Image clipped from Pinterest. Originally from a creative genius who probably owns a glue gun and blogs at tatertotsandjello.blogspot.com

Neither did I. Until Pinterest told me.

If you are unfamiliar with Pinterest, let me quickly bring you up to speed. It’s an online world of people’s virtual bulletin boards. Find an image online? You can pin it on one of your many themed boards for all the world to see. Or, for Queen of Quirky to see and know just how hard she fails at life.

Want to know where MY stash of Target bags and the like are? Squished up under my kitchen sink, so anytime you go to get anything else out, all the bags fall on the floor and you have to pick them up and shove them back in. Be sure to close the door fast before they fall out again.

Want to know where they are going to stay? That way.

Other things Pinterest has taught me that I’m failing at:

Photo from Pinterest but originally from unplggd.com, where someone apparently has more ingenuity than I will ever hope to have.

The cords under my computer are not labeled using the plastic tags that hold the Wonder Bread closed. Nope, they are a tangled mess. You know how I can tell which cord goes to each device? Pull on the cord and see if my monitor doesn’t come crashing to the ground. It didn’t? Then it’s probably the printer.

Clipped from Pinterest but originally from martinfamilyliving.blogspot.com, where all the family boots are in pristine condition and well-organized!

And the three pairs of brown boots I own are slouched over in my closet, somewhere on top of the 18 pairs of flats and certainly on top of the 21 pairs of heels I can no longer wear because I’m old and they hurt. They are not hanging adorably from a skirt hanger. (Do I even own a skirt hanger?)

Pinterest also likes to tell me that I fail at fashion, crafts, decorating and cooking. (Ok, cooking not so much. If I were to ever blog food again, I could totally get “repinned.” Hint: being repinned is the ultimate Pinterest compliment.)

However, I have found a few things here and there that don’t make me feel like a failure. Most of them fueled by my addiction to shopping, and because my Amazon Wish List was getting too long, and I had to have a place to document all my materialism.

Also, I really like elephants. I think they are the new “put a bird on it.“. I have an entire theory on how owls were trying to be the new birds, and then cranes stepped in while the octopus tried for a brief moment of fame, but elephants are where it’s at. You’ll get it when you see my boards.

This gets me to my point. I’ve given up on hating on Pinterest. It’s kind of like hating Giada for being so skinny and still being able to eat all that pasta. At some point, you just give up the hating and start making her food because it just tastes good.

So while you won’t find clever tips for organizing your Q-tips, or how to make a wreath out of your old underwear (I swear someone is going to post that someday and I’m going to be all, that was MY idea!) you will find a variety of quirky clips — recipes, fashion inspirations, elephants or whatever I decide the new bird of the moment is, on my boards. So, if you are so inclined to click the little Follow Me on Pinterest button that my Fairy BlogMother added for me this morning, I’d love to show you my stuff. And you can show me yours, but I’m not repinning that clever idea for storing your towels in hanging wine racks over your toilet. Because wine racks are for wine. Not towels. End of story.

Clipped from Pinterest, but originally from itsrusticliving.blogspot.com where they apparently do not drink enough wine, but they take a lot of baths.

*Lysol did not have anything to do with this post.
*Target only knows me by my Visa card.
*The images taken from pinterest were repinned by many friends and did not come from anyone in particular
*The bloggers/websites represented in the images are amazingly crafty, creative, innovative people and I’m just jealous.

No, not the fish.

BASS- where your ass meets your back and you can’t tell the difference.

Ew. Why are you sharing this, Queen of Quirky?

Because words such as bass, butterflies, fire hydrants, bridges  and planks that used to conjure up neutral, if not pleasant feelings (who doesn’t like butterflies?) now conjure up images of pain and fear.

Fear that I might get a bass.

Pain so that I might not.

Rinse and repeat.

These things happen at noon. And I hate them. But I love them.

Readers, meet my latest work-out obsession: Poolside Fitness Class. Otherwise known as the nooner.

This whole mess was started when I decided to train for another marathon. Holy geebers, remember that disaster? Why would I want to do that again?!

I don’t know. I clearly have a problem.

Luckily this time, my marathon was put on hold due to a stupid injury to my hip. An injury that involved hours of physical therapy in which a good looking dude, close to my age, spent 10 minutes a session waving an ultrasound wand on my lower right hip bone. This was very awkward.

I mean he is a nice dude, but usually when I meet nice dudes my age, I keep my pants above my hips.

It also meant I couldn’t run for a few months.

First I cried. Then I drank some vodka. Then I cried some more. I decided vodka wasn’t going to make anything better, so I decided to enlist in spin class.

Have you ever taken a spin class?

They are awful. And wonderful.

During the first class, I learned that even though I do have ample padding on my rear, in order to continue taking said class, I would need to add more padding. True story.

I also tried not to pass out on the bike. That was my main goal: keep moving without passing out.

During the second class (gel bike seat now in possession), I learned that there was a monitor in front of us playing video of what I could only imagine was supposed to be images of Mexico. I think we were supposed to be looking at it and imagining we were riding through Mexico. Or maybe Africa. (Clearly I have some geographical challenges going on.) I don’t know, there were elephants at one point.

I think.

Anyhow, the video was supposed to be inspiring.

So why did I want to throw a rock through it?

(Note: I don’t bring rocks to spin class, just so you know.)

During the third class I realized there were other people in the class who were really good at keeping up and following directions. They would probably look good riding a bike through Mexico with elephants cheering them on.

During the fourth class I realized I was never going to be good at the thing, but I had purchased the gel seat, and so as far as Amazon.com  was concerned, I was committed.

Also, the spin teacher knew my name.

It’s always bad when the director of pain knows your name. It’s kind of like when you go to a small Christian college where you can’t skip class because the teacher will run into you in the salad  bar line at lunch and ask you why you weren’t in class. Accountability. It sucks.

So there I was, going to spin class threeish times a week.

But that wasn’t enough.

I don’t know why, but it wasn’t.

Bring in the nooner.

And her.

Image courtesy of Scott Fitness

Yup. That’s my teacher.

You too can have a nooner with her.

But I would advise caution.

Unless you want pain.

Lots and lots of pain.

Also, she’s not going to go easy on you just because it’s your first time.

Let me paint an image of my first nooner (Please stop giggling at this. Let’s be grownups about this word.):

Enter QoQ.

Observes class. Everyone is on a big open floor area and has a set of hand-weights.

Not wanting to be overly ambitious, I grabbed the 3 lb weights. (You should know I have graduated to the 5lb. weights.)

And suddenly class was ON. And there was no stopping it.

I couldn’t press pause and go get a piece of cheese from the fridge. I had to do this thing. Crap.

The class starts with a bunch of jumping jacks.

After the 10th one, I felt pretty good. Ready to go home.

Oh noooooooo.

That was only the beginning. The beginning in which QoQ spent the next 50 minutes remembering basics such as you can tell your left side by making an L with your hand.

And how to count.

They aren’t kidding about that Kindergarten stuff.

Also, I fell over a lot. Specifically when doing a thing called a side plank. (Note, not sure why this image has two girls doing a side plank. Maybe it’s one of those things better done with a friend.)

I was pretty sure I was missing some ingredients necessary to hold myself up that way. I almost went to my doctor for an ultrasound.

But lo and behold, a few classes later, by accident, I’m pretty sure, I made it up for all of 20 seconds!

And then I was hooked.

Marathon? What marathon? Screw you 26.2 miles. I can do a side plank! (Note: I’m still trying for the half marathon, hip be damned!)

And so, dear readers, I’m pretty sure I may be one less side-plank away from having bass, but you can rest assure that I am putting myself through enough pain to enjoy my cheese and my whine too. I mean wine.

It ended overnight, to be specific.

In an act of grave violence, I allegedly slugged Mr. Quirky in my sleep.

So one of two things could be true:

A. I am a violent wife.

B. Mr Quirky is making this up to hold it over my head.

Let’s examine both options, shall we?

Option A: It is true that I have strange dreams. And it is true that I have been known to sleep walk, sleep laugh and now, apparently sleep slug.

If this is true then Mr. Q is justified in taking some precautionary measures for his own safe sleeping rights.

And since I am clearly at fault under this theory, I am more than willing to supply any necessary protective wardrobe upgrades.

Being the avid shopper that I am, I have even found the perfect pajamas for my husband.

Advanced Upper Body Suit From Galls.com

Since the punch was allegedly directed at his upper body, I feel that this outfit should more than protect him from any future acts of slumber violence.

But perhaps he would rather take this in a different direction. I am open to the possibility that rather than protect himself, he might opt to restrain me.

And the obvious outfit for restraining your Quirky wife could only be a straight jacket.

Did you know you could get a straight jacket (costume) at Target? Mr. Q loves to shop at Target, so this is probably perfect.

BUT before we make any rash purchases, let’s examine option B.

Perhaps this is all part of Mr. Quirky’s grand plan to guilt me into doing laundry more often.

Obviously, setting me up to wash his i-phone was not an affective ploy. (Well for about a week it worked. I totally did laundry for a week. But after the guilt wore off, my old laundry avoiding habits returned.)

Notice: his ploy was well-timed in that he could feign suffering for two weeks and then it just so happened that the new i-phone was released, allowing him to be the first in the Quirky household with said new mobile device.

So now he has resorted to a new form of guilting his wife. Telling her she acted violently toward him in her most vulnerable state.

And guess who sorted laundry after her morning shower?

Hmph. This situation is looking more and more fishy.  I think I’m going to need a second source before I believe Mr. Quirky’s story.

I’ll consult with Gertie and get back to you…

And I’m ok with that.

Because had she been reading, I’m also pretty sure that the queen of all things put together, poised and polished would not have included the Queen of Quirky on her guestlist.

Let’s face it. I am most certainly not Martha Stewart material. That’s not to say that I can’t attempt to learn from her style and grace. But at the end of the day, I’m still going to find a way to be my own quirky little self, who might not be as put together…

Again, ok with that.

If you were invited to a Martha Stewart gathering, what mode of transportation would you imagine most suitable for your arrival?

Limo? Absolutely.

Taxi? Probably.

Subway? Maybe.

Rickshaw? (aka “Pedicab”) um…

This is the face of terror as I, along with my new friend (of about 20 minutes because that’s how we roll at Blogher. Hi, nice to meet you. Let’s get in this bicycle cab together and get to know one another a little better, shall we?) was careening through the streets of New York.

A few comments about this ride:

It was hot.

I was sweating.

I may have left sweat on the vinal seat.

It was terrifying.

Our driver was wearing flip flops.

He couldn’t have weighed more than a buck ten.

I seriously regretted not reaching my Weight Watchers goals.

I’m sure he also seriously regretted my Weight Watchers failure.

At times, he had to roll back and get a moving start to get us going again.

By the time we arrived, I vowed to never eat again. Which lasted all of 10 minutes because I was going to Martha Stewart’s party.

Duh.

That said, once I arrived, the party was nothing short of lovely (would you expect less?) and I was most certainly thankful for the invite.

So far, my recaps of Blogher have included making a fool of myself in front of a celebrity and showing up at Martha’s party sweaty, disheveled and in quirky form.

I promise there was more substance to my trip. (and I’m not just talking good food.)

Warning: this is where Queen of Quirky gets a little sappy.

I could talk about the fabulous panels, but that’s been done (well) by someone else.

I could talk about the swag. But I don’t really have much of an opinion on the swag. I got some. It was nice. I shipped it home. I don’t know how much it cost. (Thank you to all the gracious sponsors who once again made this conference possible. If any of you have any reason to talk to a quirky blogger such as myself, I’d love to chat. But I’m not a product review blog or a mommy blog.  As long as you know that, we’re all good.)

But what I want to talk about is the people.

I love them all.

The wonderful other bloggers who get me. And for whom I don’t have to apologize for being this weird quirky girl who loves to blog and talk about it.

The fantastic roommates who had me in stitches.

Amethyst of  Wicked Lovely Things

Rosemary of Sexy Geek Files

And one in particular who let me spoon her and snore in her ear.

To me, this conference is about friendships, camaraderie and good times.

It is the one time a year, I am empowered by thousands of other writers from around the country all doing this little thing called blogging.

 If only I could have met you all.

 And now that I’ve been rather cheesey.

I’ll leave you with my cheese from the photobooth at Cheeseburgher.

With my dear friend, Melissa.

In a little booth where we had no idea what was going on. (Do we push a button? Where do we look? When does it take the picture? Did it just take a picture? uh….)

But we had a good time doing it.

Until next year, Blogher. You stay quirky!

Or, was that because I couldn’t stop staring at her in general when I met her at Blogher this weekend?

In a major, major, major  fail, I managed to fan girl so badly, that even the hardest core 12 year-old Justin Bieber fan would be ashamed of my behavior.

The nonsense began when I accidentally stumbled upon Padma in between judging a Hillshire Farm sandwich contest. She was actually signing a few autographs for the children who were judging the contest.

Notice: she was not officially scheduled at this time to meet Queen of Quirkybloggers. It was a time for the children.

But look, just look how close I was. I think she could feel my hot breath on her lovely, lovely shoulders.

When she was done signing autographs while she was still signing an autograph, I spoke up.

Um, Padma, could I please take a picture with you?

Graciously, she obliged but nodded back toward the autograph she was still signing as if to say,  really lady? I’m kind of in the middle of something.

But I waited.

With more heavy breathing over her shoulder.

(And I may have snapped a few hundred more pictures while I waited.)

Finally, it was my big moment.

OhmygodI’mtouchingPadmaLakshmi’sback. (Her skin was so soft.)

The photo was done. It was the time when normal people would say  “thank you” and walk away.

Continuing to put the “freak show” in quirky, I did not leave.

I stayed.

And stayed.

A few other people came up to Padma for photos.

Then I started talking.

Oh, the endless babble that came streaming out of my mouth.

Some of the gems that emerged include, but are not limited to:

“Thank you for featuring Ethiopian food on your show last week.”

“My sister is adopted from Ethiopia” (stopped short of the “my grandparents were missionaries in Ethiopia” part. Thank God!)

“I love Marcus. I hope to eat at his restaurant some day. I’m so glad he won Top Chef Masters. I mean, I really love Rick and all, but Marcus totally deserved it.”

And then my favorite line.

“Padma, thank you for coming for the bloggers.”

As if I am some sort of very important ambassador for bloggers extending my thanks on behalf of all. (And as if she would have ever come had she not been working for Hillshire Farms.)

It kind of makes me want to vomit now.

But still I didn’t leave.

I stayed. And gawked some more.

Then someone came up and started talking about the frog legs. And I nodded vigorously as Padma described food. Because, of course, I was right there with her when she tried these amazing frog legs.

I continued nodding when she said she had heard that ants taste like citrus.

It was time to go, and I had absolutly no will to move my feet (oh my gosh, I forgot to tell you that in the name of all things comfy and certainly not in the name of fashion, I was wearing these ratty old Birkenstocks with my jean skirt and top. So not only was I this weird googly eyed blogger with red hair and a bright red top who could not stop staring at Padma, I also had on the ugliest shoes ever.)

When I finally peeled myself away, still grinning like a goober, it hit me.

I am such an idiot.

And should anyone find my phone unattended, they would probably imediately call the tabloids and report me as Padma’s new stalker for the sheer fact that I am holding onto this for a while….

It’s worked pretty well for me, forcing me into workouts when unmotivated, or perhaps I would have otherwise “opted out.”

Tuesday, I found myself climbing back on the running wagon after recently falling off. (I fall off that doggone wagon so often, you’d think they’d put a recall out for it.) Apparently it had been so long since I’d even put on a sports bra that I had forgotten how to get into it.

I found myself flaying about my room like a drunk octopus, sticking my head into holes that didn’t fit it, trying to find my arms and in general very confused about where everything was going to fit once the arms/head were free. It turns out, it was on backwards.

FYI, the back side of the sports bra does not cover much.

Lest this blog turn into the bra blog, I digress on this matter. But not the run I was suiting up for.

I have another pre-running ritual.

Gertie, my running partner, must do ALL her business prior to departing.

Because nothing will ruin a run faster than having to carry with you a swinging  bag of your dog’s poo.

That’s what home is for.

But this day, I didn’t monitor her goings outside, so I found myself having one of those really awkward moments.

My dog was doing her #2 and I didn’t have a bag.

I HATE that.

Gertie, no! Fumble. Party Foul. Running Fail.

So we did the only thing I could do in that moment.

Ran away. Faster.

And now I have blogged about bras and dog poo today. Do not fear. This blog is not going to turn into Dooce. (I mean, the book deal and popularity would be nice, but it’s not really my shtick.)

What I really wanted to share was, I ran. Despite a few fumbles. No more excuses for not running. At least not this week…. I’m hanging onto that stupid wagon for dear life.

But while you are waiting, I wanted to share a few highlights from the quirky weekend.

I really needed a weekend after the Vegas trip, a full week, including planning and hosting a party on Thursday night on top of a catch-up week at work.

Luckily it was Roomie’s birthday and celebrations were held at at our old (er, my old) pool Friday night.

There was grilling, drinking, swimming, cannon balling and pants in the pool.

That’s right. I said pants in the pool. You must say this to the tune of “Pants on the Ground.” (Warning: excessive repeating of this at a pool party could result in severe agitation of fellow attendees.)

Anypants, Roomie’s boyfriend came to a pool party in 90 degree weather wearing pants. (He claims  they were appropriate because they were cool pants, but the grief must still be given.)  After dinner, a few beers and a mandatory 20 minute waiting period (safety first) we all got in the pool.

Ok, so we didn’t wait 20 minutes after we ate. Sorry moms. We still wear our seatbelts though.

But not Mr. Pants. He stood on the sidelines like it was the adult swim.

Finally, we egged him on to get in, pants and all. (Insisting that the pants stayed on.)

Then I entertained annoyed everyone with my “Pants in the Pool” rendition. It was maybe funny the first three times.

The next day, Roomie and I decided to spend more time at the pool still in proper swimming attire, of course. This time the sun was still shining, and per my usual, I was armed with my bag o’ sunscreen and floppy hat.

Now, I’m not sure how this happened, but I still managed to get some burnage. Mr. Quirky was very confused about this because I didn’t get even the tiniest burn in Vegas. And isn’t the sun more powerful the farther south you go?

I am chalking it up to the fact that I did not have a big fruity drink in hand to protect me from the evil sun.

Drinking+ bag o’ sunscreen= no sunburn. Not drinking + bag o’ sunscreen = sunburn. Like that math? (Warning: I did very poorly in math as a student, so I probably wouldn’t rely on this formula.)

While I was soaking up sun, Mr. Quirky was soaking up barbecue sauce.

He judged one of Kansas City’s big barbecue contests this weekend.

That meant he got to eat meat for about four hours.

When he got home, he said he had lots of  little piggy’s, chickens and moo cows in his belly. And his belly was done for.

So what did I do? I whisked him off to dinner with my family.

Because that’s what sensitive wives  do after their husbands have just spent the past afternoon stuffing their faces with lots o’ meat. “Let’s go to dinner, honey! ” (This is typically the kind of wife who who washes her husband’s  i-phone.)

And no, poor Mr. Quirky did not get his new i-phone yet. He is hoping they get more this week. And if they don’t, I may have to build one for him.

Luckily, he has a phone for work that can be used in an emergency.

And by emergency, I mean the cutest nephew in the world is on your lap.

After dinner, Mr. Quirky and I went to see Toy Story III. It was adorable.

And sentimental.

And it made me miss my childhood toys.

How could I ever have been so cruel as to grow too old to play with them?

Good thing I had Sunday to lie around doing nothing, so there was plenty of time to get over my toy abuse guilt.

A play land for adults.

And these two like to have a lot of fun.

Let’s rehash, shall we?

Note: some things do/should stay in Vegas and will not be shared.

There was a lot of dining going on. Because we like to dine. And Vegas has restaurants.

And we like Vegas for that reason. But even Vegas needs to learn its limits….

These nachos were out of control.

I wanted to hug them, inhale them, get them out of my face and never see them again. In that order.

(Source of obnoxious yet delicious nachos: Blondies Sports Bar, the Mile High Shops.)

Also, I have to call Mr. Quirky out for wincing at the spicy level of his bloody mary.

Silly boy.

Anywho, when we weren’t eating, we were gambling.

Not anything too obnoxious, just a little fun.

Or a BIG little fun.

For the entire series of the giant lever pull, check out this slide show.

And when we weren’t gambling, we were cocktailing.

Ok, so maybe we did some of that while gambling.

We found this ice bar in Mandalay Bay. Instead of paying to freeze, we paid for a vodka shot in a frozen shot glass.

That’s always fun.

You know what seemed like a good idea after that shot?

<==== (the roller coaster.)

Whee!

And after that, I couldn’t resist doing this.

Then we returned to the scene of the crime.

The exact spot Mr Quirky asked me to marry him.

No one asked me to marry them this time, but a guy did try to sell us bottled water. I guess when you are married, you just get water.

After a full night of walking the strip, our evening was completed by making new friends at the bar at our hotel.

They were much cooler than the guy (forever here out dubbed “That Guy”) we met our first night at Paris.

He had been to the Anthony Cools hypnotism show.  That Guy walked up to where we were throwing money away, I mean playing video poker.

He told us the show was vulgar & filthy. (And we both kind of wanted to see it after that.) And then he walked away mid-sentence, leaving his ticket next to Mr. Quirky.

The next day, we were minding our own business in the casino at The Flamingo (where we stayed) and suddenly, Mr. Quirky goes, “there’s That Guy!”

I’m not going to lie.

We chased him through the casino in an effort to snap a picture of him.

He hopped on the escalator and I followed him. Mr. Quirky ran down the stairs to get to the bottom before we did and shoot this picture.

In a perfect universe, we’d see him over and over again and take random pictures of us with him in the background.

But alas, the world isn’t perfect and we never saw him again.

Maybe next time, Vegas.

Happy Birthday, Stephanie! [Department] thanks Stephanie for all she does at [Company.]

There are bagels in the kitchen to celebrate.

Oh my gosh, so sweet!!! And I do love bagels.

Only it wasn’t my birthday.

Not even close.

My birthday is in September.

I stared at the e-mail for an entire awkward minute, not quite sure what to do.

Soon, a few individual e-mails popped in, “oh, I didn’t know it was your birthday! Happy day!”

It turns out it was another girl’s birthday and her name starts with an “S” too. As word spread about the bagels, somehow our names got mixed up and before you could say “pass the cream cheese” I had single handedly stolen S’s birthday.

Later, the e-mail was corrected and we all had a good laugh about it.

Mix ups happen. You start with one thing and a few tiny turns later, it evolves into something quite different.

Take this blog, for example. It started out as a running blog about training for my first marathon. Personally, I think it was just confused and was Queen of Quirky all along, but anywho, it later evolved into….this.

Did you catch that date on the original post?

Five years ago today.

Five years, one marathon, two confused hardly writing years, one divorce, many fire & wine nights and a wedding later, here we are.

I double dog dare you to read the entire thing. Or, skip that and have a glass of wine in honor of Queen of Quirky today.

Cheers to another quirkiful five years to come!