I give props to the evil masterminds behind this.

Down with LifeTouch! can I get an AMEN!

Wednesday, September 4, 2013

Boxelder Bugs: Nature's Hornballs

Finally, after weeks and weeks of a boxelder bug attack, my house is no longer under siege. 

I live way up in the mountains surrounded by nature. And maybe you don't know this about nature, but it is super buggy. We get the normal bug fauna of wooded areas: spiders, ants, hornets, door-to-door salesmen, but the most prolific and horny of all (besides the salesman) are the boxelder bugs. 

Here is a picture of what I see every time I look out my kitchen window.

They're up all night to get some.
They're up all night for good fun.
They're up all night to get lucky.

Except imagine that on a window. And then triple it. And then triple that. And then open a can of beer and cry.

These little bugs are annoying as hell, but completely harmless. Sometimes I swear they look at me with an almost animal intelligence -- right before I crack their carapaces open with my fingers and a paper towel. 

There are so many of them! And they mate everywhere. They have no sense of decency. Last month in my garage window there was a conga line of them, butt-to-butt, stretching from sill to sash. 

I don't mind them when they are in the garage, because I don't have to see them that much, but when they are in my house? No. Nope. N-O.

They like my kitchen the most. Not by the food and pantry area, praise Saint Tryphon of Lampsacus!* but over by my sunny picture window. And I can't reach them! I watch them and pound the window, "Hey, knock it off, you guys!" but they completely ignore me. 

I don't like to use too much insecticide, so our main line of defense has been constant vigilance and the use of my Dyson handheld vacuum cleaner (the terrifying Whirlwind of Doom, as named by the boxelder-elders).

In the past I have employed my children to be my own personal death squad. This is the assassination pay list I made for my kids a few summers ago:

Adult Bugs: $0.05
Bugs "Romancing:" $0.10
Cute Wittle Baby Bugs: $0.25

This method worked for awhile, but then my kids grew up and realized that a nickel wasn't a lot of money.

Fun Science Facts: 
  • Boxelder bugs have the magical ability to walk through walls and windows. 
  • Their lives are short but full of wild orgiastic sex. 
  • They are not afraid to crawl over the corpses of their lost comrades. 

At some point in their ancestral past, the boxelder-elder tribal chief declared my kitchen window sill to be the final resting place of his people. Compelled by a deep mystical instinct, the bugs cross through a gauntlet of furniture, vertical walls, and floorboard fissures. If they make it to their mecca, they say a few last words, piss a minuscule droplet, and flip over onto their backs and die. 

And then they dry up and their legs fall off.

But they die happy, knowing that their eggs are safely glued upside-down on my ten-foot-high ceiling, ready to hatch and drop baby bugs onto my unsuspecting arms. 

As they lay dying on my window sill, the boxelder bugs achieve nirvana as they listen to me, the giant ogre lady, screech and fall onto the floor in paroxysms of very mature and warrented hysteria.

*Patron saint against insects. Yes, I googled it. What.

Friday, August 30, 2013

Why yes, I do have an Etsy store. Thank you for asking.

I am having a Labor Day sale on my Etsy! Just put in the coupon code "LABORDAY" for 20% off. This sale will last until next Friday, September something. I don't have a calendar near me.

Here is the link -->> The Cotton Floozy's Etsy store of Fantabulousness.

Thursday, August 22, 2013

Hello, Empty House, My Old Friend

THREE WAYS I know that summer is pretty much over:


Duh, my kids are all in school. Do you hear that? That sound? That is the sound of a very gentle folk song by Simon and Garfunkel playing through my mind.


I turned on the television. I have a complete aversion to watching TV during the summer. I don't know why. It drives me bonkers. I don't even watch Netflix. But my summer blues must be dwindling since I sat down and turned on the morning news yesterday. Okay, that was a bad decision. But a good decision was to watch the entire season of Orange is The New Black in two sittings. 

Instead of reading, I hooked up my iPad to Audible. I spent the summer stitching while listening to the audiobooks of the Dresden Files. I have read all of the books, but it was fun 're-reading' them. The books are read by James Marsters. As in JAMES MARSTERS THE ACTOR THAT PLAYED SPIKE IN BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER EXCLAMATION POINT. Marsters did a decent job narrating the first three books, but by book four, he was amazing. I am now on book ten, and holy Gachnar, he is terrific. His voice is Harry Dresden's voice. And when he acts out Bob the Skull with his snarky British accent, he sounds exactly like Spike!

Even though I haven't been watching TV, my kids have. Or rather, just Netflix, since we canceled cable. My youngest daughter loves Buffy the Vampire Slayer and I'll poke my head into the room whenever I hear Spike's voice. 

I witnessed this classic scene.

Buffy: What are you doing here? Five words or less.

Spike: Out. For. A. Walk. ... Bitch.

Spike! James Marsters! Harry Dresden! I need a life!


I am starting to cook food again, or at least, consider cooking food again. In the summer, I hate cooking. Or more like, I am physically unable to cook because every time my arm lifts up a spatula, my left eyelid droops and I have to take a nap. 

I am really good at assembling food. Utah finally has a Trader Joe's and it's only an hour away! I take my freezer bags and stock up. Falafel and fettuccine and gyoza. Delicious.

When I don't have any frozen food to assemble for my sad and hungry family, I make grilled cheese sandwiches, cheese quesadillas, or cheese nachos. You get the idea.

My husband is an excellent cook (when he has time or isn't traveling), but he mostly makes breakfast foods that we eat at dinner time. From-scratch waffles and pannekoeken and crepes. I think that maybe twice in our lives we have fed our children breakfast before 11:00 am. A few weeks ago, I asked my daughter if she wanted me to make her pancakes for lunch. She looked at me, puzzled, "Isn't that more of a dinner food?"

Right now I am looking at recipes and getting excited to cook. I do this every year. It lasts until mid-October. 

But indulge me. Let's pretend that I really will start cooking in earnest for my family. What are some good ideas? Here's the thing: I don't like touching meat. I'm not a vegetarian, but if a recipe calls for drenching chicken breasts in buttermilk and then rolling them in bread crumbs, I won't make it. Because it involves touching something icky. I think that this year I will be more successful if I stick to vegetarian recipes. Or mostly vegetarian.  I don't mind adding chicken stock to soups or bacon to potatoes. 

Do any of you have recipe sites you love? Or recipes. Preferably recipes that don't involve me touching anything icky? I need help. Or maybe gloves.

But oh well, if I fail, I always have Trader Joe's. Only an hour away.  

Thursday, August 15, 2013

Being apart is stupid.

Hello, new people! If you are new to this site because you picked up my card at my Craft Lake City booth, message me* if you would like a custom order or if you just want to talk about life or waffles or body lint. 

And to the trio of cool kids who are giving the Create Education Better sampler to their friend, Miss Utah: let me know how that goes. Tell her I want to take her out to lunch and get her fat.

Hello, old people. (You know who you are.) Hi. I like you.

It's that time of year again! It smells like magic and sharpened pencils and 3-feet long Target receipts. Back to schooooool! 

This morning I dropped my son off at his special nerd school. It was his first day of high school. Even typing that sentence chokes me up. Man, I need to get a grip. Such a great kid. He has mummy-wrapped himself in the cliche that kids grow up too fast.

My girls start next week. I have given up any pretense of making their summer meaningful. Right now my youngest has a glazed-over expression on her face while she is playing Skrim. The other is in her room watching Adventure Time on Netflix. If you clap your hands two inches from their faces, you might get the trace of a flinch.

One of my daughters is starting 5th grade and the other is starting junior high. Junior high is unequivocally awful and I would body-swap her in a second if it meant that she didn't have to go through that. Hopefully, I can help her deal with the daily pain of being mindfooked by little 7th grade bitches. 

Meanwhile, my husband is in Brazil. Which sucks. Not that Brazil necessarily sucks, but that not having him home for this intense week of emotional cheerleading, sucks. That last sentence sucked. But I am simply too unmotivated to rewrite clunky sentences.

My first custom order from a Craft Lake City attendee** sums up my feelings nicely.

Being apart is stupid.

** Natalie Anonymous Last Name

Friday, August 9, 2013

Today's forecast: hot and crafty!

The magazine did come out and I like it! No space sluggish resemblance. 

Click here for my face in your face.

Besides the online version, 30,000 physically-occupying-space magazines are printed and distributed throughout Utah. And check out the cover. Is awesomest cover ever known to man and space slug.

Visit me today from 5-10 or tomorrow from noon - 10 at Craft Lake City. I will be the lady behind all of the weird embroideries sweating like a glazed ham.

Monday, August 5, 2013


My high school reunion is coming up. The Twenty Freaking Years one. I haven't gone to any of my other high school reunions. Reunions scare me. And I hate being asked the question, "What do you do?" Is there an actual answer for that? What do I do? I cut my toenails when they get too long. I watch this thing called television. I dress up my dogs in adorable outfits. I shoot babies out of my vagina. That's what I do. Do you want to see the pictures?

And women get weird about the "what do you do?" question. Are you a stay-at-home-mom? do you work? WHAT DO YOU DO WITH YOUR KIDS IF YOU WORK? 


Why do people ask that? Like, the mother hasn't already thought through this problem? Huh. I am going to work and my kid can't be left alone in the house with a sleeve of crackers and a hamster cage water bottle. Huh. I should probably figure something out before I go to the office tomorrow.

And heaven forbid! if you don't have kids or aren't married, or if you are married but in the gay way. 

I feel bad for the men, too. Kind of. Okay, only the gay men who aren't out of the closet.  

Maybe before the Interwebs, high school reunions were really fun and satisfying, but I am still friends with the people I liked in high school. Even some of my favorite teachers. Thank you, Facebook! 

Soooo, I probably am not going to the high school reunion even though I belong to the Facebook group. My friend Stephanie posted this on their wall: 

"Hmmmm, I'm going to have to think about coming to this and get back to you..........

Okay, I thought about it and yeah ........ No." 

Reunions! Such a minefield of awkwardness and emotional trauma! Yespleasenothankyou!

One of the coolest people I know, Ashley McStinkerson, posted this photo on Facebook the other day with the caption, "Headed to Jordan's 10 year reunion as his Ukrainian mail order bride."

I am still laughing.

still laughing


realizing that the word "laugh" is really weird and that phonics does not make sense.

Is this not the funniest picture/story ever?!? The whole night Ashley went around saying, "He givva me smart phone and car and two babies." The McStinkersons should win the Noble Prize for Best High School Reunion Oneupmanship. 

Another example of their brilliance -- a few Halloweens ago -- they dressed up as the McPoyles for a costume party. 

Read their blog post about it. The funny.

Ashley and Jordan? I got arrested while trying to steal a nobel prize medal, so I made this for you instead.


Friday, August 2, 2013

Kitchen tables are for crafting, not eating. Not that you would *eat* a kitchen table. But still. You get my point.

My kitchen table is buried under all of my crafting supplies. For the next week I am stitching my little fingers off in preparation for CRAFT LAKE CITY!

If you live in a Utah or one state away from Utah, you should go to this! Seriously. It is the coolest craft festival ever. Craft Lake City features a great selection of artists and alternative crafters. And I will be there and you should say hi to me and offer me a spoonful of your snow cone. 


My kitchen table is crowded with embroidery hoops and lace and picture frames and twenty million of those glue gun strings. From here on out my kids will be forced to eat standing up to the countertop. Who needs a kitchen table when you can stand next to the stovetop while eating a burger king burger?!?

Here are some pics of my table:

I hope to see you at CRAFT LAKE CITY! If you have any questions about it, don't hesitate to email me at thecottonfloozy[at]gmail[dot]com!

Wednesday, July 31, 2013

Embracing the Ugly

In a few days, I will be in a local magazine called Slug. I am excited, but I am setting my expectations low.  I fully expect that I will look like a super fat ugly dork. Because, hell. That has happened in all of my photos since I passed the 35 year-old mark. Unless I angle myself in exactly the right way, I end up looking like this:


A few weeks ago at the coffee shack, I posed for the slugmag photographer. A kazillion times. Sometimes holding my embroideries. Sometimes holding a flash so that I could get that cool camping-flashlight-under-the-chin look. I am sure that the magazine photographer was awesome and talented, but I doubt that he was worried about how I looked. He wanted a cool shot. I hope he got one. 

I was talking to my friend the other day about my fears and she wisely advised me to "Embrace the Ugly." So, that is what I will do. I WILL EMBRACE THE UGLY.

Before the photographer showed up, I took some selfies with my phone as evidence that I looked okay, in case the photo shoot resulted in me looking like a space slug.

See? Not too bad, right?

And do you like my hair?

Those are silver streaks.

I gave my hairstylist this photo and said, make it happen.

Who you gonna call? CAITLIN MORAN.

Everybody stay tuned! I will post the photos and links to the Slug Magazine article. Maybe only my embroideries will be in the issue without my body or face messing up the shot. Who knows! Or maybe I will look like Caitlin Moran! Or maybe I will look like a space slug. The magazine is appropriately named, "Slug," after all.