Ahhh....Christmastime. Yes, it begins, folks.  That wonderfully, commercialized, wallet-sucking holiday we've grown to dread.  What better way to celebrate the birth of Jesus than to festoon our homes with enough lights to be seen from passing aircraft?

Veloci-Torrey Raptor (VTR for those of you who read my blog religiously - I'm talking to all four of you), is my youngest babe.  She's 2 1/2 and a redheaded wrecking ball.  We visited my mom yesterday who decided that it would be fun to check out the Christmas store in Clearwater.  File another one under "Sounded like a good idea at the time".  My girls were so excited because Grandma was going to let them pick out ANY tree ornament they wanted.  Yay!  Of course, this was the day that VTR decided that she was too interested in jumping on Grandma's bed to take a nap.  To the Christmas store we go. 

Now, this place is absolutely amazing, filled with every type of ornament, light, Christmas tree and village known  to man.  I hated to point out that lighted icicles really didn't belong on a home in Florida but who am I to judge?  After touring (read, running) after VTR and many, many stern looks from the sales clerks, we stumble upon a trio of lighted angels.  VTR walks by them, stops, and reverses direction.  They're each about 6 inches taller than she is and she looks at them very intently.  "Awww...angel, Mommy!"  Adorable, I think.  She reaches out her little pudge-hands and gently (yes, gently!) strokes the closest one's face.  So sweet, I think, she's finally learned to touch soft.  Not.  She grabs the angel's head and it pops off in her hands.  The look on her face was pure shock.  Have I mentioned that my kids are slightly dark and twisted?  She looks at the angel's head in her hands and says, "AAAAHHHHH!!" with a big smile.  She looks over her shoulder at me, my mouth hanging open, tears of laughter running down my face and takes off in a sprint.  She has the angel head tucked under her left arm like a football.  She's smiling and laughing and I'm saying the one thing you would never think you'll say at Christmas World....."GIVE ME BACK THE HEAD, TORREY, BRING BACK THE HEAD".  To see this little person running as fast as she can with a plastic angel head...well, let's just say that it was just about time for us to leave. 

Numerous dirty looks later and my assuring that the angel was "already like this", we exit the store as quickly as possible and wait in the car.  Chalk it up to just one more place that I can't go back to.  At least until she's five and human again. 

Ho ho ho. 

Why is Tyler Durden, the crazy alter-ego of Edward Norton's character in Fight Club, a soapmaker?  He sits in his crazy house, steals fat from the local lipo clinic (major ick) and makes soap from it.  Which is totally possible, by the way.  Not exactly what I'd want to add to my soap but I guess it's possible.  Maybe the politicians that came up with the Cosmetic Safety Act saw this movie and started to wonder about what independent soapmakers actually use in our soaps???  I digress....

Anyway, I noticed that Tyler Durden was just not being safe with lye.  It's a safety lesson, people!  It's pretty painful to pour lye (which reacts with any kind of moisture) on a saliva-covered hand and sit there, holding that hand while the chemical reaction occurs, burning the skin pretty seriously.  I've had a tiny molecule of lye on my sweaty skin before and it BURNS.  Vinegar is the only way to neutralize the burn, so at least the movie makers were accurate on that point.

I guess that all soapmakers, true artisans of their craft, are all a little crazy.  Why else would we work so hard to be so good?  You know you love us!  And some of the nicest, eccentric, bubbly (no pun intended) people are soapmakers.  Support your local Tyler Durden, buy handmade soap! 

Just make sure your soapmaker doesn't live near a lipo-clinic........

So, my good friend Patty invited us to meet her and her two little ones at the Nickelodeon Hotel in Orlando on Friday. With hubby out of town for work, it sounded like a fun little mini-trip with my girls.  File this one under "Sounded Like a Great Idea at the Time".  First, a major shout-out to Patty, who is probably the best person I've met to do something like this with. She is unflappable, patient and kind. She is yang to my ying.  I'm freaking out, she's calm and collected. A duck that lets things just rrolllllll off her back.  Me? Not so much. 

After the 257th time MidKid says, "Are we there YET?" on the 75 minute drive to the hotel, we arrive.  Pay our $15 parking fee (rip off) and bring in our three tons of stuff we just can't do without for the next 18 hours.  The kids spot the giant "play zone" on the way in and about break their legs trying to get their bathing suits on as quickly as possible.  Now, this thing looks like a medival torture device, all metal and water and clanging and banging with kids running around with a crazed look in their eyes, pushing each other out of the way to be the first one down a slide in freezing water. Add a few giant Spongebobs, Timmys and Jimmy Neutrons and you have the second gate to hell looking at you. Just thank the good Lord that it's enclosed in a VTR-proof metal fence. 

My two bigger girls run off with goggles on to attack the thing and Veloci-Torrey Raptor barely pauses enough to put on her swim vest (more on that later) before she runs, full on, into the zero-entry swimming pool.  I swear, I get the craziest looks from other parents with her.  Imagine, a 2 year old toddler running full steam into a swimming pool, chubba legs a blur, and then face-planting into the water.  She bobs back up, thanks to the vest, and looks at me with the biggest grin on her face!  She dog-paddles to the side, climbs out of the water and proceeds to cannonball back in, over and over again.  Hence the vest. 

Of course, being that the Nick Hotel attract several international guests wh0 apparently don't believe in bathing suits for children, much less.....SWIM DIAPERS, we were forced out of the pool not once, not twice but THREE TIMES in the next two hours.  Floaters! And I'm not talking about my toddler in the swim vest, either. The close the pool for 30 minutes each time for "cleaning'.  Yeah, right.  The only cleaning taking place was the guy with the net.  They use that 30 minutes to wipe your memory of the event because if they added any more chlorine to that water, we'd all look like albinos.  God knows when I first went into the pool, I had a purple bathing suit on. It was gray in about three hours. 

But, I digress.  After numerous temper tantrums about why we can't go back into the water, VTR deciding she was going back in whether they liked it or not, getting yelled at by lifeguards, having several Pina Coladas to dull the pain, hair wraps, temporary tattoo, slime bucket (oh yeah, that too), chasing VTR, losing kids, finding kids, losing them again, finding them again, more Pina Coladas, pizza, chicken, arcade, soda, french fries and numerous other mishaps and adventures, we settle down for bed.  Oh, the fun has just begun.

We've got Big Girl in the top bunk, Patty's toddler boy in the bottom bunk, Patty and her big girl in the king bed, VTR on the blow up bed and Midkid and I on the pull out sofa.  All of this in our 'suite" that was about the size of my kitchen.  Everyone finally passed out from sheer exhaustion about midnight.  Start the fun! Bathroom at 2am. VTR up at 245 wanting milk. Won't go back to sleep. I can't go back to sleep. Midkid kicking me all night. Stealing covers. I get up to go to the bathroom at 330.  Looks like a frat house - I have french fries sticking to my feet, I'm stepping over bodies everywhere, kicking soda cans out of the way, hear snoring and the like. The only thing that's missing is the fat guy in the corner, belching and tripping over beer cans and bras.  Poor Patty gives up at 4am and starts grading papers on her computer.  VTR wakes up and wants to join me in the double-size pull out sofa. She cozies up on my left, MidKid's on my right and I'm in the middle in my kid burrito and DON'T DARE MOVE AN INCH.  They are asleep, oh heavenly day but what about me?  Let's just say that I finally fell asleep with a pudgy paw on my forehead, no blankets and a foot on my stomach.  Good times.

Morning comes, Patty makes coffee, kids are bleary-eyed and want to go back in the water.  Oh hell no.  I think Patty & I set a land-speed record getting packed and into the car.  Thank goodness the water park from hell didn't open before we had to check out and leave.  I have to say, we had fun, we had tears, we had lots and lots of laughter. Was it worth it? Yep. Would I do it again?  Of course! Anything for the kids, right? RIGHT?

Thanks to Ms. Patty for the hospitality, the laughs and the booze. Couldn't have done it without you!!!!

Veloci-Torrey Raptor has a new nickname, "Torrey-saurus Rex". We've moved beyond the "sneak around and be a menace" and graduated to the most feared meat-eater in the bunch.  She's two now and nobody wants to piss her off.  Everyone, including Big Girl, gives her whatever she wants in order to keep the peace.  And I mean, keep her from having a screaming, kicking, hysterical FIT.  It ain't pretty and people will ask you to LEAVE to get away from the ear-splitting wails.  It's embarrassing to see people, wide-eyed, shaking their heads at you. Bad parent, BAD!

She's just a bull!  She'll hear the refrigerator opening from across the living room and come running, full tilt, little legs a blur. She's screaming, "Chee! Chee! Me Chee!".  Midkid sees her barreling towards her and tries to block her like a hockey player on a power play.  TSR is having none of it.  Those little wicked steel-gripped baby pincers come at her, grabs her shirt and she THROWS, yes throws, her 4 1/2 old sister TO THE GROUND.  Above the ear-splitting wails of Midkid, who is acting like someone just beheaded her favorite Barbie, TSR is yelling "Chee!  Chee!  NOW CHEE!"  She grabs a string cheese, slams the drawer and then tries to close the refrigerator door, right on MidKid's head. 

Holy crap, it was the piercing scream heard round the world, rattling my windows, shattering the glasses and making the lizard jump out of the cage. Yes, lizard.  If anyone walking by the house heard me yelling at Torrey-saurus Rex they would have heard a good one: "Stop slamming the door on your sister's head!  I mean, REALLY?  Since when is this ok?  Do you want to flatten her head like a pancake?"  TSR says, "Pancake? I wan Pancake!  I have pancake mommy?  Peez?"  Insert blubbering mamma here. 

Imagine this scene, played out about four to five times a day with different players, different appliances but the same outcome.  And then picture mom, having a glass of wine and telling them to "work it out".  And checking to calendar to see when school is back in session. 

Midkid.....what can I say about poor little Midkid?  She doesn't get along with Big Girl and Baby Love annoys her just for kicks.  She's my loudest child.  I kid you not - she has a wail that will stop traffic.  Seriously.  When she decides that she wants to let one rip, her scream will stop a full grown adult, across the store with this horrified look on his or her face.  This person will look at me like I'm trying to dissect her with a spork.  Thank God I'm deaf at this point and can't hear what this person is saying about my stellar parenting abilities. 

Anyway, being the middle child (hence the "Midkid" nickname), she is constantly seeking attention, for better or worse.  The other day, after putting VTR to bed, I was looking for Midkid around the house.  It was bath time and she is one to hide from me.  It's a game - the "Let's piss off Mom by running away when she wants me because I know she's tired and grouchy and the buzz from the glass of wine at dinner has worn off" game.  As I am walking down the short hallway from the dining room (aka "toy room" - I mean, really?  I have kids, not dinner parties!) towards the kitchen when I hear a bump from the pantry.  Now, the pantry door is closed but I see the light on under the door.  I go to open the door and it wont' budge.  What the hell?  When I force the door open, I see Midkid with the GUILTIEST look on her little freckled face.  Her mouth is covered in chocolate and she is holding a blue Nalgene bottle in one hand and a bottle of Nesquick chocolate syrup in the other.  Again I say, what the hell?  Conversation goes like this:

Me:  "What are YOU DOING?!"

Midkid:  "I wanted chocolate milk"

Me:  "What are you doing with the chocolate syrup?"

Midkid:  "It's good,  you want some?"

Me:  "NO, I DON'T WANT SOME, WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THE BOTTLE?"

Midkid:  "The sywup is all gone!  I want chocolate milk in here (points to Nalgene bottle) but sywup is all gone"

Me:  "Where is the SYRUP?!"

Midkid. all big brown eyes, innocent as a little lamb:  "In my BELLY!  YUM!"

For the third time, What the HELL?! 

I figure out that the Nalgene bottle has about two inches of syrup in it and the rest of the bottle is on her face and in her tummy.  As I clean up the syrup off the floor, off the door, off the shelves and of course, off the kid, she says with the most perfect little kid logic, "Mama, can you give me some milk?  I'll drink it and jump up and down and I'll have chocolate milk in my belly!  My tummy will be so happy!"

Laughed myself silly at that one. 

 

My hubby works out of town during the week, normally, and has been since October of last year.  When he comes home on Friday, he's got to "recover" Saturday and Sunday to be prepared to work again on Monday, out of town.  He's about as useful on the weekends as a swim diaper on a toddler.  After all, it's not like he's had to work, take care of kids, grocery shop, pay bills, do laundry and make appointments for sick kids.  All he has to do is work.  Hmm..must be nice.  But, that's a blog for another day.   

I digress.  So, when I want something done, I usually have to figure out how to do it myself.  Today's project was a set of three shelves, bisected vertically by two support brackets.  I bought  it from the holy grail of stores, Ikea (a GREAT blogpost for another day).  Now, I'm pretty handy with my tools.  I have my own power drill and tool box and no, my tools are NOT pink.  They're real tools, thank you very little.  I grab my power drill, the anchors, the level, a pencil and various drill bits and screw bits.  Easy, I think, I can hang this baby in about a half an hour and still have time to go to the gym. 

Start laugh track here.

Here I am, hanging off a stepladder, with the bottom of the damn shelf balancing on my knee.  I have the level on the the first damn shelf, and I'm leaning across with a pencil to mark the nail holes on the wall.   As I lean, the damn shelf slips and bangs against the corner, leaving a trail of black paint on my cool purple walls.  I curse.  I hoist the damn shelf back up and can't find my mark so I mark again.  It's then that I realize I can't mark the top hole (there are three freakin' holes) and as I reach up, the damn shelf slips again.  This time it falls forward and hits me on the forehead.  I curse again.  I finally get what I think are three marks on each side and put the damn shelf down.  I proceed with the anchors.  I drill and screw the anchors into the wall, grab the damn shelf and hold it on the wall.  Of course, you know what happens.  There were so many pencil marks in the wall that I ended up with the anchors in the wrong place.  I curse again, louder.  Drop the damn shelf, unscrew the anchors, find the correct holes, re-screw the anchors.  This time, the freakin' anchors push THROUGH the cheap-ass drywall and off into neverland that is my house.  I look inside the quarter-size hole and see insulation. Uh-huh.  Now what do I do?  I have to move the anchors.  Again.  I curse again, VERY loudly.  I finally get the damn shelf on the wall and two screws into their anchors.  I realize that I don't have the top anchors in the right place and am so frustrated that I just screw the damn thing into the wall with REALLY LONG SCREWS.  It'll hold, right?  I start putting books on the damn shelf and as I turn around to get more stuff, the damn shelf pulls off the wall at the top.  I curse at the top of my lungs, a very unbecoming string of obsenities that would make a biker blush.  As I drop the piece of crap damn shelf on the floor, I look at the wall.  There are twelve (yes, TWELVE) quarter and dime size holes in the wall from my failed anchor attempts.  Oh crap.  If hubs sees this, I'm in deep doo-doo.  Plus, I've just spent the last two hours frustrated and angry.  I seriously consider getting some spackle (yes, I know what it is and how to use it too!) and spending some time at Sherwin Williams to get some more purple paint to cover the spackled holes from my damn shelf debacle.  My luck?  The purple won't match and it will look like beacons of light screaming to hubs, "Dumb wife, tried to hang the damn shelf alone and failed miserably, take away her tools and banish her to sewing and making crafts from now on". 

Instead, what do I do?  I do what any self-respecting wife and not-so-handy woman would do.........

I hung pictures to cover the holes. 

I have kids.  Duh!  That means that I don't sleep late anymore.  I truly can't remember the last time I slept past 730am.  I know you all can relate!  I keep hearing the "Oh, just wait until they're teenagers, they'll sleep all day!" crap.  Yeah, that's real helpful seeing I have about 12 more years until they are all into their teenage years! 

While I wake up around 6am during the week, the weekends I kinda hope that I can get a few more minutes of sleep in. BTW, why is it that I have to fight the kids to get them out of bed on a Tuesday at 7am and on Saturdays they are up, dressed, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 645?  Come on!  Give tired mama a freakin' break!

My Saturday morning starts early with Midkid skulking around the corner at about 2am.  She tiptoes into the room and slowly makes her way to my side of the bed.  She stands at the head of the bed, staring at me.  I may be dead asleep but something about being stared at while I sleep makes me shiver.  All I need to do is put my hand out, never opening my eyes and she climbs onto the bed, stepping on my stomach or full bladder to crawl over me to the middle of the bed.  She burrows under the comforter and slaps whatever stuffed animal is her fave of the moment into my face.  God forbid if I move the animal, she'll wail enough to wake the dead.  I go back to sleep. 

Next, I hear Baby Love (aka "Veloci-Torrey Raptor", VTR for short) mewling (yes, mewling) in her sleep.  I don't need one of those one-way baby walkies to hear her - her bed buts up against the wall between my room. She's figured THAT one out, if she wants me, she just takes her sippy cup and bangs it on the wall at 3am.  Yes, I hear you, how dare I give her a sippy cup in her bed at night?  Well, I WANT her baby teeth to fall out, ok?  Leave me alone, you'd do the same if it gave you an extra 30 minutes of sleep if you've got three kids, etc. etc. etc.  Sue me.

Anyway, I ignore VTR for a while, hoping against hope that she falls back asleep.  She does.  Of course, she wakes up again at 630 with her angry voice, "Mama!  Die-der!  Milk! Hung-gey!  Peepee! Mama!"  Bang bang goes the sippy cup.  "MAMA! DIE-DER!  MILKY!  CUP! HUNG-GEY! MIGGY!  MIGGY MOUDSE CUBHOW!"  Translation:  Mama, I have a pee-pee diaper, I'm hungry and I want milk and I want to watch Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.  Now, lazy ass, get your fat butt out of bed and feed me!" 

Does she want Daddy?  Hell no.  Only Mom will do.  So, I grab the kid, put her into bed with the other one.  Dad gets kicked out of bed and goes downstairs to get some peace & quiet.  I push MidKid over, put VTR into the bed and turn on the TV.  Now, dumb Mama forgets to set the DVR to record Mickey Mouse Clubhouse so all VTR has to watch is Tigger & Pooh or god forbid, Blue's Clues.  She's NOT happy.  She's smaking me on the face, yelling "MIGGY MOUDSE CUBHOW!" and I know that I'm up for the morning.  Grab VTR, cover MidKid, make sure stuffed animal is in the bed in easy reach and I head downstairs where the DVR has the correct recordings. Stop for 5 minutes to start the coffee, nectar of the gods.  Send Daddy back upstairs to sleep a little more (lucky bastard) and satisfy the ongoing demands of VTR.

As Daddy passes me on the way upstairs, he looks at me and says, "Tomorrow.  My turn".  Gotta love him. 

My husband came up with a name for Baby Love.  Her real name is Torrey, I just like the nickname "Baby Love" the best.  She's the only one of the kids that is truly a cuddle-bug.  She's just so stinkin' sweet.  Despite her slash and burn tendencies. 

Her new nickname is "Veloci-Torrey Raptor".  She's in a mood lately, sneaking around and snatching anything and everything she can and running away (see "Not my last bottle of wine" blogpost).  She lurks around the corners, waiting for Midkid or Big Girl to put something beloved down on the couch. It's like an episode of The Wild Kingdom on PBS from the 70's and 80's (you know you watched it). 

Announcer:  (in a whisper) "Here we have the notoriously reclusive Veloci-Torrey Raptor.  She's constantly hungry, looking for prey.  She sees another young meat-eater near the TV room, concentrating on the nuances of Spongebob Squarepants.  The Veloci-Torrey Raptor sees her prey, vacantly staring at the screen, ignoring her favorite Barbie Doll, Miriam Mermaid.  The Veloci-Torrey Raptor siezes her chances, skulks around the corner, head low, eyes down but on the prize.  She reaches one yogurt-encrusted dirty pudgy paw towards the doll...and......YANK!  She's off! Another successful grab!" 

Now, Veloci-Torrey Raptor is running full speed, down the hallway, little pumpkin legs pumping, laughing, looking over her shoulder and WHAP!  Oh no!  She smacks right into Big Girl, who looks down on little Veloci-Torrey Raptor.  Now, Big Girl is the queen of the jungle and NOBODY gets past her without paying their proper due.  Luckily, little Veloci-Torrey Raptor has an alliance with the Queen who protects the little man-eater.  Behind her, Midkid is screaming like she's pursued by the hounds of hell to get back Barbie Mermaid.  You know what happens next.  Midkid launches herself into mid-air, slamming into little VTR, who goes down, Mermaid Mary flying from her grip while Big Girl berates Midkid for hurting VTR.  Everyone's screaming and crying, yelling at each other to place the blame.  

Where's Mom?  Calmly walking into the kitchen, looking for that last bottle of wine, making sure it stays out of the hands of little Veloci-Torrey Raptor. 

So, hubby's out of town again this week.  Again.  Leaving me to work and take care of the shop, the kids, the house and any other emergencies that pop up.  With the three little honeys I have at home, a single glass of wine at the end of the day is my treat, a celebration of another day successfully maneuvered.   Before I could get to my glass, we had an "incident" in the Page house.  

Baby Love

Baby Love is a sneak.  She loves nothing more that poking her little hands in the refrigerator when I open it, looking for a bottle of ketsup or some other condiment on the door shelf.  Said door shelf is right at her eye-height and it's an easy thing for her to grab something and run away, laughing while she does it.  Well, she grabbed a half-full bottle of Smoking Loon Merlot and proceeds to haul butt across the TILED  kitchen floor unbeknownst to me.  I thought she had the soy sauce.  OH BUT NO.  I hear a crash and breaking glass.  I turn around and there's red wine ALL OVER THE FLOOR, shards of glass everywhere.  Baby Love is standing in the middle of a growing puddle of winey goodness with glass all over the place, looking at me with her big baby blues.  She has this look on her face like, Busted!  She says..."Uh huh, boken mama!"  Duh.  To my horror (later to my laughter) she leans down, puts her finger in the wine, sticks the finger in her mouth and says, "Yum!"    Insert freaking out mama here.

So, here I am, stuck barefoot surrounded by wine glass and Baby Love is trying to lick it off the floor.  I yell for Midkid or Big Girl to bring me some shoes and the conversation goes just like this:

Me:  Someone give me shoes NOW!  I have an EMERGENCY!

Midkid:  Huh?  You want my shoes?

Me:  NO!  MY SHOES!  BY THE DOOR!  BRING THEM NOW!

Midkid:  What?  Shoes?  What shoes?  In your room shoes?  My shoes?

Me:  (Louder)  MY SHOES!  MY SHOES!  BACK DOOR!  MY SHOES!  ANY SHOES!  BABY SHOES!  DADDY SHOES!  ANY SHOES!  WHO CARES, JUST.  GIVE.  ME.. SHOES!!!

Midkid:  These shoes? 

Me:  YES!  (to Baby Love)- DON'T MOVE!  STOP!  DON'T DO THAT!  DON'T PICK UP THE GLASS!  DON'T MOVE!  I SAID STOP! 

......Sigh. God forbid the house is on fire or anything.  It would take me an hour to get us all out! 

Meanwhile, Big Girl doesn't even look up from playing a game on the computer.  Clueless.

It's about this time, after I finally get two shoes that don't match and are both right foot shoes (at least they are mine), I realize that the broken wine is MY LAST BOTTLE.  Oh hell no.  I contemplate using a straw to suck it off the floor but I worry about accidently sucking up glass.  I resort to an old towel but think, "hey it's clean, I can squeeze it out over my wine glass.."  Of course I don't do that, but it did cross my mind. 

Baby Love is fine, no glass cuts, Mama is fine after finding another bottle stashed at the back of the wine cooler.  Could you see me putting three kids in the car at 7pm at night to go to the corner store for a bottle of wine?  Yeah, come get me, Child Protection Services.     I promptly moved all open wine bottles and another glass objects from that bottom shelf.  Hell, I moved them up to my eye level, knowing if Baby Love wants something, she'll just pull a chair over to it and get it.  After it was all done and over, Baby Love looked at me, put her little pudgy hands on my face and said "I sowwey".  Sweetness. 

As many of you already know, I was at a conference for soapmakers (yes, we have one and those ladies are CRAZY!).  I was very fortunate to listen to Donna Marie Coles Johnson from Indie Beauty Network talk to us about Social Media.  She had some fantastic ideas that I wanted to reiterate here again.

The main message I got was "figure out what matters to you" and spread the word!  Use all available media outlets to get your message across.  DM said, "if it doesn't spread, you're dead!"  You are your best media outlet.

One of the most important things you can do as a business is blogging - it is fully controllable by you!  Facebook and Twitter and the others are great, don't get me wrong. I spend quite a bit of time there too.  But when FB and Twitter make a change, you're stuck with whatever their whims are on a particular day ("like" a page vs. "become a fan").  Blogging, however, you can control.  You control the message, the posts, the look and the feel.  Take advantage of that control and start blogging!  Add a picture!  Add some video!  Add a podcast!  All of these things are inexpensive and can really elevate you and your "message" above the average person blogging.  

 
There's so much more...go to  www.indiebeauty.com and also her blog is http://www.indiebusinessblog.com  and check out what she's doing.  She's a powerhouse.