The Donut Princess

There's a little girl at church
whose frame is not nearly as round as her face
and whose face is not normally as round as that of a walrus.
only on Sundays.
when she drowns in frilly lace dresses,
her face under the powder of bavarian creme donuts.
Back and forth she goes, between her seat and her treasure box,
with no regard for the populace around her.

It's by her influence alone, I'm sure of it, that her family comes back again and again.

The Barber Shop.

 Welcome to the Bilskiy Barber Shop: home of where my husband gets a haircut.

Today has been a photo documented experience: due to our lack of spare mirror situation. 

Were nervous.

"Sweety, please, this is a face you can trust."

So here we begin.

It goes on and on.

And on.

Consultation.

Missed a spot!

We think we like it.

My husband is so handsome.

The Mohican Forest

We hid far away from the world
Built a polyester home in the trees
Fell asleep to the flow of the river
And awoke to french press on the fire.

Morning Rituals

My husband wakes up long before the sun to tend to his Greek lexical studies, his exegetical Scripture meditations, and his discection of the care of souls. Once I eventually wake up, I do as I please, and the following is a typical early morning dialogue.
"Sweetie, really quick, did I tell you I got a great deal on milk at the store?" yes my love
"Sweetie, want to hear something funny I thought of? Little Tima from church calls me 'Meowmeowm'." That's funny my love
"Sweetie, do you think if I wear my pink dress today it will go with the new sandals you got me?" yes my love
"Sweetie do you think I'll look pretty?" Of course my dear
And so it goes on, and on and on, until eventually he leaves for work. And then I wait, and wait and wait, for his return, so I can tell him even more wonderful and interesting things.

A Synopsis on Marriage

I dont think I have any words in which to tell of the life of man and wife: such hours are beautiful to live, yet complicated to describe, so I will leave most to the imagination of my readers, merely saying that my husband is as kind as he is wise, and our home is filled with genuine strife and happiness, for my tender hope has been realized. For once he was just the man at school with the purple pants, who stole my heart with a wink. And now we are one.

Marriage is a walk in the park. Most of the time figuratively, sometimes only literally.

The nearby park is where we go to have some very serious conversations. The other night there was taut discourse.  We sat on a bench and I cried. He eventually wiped my tears. We kept walking.

The Vintage Bridal Shop

This happens here.

There is a vintage bridal shop located a little ways down from our place. Its a little store front filled with many beautiful and elegant vintage bridal gowns. This boutique is every girls' dream. These dresses are transformed by a seamstress named Miranda, who owns the shop, and turns out to be one of the sweetest and most darling friends I have made in this new place.

That being said, I think someone is out to get her.

Just the other night, already past dark, she closed up shop and went to her car. A brief moment before she turned the door key, she saw a bright light getting closer. Some could say she was saved by a thread. It collided head-on into her car, and then drove off.

It was a fancy new car, driven by a fancy young woman. Upon deliberation, I have concluded that this is no accident. Someone is out to get Miranda.

A bridezilla.
A maid-of-honor from hell.
A threatened competitor.
A psychotic maniac.

Regardless, it has now become a dangerous world for this sweet sweet shopkeeper. In due time, justice will be served, and the perp wont look so good in lace satin doilies.

On the Loose Again

You already know little Johnny. He is a "redheaded boy of 4, shirtless, too skinny to keep his pants up." A broken chain with each new day, and incredibly unsupervised. I saw him again just the other day, on a walk with my husband; he was on the loose. This time he was free riding on a scooter.

Goodbye freckle-faced smile. Hello angry mother who is stuck at the other side of the red light, screaming from the passenger's seat.

When she realized a crowd had gathered, her demeanor changed. "Hi little Johnny, where have you been?" she comes near and crouches at eye level.

"I-I-I-" Little Johnny has a stutter.

The story comes out. He has escaped from day camp, all are looking for him. How can you blame him?

Schwinn/ Lose Situation

Last weekend I joined a bicycle gang. I rolled with the toughest thugs around: my husband, my sister, and her husband. On our old school schwinns.... we ran this town.

Hassling those who owe us money and have done us wrong [namely Mitch]

Stealing from innocent shopkeepers [a local shop was giving away free ice cream]

Buying gangster attire [went vintage thrift shopping]

Sharing strategy on thug-like behavior [stayed up late talking, laughing, looking at wedding pictures].

Then fate caused us to disperse. Half of us are here all alone. The other half of our gang is currently driving to the other end of the country, ready to tear apart bears with their own hands, ready to find a new town to run. I cant say I'm pleased, but there are two schwinns here eagerly awaiting another visit.

These Are the Trials of a Housewife.

I am currently confined indoors. I had to close my windows, and I think there is a tornado going by. So for now I will blog about being a housewife, in hopes that it will soon clear; I want to go to the farmers market.

While adjusting the ice in a peach smoothie, my spatula shattered. Plastic peppered the fruity goodness, and we had to spit out the bigger chunks. There was spatula delight in every sip. This adventure ended with my husband attempting to glue the pieces back together.

While lighting a candle to burn the onion fumes, I set it on our coffee pot and walk away. A while later wax had melted down and into every crevice of this coffee maker. It was temporarily unfunctional, until this morning, when I decided to bake it in the oven. This fresh baked coffee maker now makes coffee again, but the joe tastes like parafin.

In a head to head encounter with homemade pastry dough, I lost a battle. I was having friends for breakfast at 10 am sharp. When they got to the door, my hair nor my clothes were ready to be seen by the public, not even dear friends. Flour covered every inch of counter space, and the floor as well. That was a mess.

In a recent attempt to surprise my husband, I painted the bathroom a beautiful shade of charcoal. Our ceilings are an upwards of 14 feet high; they are unreachable. So I planted the ladder in the shower and held onto the curtain rod to keep my balance. Well, the rod is not as strong as I first thought, and let me just say that it is only by the grace of God that I am still alive to tell this story.

This tornado may have just turned into a hurricane. It looks like its going to be a long morning. Its time to pull out the french press, hem trousers, and read Little Women. Although childish in nature, this sweet novel teaches about the joys of mundane tasks.

A Little Diddy on Babushkas

O sweet little Babushkas
your head scarfs are cute
but your hands are much too quick for my liking.
Exploring and sizing every angle.
If I could pronounce "you can look but don't touch" in your slovic tongue,
my life would be more blissful.

Bird Friends

They lived in the vent in our bathroom. Chirped the moment the sun came up, reminding us it was morning. Sang to me all day, a happy working song. These were my bird friends.

Today I woke up and they were gone. Needless to say, this hasn't been my favorite day I've lived.

Maybe my husbands empty threats to drive them away weren't pacifist enough for them. Or because the bread crumbs I poked into their home were not organic. Or maybe the songs I was singing them were too pop, not enough folk.

Hipster birds. sheesh. I dont understand them.

Biketown USA

Our neighborhood is filled to the brim with bikers, all of whom are serviced by a man named Mitch.

Mitch is the owner of the local bikeshop. I dont know how to otherwise describe our experience of him and his shop, therefore I will proceed to give you tidibits of facts, in no particular order.

Mitch is a self proclaimed Acidic Jew: a Jew who has done too much acid.
He is a genius, and knows everything interesting on every topic under the sun. Literally.
He is about 5' 7", his balding hair flies everywhere, and wears his glasses on his forehead. This is, until its time for in inspection. The glasses comes down, he gets really close and says "I don't trust these petals", and continues to complain if the bike was made anywhere but Japan.
This is Mitch.

He once ran for mayor of a nearby town, due to the fact that he investigated on his own a government scandal and reported it. When asked how many votes he received in the election he answered "I dont know, I was at a bike factory in Japan".

He owns a shop that is the neighborhood sensation. Its too filled with bikes, and so he uses the front yard as his workspace. Sometimes he is fixing up to 8 or 10 bikes at a time, running to and fro, requesting help from innocent passerbys.

My husband and I were tickled when we went to get our bikes repaired. After we did business with Mitch, we then sat on his step and observed the bikeshop happenings for an hour and a half. We werent the only ones who came to see Mitch.

"Mitch fix my chain"
"Mitch pump my ball"
"Mitch pump my prosthetic leg"

The following are his responses "how many times do i have to tell you I'm not fixing your chain everyday kid? Only once a week!" he says to this redheaded boy of 4, shirtless, too skinny to keep his pants up. "tell you mama she needs to start keeping an eye on you! Hey watch for cars" he hollars to little Johnny, already halfway down the street with his working chain.

"Why would I stop what I'm doing to pump your ball" he growls at some punk kids. "dont i look busy to you". By then they're gone, with a ball as good as new.

Mitch is a grouch. But they love him, us included. We secretly hope he likes us, and that someday soon we'll be friends.