The past six weeks have been absolutely harrowing. First, our kitchen flooded. A dishwasher hose split and we came home to water an inch deep in some places. The day after that, I found out I might be getting laid off. Neither of those situations are resolved yet. I'm keeping a vigilant watch for gray hairs, because I'm sure all the stress has created some.
I will say that the kitchen is coming along nicely, though a big rainstorm put us behind schedule. It won't be finished for Easter, like we had originally hoped, but it should be done early next week. I've barely cooked in six weeks. I've mostly been living on peanut butter and jelly, sometimes eating it twice a day. Haven't lost any weight from it. There's no justice in this fallen world, I'm afraid.
So far, the kitchen has been painted (Valspar Belle Grove Moss) and the new cabinets are in. Mike the contractor finished the counters today. He said that it looked like an interior decorator had designed the kitchen. I was super pleased by the compliment, because I wanted to be an architect or an interior designer in high school, and spent a lot of time studying for the life path I didn't take. Most people might have chosen a cream or tan counter to go with the birch cabinets. That would have been the obvious course to take, but I think it would have ended up looking like the Gobi desert. I chose a mottled gray with blue and rust undertones. I was sweating bullets before it was installed, because I had only a tiny square of laminate sample and no cabinet to match it to when I chose the colors. It worked out, thank goodness. The vinyl flooring will be a sandy gray in a fake tile style. Unfortunately, real tile wasn't in the budget-not because of the materials-but because one guy can install linoleum, but it takes a team to do tile in a kitchen as big as mine.
The contractors took the paper shades down in the kitchen, and suddenly I'm confronted with another problem to solve. The paper shades were never meant to be permanent, and now that they're down, they're not going back up. I have 7 huge windows across the back of the house. Obviously, I don't want the thugs in the house behind us to be able to see in. Traditional blinds would be too expensive, and besides, I want something interesting. I was looking into getting a patterned bamboo or roman shade when I looked at World Market and saw exactly what I was looking for. All kinds of cute roman shades, on clearance. I mentioned it to my coworker and friend, Pretty Smile, and she found me a wonderful World Market coupon that I could print out multiple times. I rushed out and found that the one I wanted was too big for my windows, my second choice was sold out...and there was no third choice. Feeling discouraged and defeated, I got myself a Snickers latte from Wholly Cow, and barely enjoyed it I was so upset. Did I mention it poured all day? It's hard to keep upbeat when it's pouring, and one's cowardly dog shredded the bathroom door in which he was confined. Could not believe the mess. He owes us $60. Thinking of garnishing his kibble until he pays us back. Awful, awful dog!
We went home and took a nap, and upon rising I looked at the window problem with fresh eyes. Back we went to World Market to buy a different style of shade, which was also on sale. The Summerville store didn't have enough, so we drove back to West Ashley to pick up the three we lacked. In the time it took to have a nap, lose an eBay auction of an exquisite Anthropologie dress I really wanted, and return to the store, the style I wanted had sold out. I realize it's hard to find seven matching anything, anywhere, much less when it's on clearance, but I really thought events were in my favor. I can't spend much on this, because all our money is tied up in the involuntary kitchen remodel. They were cute. They were the right price. I had a coupon. I was so sure it was in the bag. GRRRR! So now I have to return four jute shades and figure out what I'm going to do instead. I could sew curtains, but at my current state of busy-ness, that's about as appealing as getting a cavity filled. I wish I could just buy shades, but I really can't pay more than $15 each. I do have the beginnings of an idea, though. My windows are 31 inches wide. There's no reason why I couldn't buy a runner like this, cut it in half, sew it together, and make a pocket at the top for a tension rod. So back to World Market I go tomorrow, to return the shades and see what my schemey little brain can come up with.
It's taking all my ingenuity to keep on top of everything that's going on. I have a distinct sensation that my world is narrowing to a point, and I'm being driven toward the narrow end, like icing in a cake decorator's bag. Hopefully, like the icing, something beautiful and useful will come of all of this. In the meantime, it's awfully frightening and uncomfortable.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
Greedy Scheming
I’ve been reading a lot of blogs lately instead of writing my own. Mostly design and fashion blogs, like academichic and designsponge. Throw in a little House Beautiful and some Etsy browsing. The result is a manic desire to remake my home with quirky things I can’t afford, and to cut up half my wardrobe and re-sew it. All at the same time. Needless to say, my mind hasn’t been on my work too much lately.
Going to the Celadon Outlet at the old Navy Yard with my friend, Pretty Smile, did NOT help my greed and scheming. The outlet is for scratch and dent furniture and overstocks, and I saw at least a dozen things I would love to decorate a hypothetical hipster bungalow with an outdoor kitchen and mossy bricks. I do not own a hipster bungalow with an outdoor kitchen. Any mossy bricks I possess are by sheer
accident, and I live in fear that someone, probably me, will slip on them the next time it sleets, which is a pretty rare occasion in Charleston, SC. Yes, I know, I’m talented that way. Thank you, Mother, for passing down your inimitable physical grace. *Ahem.* Moving on…
My house is a 1965…ranch? It was a long, narrow brick house, until somebody added a mother in law suite onto the right side of it. In the 2000s, it was updated by a flipper, who had the wisdom to leave the original six inch baseboards and crown moldings, but who did a lousy job installing his own carpet and linoleum. He also did not replace the original, cracked windows or improve the insulation. This condition led to the purchase of some very expensive flannel sheets from Dillard’s that are cloud-soft, blissfully warm, and also pill like no other. *grumblesnort!*
When we moved in, we had only bought a few things as we needed them. Most of the rest of our furniture was hand-me-down from Will’s aunt or parents. From Will’s aunt, we received a heavy cherry veneer bedroom set. The worn out bed slats eventually dumped us on the floor at 3 am, and I didn’t like the cockatoo-chewed, neo-Victorian headboard well enough to keep it, so we dragged it to the curb
before we left Miami. However, we kept the nightstand, and pair of approximately 300-lb dressers. I’m exaggerating the weight, but wow, they’re heavy. Solid wood is usually worth hanging onto even if it’s not my style, says I.
We replaced the matching bed with a modern sleigh bed from Overstock.com. It wasn’t long before that dumped us on the floor as well. All it took was my 200-ish pound husband sitting down hard on his side of the bed, and that was the end of that slat. Finally gave up and bought a metal bed frame to attach the headboard to. Unfortunately, the footboard took a beating when the slat cracked, so I’m going to try to glue it back together with some heavy duty wood glue. If that doesn’t work, well, the bed looks just fine with no footboard, and we both like to hang our toes over the end. Tall peoples’ prerogative. Alas, rubberwood is a huge rip-off.
Nature apparently abhors a vacuum-why is that, anyway? Is Nature really a giant cosmic shelter mutt? I ventured that question to a dog fancier at work, and he pointed out that God spelled backward IS doG. I’m not prepared to go that far, theologically. John Calvin and my minister father might both have issues with that, and I don’t want to end up like my college roommate who was a Bible major. She had recurring nightmares of John Calvin and the Greek verb luw chasing her. Hi, Annie! How ya sleeping lately?
Anyway, MY nature abhors an empty corner I could be decorating. Once we fix the broken footboard, that will free up the floor space of the corner to the right of the nightstand on my side of the bed. Got that? The wall to the right of the nightstand is occupied by a Chinese ink painting scroll that was a wedding gift. I had been toying with the idea of getting a cushy chair, footstool, and tiny bookcase to put in that corner. Because I totally don’t read on the couch all the time. My books are starting to take over, and I want to move the more embarrassing titles off the top of the piano. No, I don’t read romance novels. Haven’t read one since college, when it was beyond hilarious in my clique of virginal, horny girls, to give romance novels as birthday presents and read the steamy parts aloud in a deadpan voice. I just have a suspicion that having more than a certain number of Mercedes Lackey novels will make people think I’m frivolous. The reality is that nobody notices, and I’m secretly afraid that being female inherently makes me frivolous, but that’s between me, God, and my imaginary counselor.
So I need to get the fairy tales off the piano and move to the forefront titles like “Druids,” The English Country Gentleman and the Age of Chivalry”, “Selected Works of Chretien des Troyes,” and “The Complete Annotated Works of Shakespeare,” All of which I have read, thank you very much. And I think Titus Andronicus is a sad example of what artists will do for money. Much Ado about Nothing is still my
favorite, so maybe I am lowbrow. I never got into Sudoku, either. I will now embrace my plebeian status. Will it hug me back?
The problems with that fantasy of a bedroom reading nook are that 1. It’ll clutter the room with too much furniture. 2. I’ll never use it. 3. It’ll just end up covered in clothes that aren’t quite dirty and need one more wearing before washing, thereby increasing clutter even more, and 4. If I can ever manage to get knocked up, I’ll need that corner for a crib while Beers Jr. is a newborn. *Encouraging news on the
fertility front: the doctor said that since I’d been on the pill so long after marriage, I am really only one year out from detoxing, not two. Doesn’t change the amount of time that’s passed, but it makes me feel better. Hopefully my thyroid problems will fall in line soon.*
After all that digression, I know what the real problem is. I either have too many books or too few bookcases. And I don’t like one of the bookcases. We got it free, and it’s just a plain, wood-grained particle board DIY-er. It’s not particularly sturdy and it’s certainly not attractive. I have shoved it up in the corner behind the French doors in my living room where I don’t have to look at it.
Here’s where the temptation comes in. I saw two stunning bookcases at Celadon. They’re distressed cream, made out of some plasticky stuff, but they look like antique wrought iron garden gates. My pragmatic hindbrain is reminding me that not only are they not sturdy, which I profess to require, they are also something like $400. Each. That’s the sale price. Whiiiiiiine. It’s like the Anthropologie catalog. I don’t even like half their stuff, and it’s all stratospherically expensive, and who can afford that anyway, but I STILL WANT TO BE THAT GIRL! I want to be that girl who has fragile, expensive bookcases that look like antique garden gates. With exotic knick-knacks and rare plants, and only about a dozen actual books on them. Sadly, the last time I saw great design intersect practical living was in the Not So Big House books by architect Sarah Susanka. I can’t afford those bookcases, and I sure can’t afford to hire an architect. I’m also pretty sure THAT GIRL is a hypochondriac control freak who hasn’t spoken to her mother in six months. She also has a friend with benefits named Stefan. I don’t like her.
What is a lot more manageable is getting a large bookcase from Good Wood or craigslist and painting it to my specs, maybe painting the back and shelves a fun color. Maybe wallpapering them. I could do that. It wouldn’t break the bank. And it would fit in better with my non-hipster, non-bungalow décor. It is also true that upgrading bookcases is hardly an emergency on the priority list. In fact, replacing and adding kitchen lighting would be a much better return on investment, since my huge kitchen is sun-drenched during the day, and grim and dim at night.
I can also go though my books. Yes, I’m feeling faint at the idea, but I’m hanging in there. I’m wondering if, at almost five years out of college, I need to keep every single book I referenced in my undergrad thesis? Some of them are unbelievably boring, and hardcovers take up a lot of space. Probably time to revisit those. But will I still be respected for my mental acuity if I get rid of half my research books on druids and medieval poetry and keep the Mercedes Lackey? Eek!
Another thing I can do to satisfy my design craving is go back to the Celadon outlet and NOT buy the bookcases. When I went, I saw a pale chair with a hybrid Gothic/Moorish arch on the back. It was under $100. The exact price escapes me, but I think it was $75, which isn’t at all bad for a dining chair. If they have two of those, I can buy them to expand our dining room seating from four to six. We frequently host hours-long card games, so having more chairs would be a boon. We usually just drag in the piano bench, and I get nervous every time some hulking guy plumps down on it. Furthermore, if my mother in law lets me have her white Danish-style chairs when I get their big black table after they move, the two Gothic chairs would make excellent captain’s chairs at the head and foot of the table. If she doesn’t, the two Gothic chairs would still make excellent captain’s chairs; I’ll just be pitching a raving, lunatic fit while I shop for four more chairs. I should probably sell advance tickets. That tantrum promises to be entertaining.
Naturally, I’ll go back to Celadon, cash in hand, and there won’t be two of the Gothic chair, and I’ll talk myself out of just buying one, or there will be two, but I won’t have any peace about buying them. “Peace” is always how my mom described having a mental or emotional check on doing something that’s probably a bad idea, or the timing is wrong. She ascribes that feeling to the Holy Spirit. I’ve felt that many times when I was all revved up to buy or do something and I just couldn’t and
couldn’t explain why. Sometimes it was an upset stomach providing the jerk on the reins. Sometimes it was certainly the Holy Spirit. Sometimes the sour stomach and the Holy Spirit feel pretty much the same. But I didn’t do or buy what it was I wanted to do or buy, and not doing it has always proven to be a good decision.
**Update** I did go back to Celadon, cash in hand. And there was only one of the Gothic chairs and I didn't buy it. Instead, I went to Next to New in Mt. Pleasant and bought a scrolly mahogany table that had been painted celery green. It wasn't a bargain. In fact, it was [Price Redacted], but I loved it, and I'm using it as a nightstand.
I won’t die if I don’t do any of the above. In fact, just writing it all down and puzzling it out takes a lot of the urgent sting out of it. I’m also pretty easily distracted by pretty things. In a day or two, I’ll have another “great” idea that will feel like I can’t breathe if I don’t do it RIGHT NOW. I’ll live through that
too. What’s more important than how trendy and tasteful our home is, is how our guests feel in it.
Nobody’s ever complained of feeling unwelcome, so I can quit obsessing any time now. Maybe I’ll quit obsessing tomorrow. After my next big idea.
Going to the Celadon Outlet at the old Navy Yard with my friend, Pretty Smile, did NOT help my greed and scheming. The outlet is for scratch and dent furniture and overstocks, and I saw at least a dozen things I would love to decorate a hypothetical hipster bungalow with an outdoor kitchen and mossy bricks. I do not own a hipster bungalow with an outdoor kitchen. Any mossy bricks I possess are by sheer
accident, and I live in fear that someone, probably me, will slip on them the next time it sleets, which is a pretty rare occasion in Charleston, SC. Yes, I know, I’m talented that way. Thank you, Mother, for passing down your inimitable physical grace. *Ahem.* Moving on…
My house is a 1965…ranch? It was a long, narrow brick house, until somebody added a mother in law suite onto the right side of it. In the 2000s, it was updated by a flipper, who had the wisdom to leave the original six inch baseboards and crown moldings, but who did a lousy job installing his own carpet and linoleum. He also did not replace the original, cracked windows or improve the insulation. This condition led to the purchase of some very expensive flannel sheets from Dillard’s that are cloud-soft, blissfully warm, and also pill like no other. *grumblesnort!*
When we moved in, we had only bought a few things as we needed them. Most of the rest of our furniture was hand-me-down from Will’s aunt or parents. From Will’s aunt, we received a heavy cherry veneer bedroom set. The worn out bed slats eventually dumped us on the floor at 3 am, and I didn’t like the cockatoo-chewed, neo-Victorian headboard well enough to keep it, so we dragged it to the curb
before we left Miami. However, we kept the nightstand, and pair of approximately 300-lb dressers. I’m exaggerating the weight, but wow, they’re heavy. Solid wood is usually worth hanging onto even if it’s not my style, says I.
We replaced the matching bed with a modern sleigh bed from Overstock.com. It wasn’t long before that dumped us on the floor as well. All it took was my 200-ish pound husband sitting down hard on his side of the bed, and that was the end of that slat. Finally gave up and bought a metal bed frame to attach the headboard to. Unfortunately, the footboard took a beating when the slat cracked, so I’m going to try to glue it back together with some heavy duty wood glue. If that doesn’t work, well, the bed looks just fine with no footboard, and we both like to hang our toes over the end. Tall peoples’ prerogative. Alas, rubberwood is a huge rip-off.
Nature apparently abhors a vacuum-why is that, anyway? Is Nature really a giant cosmic shelter mutt? I ventured that question to a dog fancier at work, and he pointed out that God spelled backward IS doG. I’m not prepared to go that far, theologically. John Calvin and my minister father might both have issues with that, and I don’t want to end up like my college roommate who was a Bible major. She had recurring nightmares of John Calvin and the Greek verb luw chasing her. Hi, Annie! How ya sleeping lately?
Anyway, MY nature abhors an empty corner I could be decorating. Once we fix the broken footboard, that will free up the floor space of the corner to the right of the nightstand on my side of the bed. Got that? The wall to the right of the nightstand is occupied by a Chinese ink painting scroll that was a wedding gift. I had been toying with the idea of getting a cushy chair, footstool, and tiny bookcase to put in that corner. Because I totally don’t read on the couch all the time. My books are starting to take over, and I want to move the more embarrassing titles off the top of the piano. No, I don’t read romance novels. Haven’t read one since college, when it was beyond hilarious in my clique of virginal, horny girls, to give romance novels as birthday presents and read the steamy parts aloud in a deadpan voice. I just have a suspicion that having more than a certain number of Mercedes Lackey novels will make people think I’m frivolous. The reality is that nobody notices, and I’m secretly afraid that being female inherently makes me frivolous, but that’s between me, God, and my imaginary counselor.
So I need to get the fairy tales off the piano and move to the forefront titles like “Druids,” The English Country Gentleman and the Age of Chivalry”, “Selected Works of Chretien des Troyes,” and “The Complete Annotated Works of Shakespeare,” All of which I have read, thank you very much. And I think Titus Andronicus is a sad example of what artists will do for money. Much Ado about Nothing is still my
favorite, so maybe I am lowbrow. I never got into Sudoku, either. I will now embrace my plebeian status. Will it hug me back?
The problems with that fantasy of a bedroom reading nook are that 1. It’ll clutter the room with too much furniture. 2. I’ll never use it. 3. It’ll just end up covered in clothes that aren’t quite dirty and need one more wearing before washing, thereby increasing clutter even more, and 4. If I can ever manage to get knocked up, I’ll need that corner for a crib while Beers Jr. is a newborn. *Encouraging news on the
fertility front: the doctor said that since I’d been on the pill so long after marriage, I am really only one year out from detoxing, not two. Doesn’t change the amount of time that’s passed, but it makes me feel better. Hopefully my thyroid problems will fall in line soon.*
After all that digression, I know what the real problem is. I either have too many books or too few bookcases. And I don’t like one of the bookcases. We got it free, and it’s just a plain, wood-grained particle board DIY-er. It’s not particularly sturdy and it’s certainly not attractive. I have shoved it up in the corner behind the French doors in my living room where I don’t have to look at it.
Here’s where the temptation comes in. I saw two stunning bookcases at Celadon. They’re distressed cream, made out of some plasticky stuff, but they look like antique wrought iron garden gates. My pragmatic hindbrain is reminding me that not only are they not sturdy, which I profess to require, they are also something like $400. Each. That’s the sale price. Whiiiiiiine. It’s like the Anthropologie catalog. I don’t even like half their stuff, and it’s all stratospherically expensive, and who can afford that anyway, but I STILL WANT TO BE THAT GIRL! I want to be that girl who has fragile, expensive bookcases that look like antique garden gates. With exotic knick-knacks and rare plants, and only about a dozen actual books on them. Sadly, the last time I saw great design intersect practical living was in the Not So Big House books by architect Sarah Susanka. I can’t afford those bookcases, and I sure can’t afford to hire an architect. I’m also pretty sure THAT GIRL is a hypochondriac control freak who hasn’t spoken to her mother in six months. She also has a friend with benefits named Stefan. I don’t like her.
What is a lot more manageable is getting a large bookcase from Good Wood or craigslist and painting it to my specs, maybe painting the back and shelves a fun color. Maybe wallpapering them. I could do that. It wouldn’t break the bank. And it would fit in better with my non-hipster, non-bungalow décor. It is also true that upgrading bookcases is hardly an emergency on the priority list. In fact, replacing and adding kitchen lighting would be a much better return on investment, since my huge kitchen is sun-drenched during the day, and grim and dim at night.
I can also go though my books. Yes, I’m feeling faint at the idea, but I’m hanging in there. I’m wondering if, at almost five years out of college, I need to keep every single book I referenced in my undergrad thesis? Some of them are unbelievably boring, and hardcovers take up a lot of space. Probably time to revisit those. But will I still be respected for my mental acuity if I get rid of half my research books on druids and medieval poetry and keep the Mercedes Lackey? Eek!
Another thing I can do to satisfy my design craving is go back to the Celadon outlet and NOT buy the bookcases. When I went, I saw a pale chair with a hybrid Gothic/Moorish arch on the back. It was under $100. The exact price escapes me, but I think it was $75, which isn’t at all bad for a dining chair. If they have two of those, I can buy them to expand our dining room seating from four to six. We frequently host hours-long card games, so having more chairs would be a boon. We usually just drag in the piano bench, and I get nervous every time some hulking guy plumps down on it. Furthermore, if my mother in law lets me have her white Danish-style chairs when I get their big black table after they move, the two Gothic chairs would make excellent captain’s chairs at the head and foot of the table. If she doesn’t, the two Gothic chairs would still make excellent captain’s chairs; I’ll just be pitching a raving, lunatic fit while I shop for four more chairs. I should probably sell advance tickets. That tantrum promises to be entertaining.
Naturally, I’ll go back to Celadon, cash in hand, and there won’t be two of the Gothic chair, and I’ll talk myself out of just buying one, or there will be two, but I won’t have any peace about buying them. “Peace” is always how my mom described having a mental or emotional check on doing something that’s probably a bad idea, or the timing is wrong. She ascribes that feeling to the Holy Spirit. I’ve felt that many times when I was all revved up to buy or do something and I just couldn’t and
couldn’t explain why. Sometimes it was an upset stomach providing the jerk on the reins. Sometimes it was certainly the Holy Spirit. Sometimes the sour stomach and the Holy Spirit feel pretty much the same. But I didn’t do or buy what it was I wanted to do or buy, and not doing it has always proven to be a good decision.
**Update** I did go back to Celadon, cash in hand. And there was only one of the Gothic chairs and I didn't buy it. Instead, I went to Next to New in Mt. Pleasant and bought a scrolly mahogany table that had been painted celery green. It wasn't a bargain. In fact, it was [Price Redacted], but I loved it, and I'm using it as a nightstand.
I won’t die if I don’t do any of the above. In fact, just writing it all down and puzzling it out takes a lot of the urgent sting out of it. I’m also pretty easily distracted by pretty things. In a day or two, I’ll have another “great” idea that will feel like I can’t breathe if I don’t do it RIGHT NOW. I’ll live through that
too. What’s more important than how trendy and tasteful our home is, is how our guests feel in it.
Nobody’s ever complained of feeling unwelcome, so I can quit obsessing any time now. Maybe I’ll quit obsessing tomorrow. After my next big idea.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Shabby Apple
My Shabby Apple Cider Dress arrived today. Thoughts: The color is beautiful and the lines are flattering. I really like the sassy purple zipper. The Cider Dress is marked as "Fits Generously" and it definitely does. My measurements are 45/35/43. I ordered an XL, which fit in the bust and shoulders, but is quite wide in the waist and hips, so I'll be taking it in on the sides. I'd venture to guess it had about an extra four inches in the hips. That's good news for certain friends of mine with *ahem* assets. I am 5'9.5 and the hem came to the bottom of my knee cap. The scooped neckline is a little higher than I expected, but that's hardly a problem since my collarbone still shows. Material is a stretch cotton. Now you know, girls.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Hair Horns Ensued....
I stopped liking my hair the day I set foot in seventh grade in a new school, new state, new continent. Rows of identically layered, poker-straight, blonde ponytails swiveled to give me a cold onceover. I failed the test. At 12 years old, I was nearly finished growing, but I still had my messy, childish, wavy hair that I brushed once in the morning and forgot about unless forcibly reminded. No bangs. No layers. No natural (or ruthlessly Sun-Inned) blonde coloring. At thirteen, I cut myself wispy bangs in the hurried five minutes in the bathroom after PE class. I didn’t own a round brush or a straightening iron; didn’t even know what either of them was for. Hair horns ensued. Mom was no help whatsoever since her own poker-straight hair looked much the same whether air-dried or styled. The only clue was the presence or absence of mousse-crunchy strands. She didn’t understand my horror of my hair. “People pay a lot of money for waves like yours,” she consistently pointed out. I didn’t care if it was true. I wanted that perfectly-layered, high ponytail, tied with a black satin ribbon a scant few atoms wide, just like the other girls. (Of course, I wanted to be thin and athletic like them too, and see how that turned out!)
At 14 I cut my hair above my shoulders. This was my first major cut, and I chose the layered bob everyone else had. I’d never had anything beyond a half inch trim before, and my hair was just halfway down my chest. Even though the cut transformed my head into a Mardi Gras of curls, I liked the cut. I wouldn’t have hair below my shoulders again until I was 25.
College led to the epiphanies of the round brush and straightening iron. Had some vaguely mullet-like cuts in there, but they weren’t that unflattering once I tamed the frizzies. I got married at age 20 with my hair just below my jawline, which was unbelievably chic with my grandmother’s Juliet Cap veil, circa 1932.
Now at 26, my hair is experiencing the recession. I haven’t cut it since a half-hearted reshaping in January that I paid too much for. I have a long side bang I cut myself. The rest of my head has reverted to the messy, childish waves I used to hate. The tips of my grown-out inverted bob are just stretching below my collarbone. My husband loves my longer hair, which I find bemusing since it was much more flattering and stylish shorter. Must be a primal male thing. I’ll take the attention, though. After all, as a married woman, whom do I need to impress with my beauty? None but him. Today, I realized that my scanty braids were just long enough to climb up the sides of my head for an almost-there German milkmaid look. I pinned my hair up and stood in front of Will. When he glanced up from his iPhone zombie smashing, his eyes glowed. I never got a look like that with a sassier cut. So we’ll see how long I can go until the next cut. Part of me is curious to see my genetically pre-programmed maximum length. Another part of me misses the frothy curls. But I keep reminding myself that “people pay a lot of money for waves like mine. “ Thanks, Mom. You got through to me and it only took a decade!
At 14 I cut my hair above my shoulders. This was my first major cut, and I chose the layered bob everyone else had. I’d never had anything beyond a half inch trim before, and my hair was just halfway down my chest. Even though the cut transformed my head into a Mardi Gras of curls, I liked the cut. I wouldn’t have hair below my shoulders again until I was 25.
College led to the epiphanies of the round brush and straightening iron. Had some vaguely mullet-like cuts in there, but they weren’t that unflattering once I tamed the frizzies. I got married at age 20 with my hair just below my jawline, which was unbelievably chic with my grandmother’s Juliet Cap veil, circa 1932.
Now at 26, my hair is experiencing the recession. I haven’t cut it since a half-hearted reshaping in January that I paid too much for. I have a long side bang I cut myself. The rest of my head has reverted to the messy, childish waves I used to hate. The tips of my grown-out inverted bob are just stretching below my collarbone. My husband loves my longer hair, which I find bemusing since it was much more flattering and stylish shorter. Must be a primal male thing. I’ll take the attention, though. After all, as a married woman, whom do I need to impress with my beauty? None but him. Today, I realized that my scanty braids were just long enough to climb up the sides of my head for an almost-there German milkmaid look. I pinned my hair up and stood in front of Will. When he glanced up from his iPhone zombie smashing, his eyes glowed. I never got a look like that with a sassier cut. So we’ll see how long I can go until the next cut. Part of me is curious to see my genetically pre-programmed maximum length. Another part of me misses the frothy curls. But I keep reminding myself that “people pay a lot of money for waves like mine. “ Thanks, Mom. You got through to me and it only took a decade!
Monday, February 15, 2010
Snow (Hey Oh)
Snow was in the forecast for Friday, Feb 12. I admitted skepticism, considering that the coast of South Carolina is one of the least likely places on earth for snow. Considering that last year it snowed in Daytona while we had warmish weather. When I left work around 4:30 on Friday, the wind was picking up, but the temperature was a solid ten degrees too warm. Probably not going to happen, I told myself. Best not to get any hopes up. However, by the time I picked Will up from work, it was quite cold. And then it started to rain on the way home. After an hour of rain, we had Snow. I was in the kitchen rolling spring rolls for our Chinese New Year dinner when the neighbor boy pounded on the door. We opened the door and crept out on the porch, awed by the snowfall’s beauty. There was already at least an inch on the car, and the footprints on our front steps were swiftly filling in.
It took a moment to believe what we were seeing, but only a moment. Seconds later, we were gloved, booted, and be-hatted (me), dashing out into the wintry night. It was incredibly satisfying to pelt the 15 year old boy next door with snow balls (I firmly believe teenagers should have things thrown at them as often as possible.).
After getting socked in the thigh by an ice ball Will ducked, I was done with the snow ball fight. So I disengaged and moved to the demilitarized zone, i.e. the end of the driveway. I spun around, feeling the snow brush against my face. And here’s where the night got all romance novel-y. I was caught in strong arms mid spin and shyly peeked up from under my hat brim at my William. He said slowly, “You are so adorable” and kissed me. And then we kissed again to make sure we liked it. Oh yeah. That’s an item off my bucket list.
I scampered back inside not long after that, turned on the Olympic opening ceremony and fried the spring rolls. My first attempt at spring rolls turned out beautifully, by the way. I made about 16, and probably ate 9 or 10 of them. I’m not going to do that again, but spring rolls are such a treat, and they tasted so authentic and fried things go bad fast and, and…Yeah, I paid for it, but it was worth it. With the spring rolls, I served “froggy food,” a stir-fried soy bean (edamame) and pork mixture over rice. Just a little feast for Chinese New Year. Xin nian kuai le and gong xi fa cai!
I went to bed that evening starry-eyed with a belly full of grease. Life was good. The snow stopped falling around 1 am. 4 inches total. Magical.
Saturday morning, I woke up just long enough to push Will out of bed so he could go to Taekwondo. About an hour later I woke up to find a very sheepish William offering me a bowl of cheerios, a strawberry yogurt, and a mug of tea. Breakfast in bed! It turned out that the gym was closed due to the snowfall, and the roads were still slick. I loitered in bed a little longer, but couldn’t stand the inactivity and got to work. I had already taped off the master bath; now it was time to paint. While I brushed the dusty plum color on the walls, I had a very cute view. Will had obviously taken a cue from Friday the guinea pig and was snoozing with just the ends of his hair sticking out. I admit I took some pictures. Blackmail may be forthcoming. Painting the bathroom took about two hours, then I moved on to cleaning the living room, watching the Olympics, and burning things. I’m embarrassed to admit that the front left corner of the living room was still covered in fir branches I cut off the Christmas tree to use for tinder. Ouch. It was appropriately cold, so I kept a toasty fire going all afternoon, burning broken boards from TKD, fir branches and junk mail. My pyromania is satisfied…for now. I played a little WoW and made Will help me hang a shelf in the dining room. By mid-evening the paint dried enough to finally hang the huge round mirrors I bought in August(!) I also swapped out the old paint-spattered switch plates for brushed nickel and put up two black and white art photos my dad took –one of a fern draped over bamboo, and the other of a snail shell encased in concrete. Because snails are totally what someone thinks of when they think of a bathroom. There! Voila! Finished! I promptly collapsed into a hot bath to enjoy the spa-like ambiance (and new paint smell).
After all that physical labor, it was hard to get moving Sunday. We were very late to church. Will’s nose twitched longingly as we walked past a favorite restaurant: Jestine’s Kitchen. After church, I noted that the line to get in was not that long, and we could at least see what the specials were. He nodded vehemently. The specials were pot roast (yum!) and catfish (yum for Will!), so we waited in line, flirting shamelessly with each other. It was windy and cold, but I sure didn’t feel it. During lunch, Will casually mentioned that his phone was very busted, and the Apple store was right around the corner. I laughed, knowing he’d been dying to get an iPhone but wanted to wait until his current phone was good and dead. The surprise was not that he got an iPhone, but that he wanted to get me one too. So now we have black and white, bride and groom iPhones. This is truly a luxury I didn’t know I couldn’t do without until I had one. I love it!!!
After the spending orgy at the Apple Store, Will dropped me off at home for a nap. He went out again on his own and got me hot pink roses and a white case for my iPhone. And then he made lasagna from scratch for dinner! This after I said I didn’t want to do much for Valentine’s Day! What a man I’ve got! What a great, romantic, productive weekend we have.
Sadly, the next home improvement project on my plate is painting the master bedroom. I have a lovely warm gray picked out, but I’m quailing at the scope of it. Five windows and five doors to tape around. Urg. I don’t think that’s going to happen any time soon, but when I get to it, it’s gonna look great. Our duvet is eggplant velvet, and I’m going to mix that with crisp whites and apple green. That should be very sharp, but first, I could use some sleep, because all this happiness is very exhausting.
It took a moment to believe what we were seeing, but only a moment. Seconds later, we were gloved, booted, and be-hatted (me), dashing out into the wintry night. It was incredibly satisfying to pelt the 15 year old boy next door with snow balls (I firmly believe teenagers should have things thrown at them as often as possible.).
After getting socked in the thigh by an ice ball Will ducked, I was done with the snow ball fight. So I disengaged and moved to the demilitarized zone, i.e. the end of the driveway. I spun around, feeling the snow brush against my face. And here’s where the night got all romance novel-y. I was caught in strong arms mid spin and shyly peeked up from under my hat brim at my William. He said slowly, “You are so adorable” and kissed me. And then we kissed again to make sure we liked it. Oh yeah. That’s an item off my bucket list.
I scampered back inside not long after that, turned on the Olympic opening ceremony and fried the spring rolls. My first attempt at spring rolls turned out beautifully, by the way. I made about 16, and probably ate 9 or 10 of them. I’m not going to do that again, but spring rolls are such a treat, and they tasted so authentic and fried things go bad fast and, and…Yeah, I paid for it, but it was worth it. With the spring rolls, I served “froggy food,” a stir-fried soy bean (edamame) and pork mixture over rice. Just a little feast for Chinese New Year. Xin nian kuai le and gong xi fa cai!
I went to bed that evening starry-eyed with a belly full of grease. Life was good. The snow stopped falling around 1 am. 4 inches total. Magical.
Saturday morning, I woke up just long enough to push Will out of bed so he could go to Taekwondo. About an hour later I woke up to find a very sheepish William offering me a bowl of cheerios, a strawberry yogurt, and a mug of tea. Breakfast in bed! It turned out that the gym was closed due to the snowfall, and the roads were still slick. I loitered in bed a little longer, but couldn’t stand the inactivity and got to work. I had already taped off the master bath; now it was time to paint. While I brushed the dusty plum color on the walls, I had a very cute view. Will had obviously taken a cue from Friday the guinea pig and was snoozing with just the ends of his hair sticking out. I admit I took some pictures. Blackmail may be forthcoming. Painting the bathroom took about two hours, then I moved on to cleaning the living room, watching the Olympics, and burning things. I’m embarrassed to admit that the front left corner of the living room was still covered in fir branches I cut off the Christmas tree to use for tinder. Ouch. It was appropriately cold, so I kept a toasty fire going all afternoon, burning broken boards from TKD, fir branches and junk mail. My pyromania is satisfied…for now. I played a little WoW and made Will help me hang a shelf in the dining room. By mid-evening the paint dried enough to finally hang the huge round mirrors I bought in August(!) I also swapped out the old paint-spattered switch plates for brushed nickel and put up two black and white art photos my dad took –one of a fern draped over bamboo, and the other of a snail shell encased in concrete. Because snails are totally what someone thinks of when they think of a bathroom. There! Voila! Finished! I promptly collapsed into a hot bath to enjoy the spa-like ambiance (and new paint smell).
After all that physical labor, it was hard to get moving Sunday. We were very late to church. Will’s nose twitched longingly as we walked past a favorite restaurant: Jestine’s Kitchen. After church, I noted that the line to get in was not that long, and we could at least see what the specials were. He nodded vehemently. The specials were pot roast (yum!) and catfish (yum for Will!), so we waited in line, flirting shamelessly with each other. It was windy and cold, but I sure didn’t feel it. During lunch, Will casually mentioned that his phone was very busted, and the Apple store was right around the corner. I laughed, knowing he’d been dying to get an iPhone but wanted to wait until his current phone was good and dead. The surprise was not that he got an iPhone, but that he wanted to get me one too. So now we have black and white, bride and groom iPhones. This is truly a luxury I didn’t know I couldn’t do without until I had one. I love it!!!
After the spending orgy at the Apple Store, Will dropped me off at home for a nap. He went out again on his own and got me hot pink roses and a white case for my iPhone. And then he made lasagna from scratch for dinner! This after I said I didn’t want to do much for Valentine’s Day! What a man I’ve got! What a great, romantic, productive weekend we have.
Sadly, the next home improvement project on my plate is painting the master bedroom. I have a lovely warm gray picked out, but I’m quailing at the scope of it. Five windows and five doors to tape around. Urg. I don’t think that’s going to happen any time soon, but when I get to it, it’s gonna look great. Our duvet is eggplant velvet, and I’m going to mix that with crisp whites and apple green. That should be very sharp, but first, I could use some sleep, because all this happiness is very exhausting.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Defiance, Compliance...Poop?
February 3rd, Will and I started obedience class for Toby and Frankie. This has been a long time coming, as we've had Toby since September 09 and have had plenty of time to observe and deplore his issues. Frankie came home with us December 30, 2009, and we're still figuring him out. He was a stray, so we're not sure what he knows. Furthermore, he was sick the entire first month we had him, and sickness tends to have a deleterious effect on bowel control. There were some unfortunate consequences for the kitchen floor. Sigh I've been watching him like a hawk, and I definitely don't trust him yet. I guess all this clean up has been good for me. Poop really icks me out. Maybe having dogs is supposed to desensitize me before we have kids. Gross.
The class was held at the Charleston Animal Society on Remount Rd, about five minutes away from our home. That's a good thing, too, because Frankie is afraid of riding in the car, and always raises a fuss. I drove, with Toby in the front seat, and Will and Frankie in the back. Will had both leashes and was coordinating the dogs like that old America's Funniest Home Videos clip where the couple has broken windshield wipers in a rainstorm. The woman ties twine to the blades, and through cracked windows, pulls the wipers back and forth manually. I never got why that clip won. It would have been funnier with two squirming, crying 50 lb mutts instead of windshield wipers.
With a mishap or two, we (Okay, I was the one having trouble. I had a leash with an excited, pulling mutt on the end of it, my purse, and two medical folders in my hands) made it through the door. There were probably eight other puppies. I was worried that Toby and Frankie would be much too large, but there was a sheepdog-type thing, and a year-old labrador mix that were about the same size. I had to laugh when the lab, named Will, was parked next to human Will and Toby. Canine Will was black, with a huge white blaze on his chest and face. The resemblance was uncanny. After the class, Will and I joked that canine Will had his looks and my personality. Whenever I looked at the dog, he was lying down, slobbering cordially. My kind of guy.
Two of the small puppies stood out to me as well: pretty little girls named Izzy and Reesie. Reesie was no doubt named for a peanut butter cup. If I were to guess, I'd say her ancestry was chocolate lab with maybe pit bull? She had a gorgeous, brindled orange-and-brown coat, and her tough-looking owner had decked her out in a pink and brown collar-the same paw-print pattern as Frankie's green and brown collar. I detected a softy.
Izzy was a proud little German Shepherd with a light tan coat and a delicately shaded black snout. Whenever she got a little slack on the leash, she dove to the end of the tether nose first and plopped on her belly with a surprised look. I hope I get the chance to scoop her up during the class, because she's going to be too heavy to carry pretty soon, and I'm dying to give her a good ear rub and chin tickle.
The class covered sit-stays, the "leave it!" command and how to let your dog meet another dog. Frankie sat like a champion, which amused me because at home, he's a slow, apathetic sitter. I guess he was showing off, or the super cheapy string cheese we used is his heart's greatest desire. Or something. At least he liked that. I don't blame him for being uninspired by the hot dogs we also cut up for treats. I wouldn't have touched those either. 88c a pack off-off-brand? Blech. At least my dog has good(ish) taste. We're going to have to practice "leave it" at home with a variety of tasty objects. Frankie has already eaten one of my shoes, and the dogs together shredded an old book with a cloth cover. Thank goodness it wasn't one I was attached to, but I was pretty mad that they made a point of taking it out of the basket on the bookcase. I guess the cloth cover had an interesting smell or flavor? Who knows? I turn to my default answer: Dogs are dumb.
Though my session with Frankie went swimmingly, Will had a war on his hands with Toby. Every time I looked across the room at them, Toby was straining at the end of his leash. He would not listen, he would not sit, he could have cared less about the treats, and every time Will forced eye contact, the expression in Toby's eyes was a hard, bright "[screw] you." I swear that beast slid out of his mongrel mama smoking a cigar. His entire attitude since we've had him has been "Oh yeah? What are you gonna do about it?" He's very strong-willed and high energy. The only thing we've found to calm him down has been schlepping two cans of tomatoes in his saddlebags. I guess that fulfills some psychological need deep in his little canine hindbrain. Too bad we can't take him to class loaded up and strapped in. Sigh. Dogs.
The class ended with a five minute play period off-leash. The puppies slithered across the tile floor quite endearingly. Toby went off by himself after a few cursory sniffs. What's wrong with him? Did he get a cat soul? Frankie went over and made friends with canine Will. I'm sure when they separate the dogs into play groups, Frankie and Will are going to be placed together. And why not? They're big enough to handle each other. A little more running around, and then the excitement got to Frankie and he dropped 4 huge nuggets on the floor. I was so embarrassed. Those tiny puppies made it through an hour, and my nearly 2 year old dog is the one to lose it. The trainers advised us to just not feed them at all next Wednesday so they're hungry for treats and we won't have a reprise. Poop. Why'd it have to be poop?
The class was held at the Charleston Animal Society on Remount Rd, about five minutes away from our home. That's a good thing, too, because Frankie is afraid of riding in the car, and always raises a fuss. I drove, with Toby in the front seat, and Will and Frankie in the back. Will had both leashes and was coordinating the dogs like that old America's Funniest Home Videos clip where the couple has broken windshield wipers in a rainstorm. The woman ties twine to the blades, and through cracked windows, pulls the wipers back and forth manually. I never got why that clip won. It would have been funnier with two squirming, crying 50 lb mutts instead of windshield wipers.
With a mishap or two, we (Okay, I was the one having trouble. I had a leash with an excited, pulling mutt on the end of it, my purse, and two medical folders in my hands) made it through the door. There were probably eight other puppies. I was worried that Toby and Frankie would be much too large, but there was a sheepdog-type thing, and a year-old labrador mix that were about the same size. I had to laugh when the lab, named Will, was parked next to human Will and Toby. Canine Will was black, with a huge white blaze on his chest and face. The resemblance was uncanny. After the class, Will and I joked that canine Will had his looks and my personality. Whenever I looked at the dog, he was lying down, slobbering cordially. My kind of guy.
Two of the small puppies stood out to me as well: pretty little girls named Izzy and Reesie. Reesie was no doubt named for a peanut butter cup. If I were to guess, I'd say her ancestry was chocolate lab with maybe pit bull? She had a gorgeous, brindled orange-and-brown coat, and her tough-looking owner had decked her out in a pink and brown collar-the same paw-print pattern as Frankie's green and brown collar. I detected a softy.
Izzy was a proud little German Shepherd with a light tan coat and a delicately shaded black snout. Whenever she got a little slack on the leash, she dove to the end of the tether nose first and plopped on her belly with a surprised look. I hope I get the chance to scoop her up during the class, because she's going to be too heavy to carry pretty soon, and I'm dying to give her a good ear rub and chin tickle.
The class covered sit-stays, the "leave it!" command and how to let your dog meet another dog. Frankie sat like a champion, which amused me because at home, he's a slow, apathetic sitter. I guess he was showing off, or the super cheapy string cheese we used is his heart's greatest desire. Or something. At least he liked that. I don't blame him for being uninspired by the hot dogs we also cut up for treats. I wouldn't have touched those either. 88c a pack off-off-brand? Blech. At least my dog has good(ish) taste. We're going to have to practice "leave it" at home with a variety of tasty objects. Frankie has already eaten one of my shoes, and the dogs together shredded an old book with a cloth cover. Thank goodness it wasn't one I was attached to, but I was pretty mad that they made a point of taking it out of the basket on the bookcase. I guess the cloth cover had an interesting smell or flavor? Who knows? I turn to my default answer: Dogs are dumb.
Though my session with Frankie went swimmingly, Will had a war on his hands with Toby. Every time I looked across the room at them, Toby was straining at the end of his leash. He would not listen, he would not sit, he could have cared less about the treats, and every time Will forced eye contact, the expression in Toby's eyes was a hard, bright "[screw] you." I swear that beast slid out of his mongrel mama smoking a cigar. His entire attitude since we've had him has been "Oh yeah? What are you gonna do about it?" He's very strong-willed and high energy. The only thing we've found to calm him down has been schlepping two cans of tomatoes in his saddlebags. I guess that fulfills some psychological need deep in his little canine hindbrain. Too bad we can't take him to class loaded up and strapped in. Sigh. Dogs.
The class ended with a five minute play period off-leash. The puppies slithered across the tile floor quite endearingly. Toby went off by himself after a few cursory sniffs. What's wrong with him? Did he get a cat soul? Frankie went over and made friends with canine Will. I'm sure when they separate the dogs into play groups, Frankie and Will are going to be placed together. And why not? They're big enough to handle each other. A little more running around, and then the excitement got to Frankie and he dropped 4 huge nuggets on the floor. I was so embarrassed. Those tiny puppies made it through an hour, and my nearly 2 year old dog is the one to lose it. The trainers advised us to just not feed them at all next Wednesday so they're hungry for treats and we won't have a reprise. Poop. Why'd it have to be poop?
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Haiti
God rest the souls of those who perished in the earthquake. And may he give peace, comfort, and strength to those who survived and are suffering. May help come quickly.
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