Goin' Dutch

Things My Mother Told Me

2010-02-14T05:48:00.000-08:00

I was driving the 40-something miles of farmland along Rte 283 one morning talking to my mom on my cell.

For some, driving through the country is a relaxing pastime. For me, I'd rather be on the parking lot known as the 405 freeway in stop and go traffic. Seriously. At least you can people watch there.

So I'm driving along relieving my boredom by talking to my mom.

Our conversation floated from one topic to another in a sort of haphazard way that only happens with someone that you really know. It felt great as my relationship with my mother has not always been like this. There were years of conversations with the depth and complexity of a shot of tonic.

Lots of filtering. Lots of unsaid things. Lots of skirting around topics. Lots of vague albeit concise answers. During that stage, I could've done great in a courtroom.

Of course, these conversations were preceded by my post-adolescent rebellion. Non-returned calls... screened calls... and voice mails left when I knew she wasn't home.

Now I talk to my mom many times a week as a confident, friend, advisor, and .. well... mom.

So, I'm driving along chatting away with her about this and that. I had just gotten through telling her about a letter I got regarding a fellowship I applied to. It was a form letter saying something along the lines of, "You're great, but so is everyone else... we'll look at your application in a month or so and then let you know what we really think." I told her about this and I heard her sigh.

Then I heard, "Don't let them bitches get you down."

Followed by silence.

"What?!? Mom? Are you there? What did you say?"

But there was no response.

I looked at my phone. Connection lost. And the telltale icon of a big ole red line through a phone.

Now, I know my mom has let her guard down with me. But, I also know that there is no way on God's green earth that my mother said "them bitches." First, my mom would never say them followed by a noun. Although both she and my dad have had their mishaps of attempting to speak street, she has a thing for proper grammar. Secondly, uh... my mom would NEVER say bitches. It's just not in her vocabulary.

I will never know what my mom said. I can't say, "hey mom... remember when we were talking? I could have sworn you said..."
Because I can't even say "that sucks" in front of my mom.
Or Butt.

Butt is a huge four letter word in our house.

Other four letter words? Bra. Tampon. Pad. Panties. Boobs. Breasts. Period.

Imagine a house with 5 daughters in adolescence and not one of them saying any of those words out loud. We had codewords, y'all.

"Oh man, uh... anyone have any supplies? I'm out and it's time."

Sounds like we were a bunch of drug addicts.

Speaking of drug addicts, did you know that if someone is driving the speed limit that they are a drug dealer? Oh, yes. This is a thing my mother told me. You know.... some mothers say utter such sage witticisms as, "A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips, dear." So that every time you savor that chocolate chunk cookie you imagine it glued to your hips for all eternity.

No, my mother never once said that to me. I can eat my chocolate chunk cookie in peace.

However, I can't tell you the number of times we were stuck behind a slow moving vehicle and she looked at me very seriously and said, "Drug dealers! They always go the speed limit so that they won't get caught."

So now, every time I pass a slow moving car, I think to myself, "Drug dealers!'

Of course, in passing them by, I generally end up rubber necking some elderly driver who can barely see over the top of their steering wheel. And I shake my head and think, "Drug dealers get older every year." tsk tsk tsk. Damn baby boomers.

Bra shopping with my mom was kind of a covert operation in which we looked for "tops" in "that section" of the store.

Imagine if you will that one summer, I entertained at children's parties for a company that ran two businesses - Children's Party Entertainment and gay porn. Meaning, when I went to go get my Minnie Mouse costume, I had to dig through the leather section, the bondage gear, and anatomically correct teletubbies to find the innocent mouse costume. Hint: It's the one without the penis.

At the end of that summer, I remember going shopping with my mom during a trip home. We went to Kohl's and she whispered as we passed the lingerie department, "Do you need any tops or bottoms?"

I giggled, imagining the costumes for tops and bottoms in the gay porn closet.

She said, "Oh, no need to be embarrassed, it's just undies."

Nowadays I still filter out the "bad" words. Nary a conventional or non-conventional cuss word will be found. Other than that, I talk pretty openly with her. Despite glitches in our relationship, it's now pretty awesome.

Don't let them glitches get you down.

Little Man and his Mall Mayhem

2009-10-20T16:45:00.000-07:00

In the above picture, the pumpkin's expression is one of reaction to the fact that Little Man is repeatedly stabbing the side of the pumpkin with the "chisel tool". This was not a pumpkin carving. It was a pumpkin lobotomy.

Sorry, Pumpkin.

Today, I took Little Man to the mall, a place that makes his yuppy preschooler heart go pitter-pat. After ensuring that the women in the first 3 stores fell in love with him, he hit up Spencer's.

He played with the stoner lights which are directly across from the Jingle Jugs and about 10 feet from the Penis Pasta. The hipster girl working there fell for his big blue eyes, but paid dearly for it.

Spencer's Girl (as if talking to a baby): Do you like shiny lights?

Nephew: I liked the lights you used to have better. You should fix those right now.

Spencer's Girl just looked at me as if she had just heard him spew Shakespeare. I just shrugged my shoulders. I let him know that saying "fix those right now " isn't polite and that maybe they wanted to show us some new lights.

Spencer's Girl: Well, we have something REALLY cool right now! And she pointed to a fake cauldron light that had "flames" blowing on top. When she realized that she had his attention, she reached up and touched the fake flames.

Little Man: It's not safe to touch that. You need to be more careful.

Spencer's Girl: Oh, it's not real fire! It's just make believe. It's pretend! Would you like one?

Little Man (looking at me): I am all done here. It is time to leave.

We left with him snuggling me closely. Which let me realize that he was much more afraid of the flame light than he was trying to let on.

The next store we hit was the Halloween shop that was put in temporarily. I tried to sell him on the Pirate, Police Man, Construction Worker... and what I thought was the obvious choice, The Fireman. All of these were looked at with disinterest. And I realized, he is a fireman everyday.

He found a Pirate Queen costume for LucyEthel and a tuxedo for Cooper. Then, he let out an audible and happy gasp. He took my hand and pulled me towards his costume of choice. "I could be a huggly, snuggly bear!"

It was by far the cutest, cuddliest costume for a boy there. And he was so psyched.

I pulled it off the rack and started paying for it. It's important to at least pretend you are 10 steps ahead of a preschooler at the mall. While I paid, he literally laid down on the ground as if he was making a snow angel.

By the time I paid and signed, he had 3 Halloween critters in his hands. A snake, a squishy lizard, and a red-eyed rat. I let him play with these lovely items for a bit while I glanced around the store. Once he started to lose interest a bit, I seized the opportunity.

Me: Ok, bud. Time to put the critters back where they live.

Little Man: But, I don't want to.

Me: Do you remember where they live? Can you show me?

Little Man: No. I DON'T WANT TO.

Great. By now, the store clerk was shooting me a dirty "control your child" look.

Me: Ok. I need you to turn on your listening ears. It's time to put them back where they belong. Can you help me out?

Little Man (shouting): NOOOOOO.

Me: Listen, I'm going to count to 3. You have until 3 to put them back all by your big boy self.

Little Man: Don't take them from me.

Me: I won't, if you put them back all by your big boy self. I don't want to take them.

Little Man: It's not NICE to TAKE things. It is NOT kind or gentle. You should be gentle with your friends.

Shit.

Somehow, we made it out of there without the snake, squishy lizard, and the red-eyed rat. At home, he wanted to wear his new huggly, snuggly bear costume for his mom. Of course, he wore it with his fireman boots.

So, maybe he's a huggly, snuggly bear who also happens to be a firefighter. Like Smokey the Bear, only more cuddly.

Dining Room Ceiling: A Painful History

2009-10-11T17:30:00.000-07:00

It started with a drop ceiling.

Foam-like tiles steeped in tobacco for hue and odor.

Heavy beams that crossed these tiles. Marked with hammers to give them an "authentic" look.

That all came down first.

Unfortunately, the ceiling underneath wasn't so pretty. The not so pretty was in part due to cracks in the plaster, but also due to wallpaper that was placed directly on the plaster. No primer. And I by not so pretty, I mean, this was nastier than an outbreak of e.coli on a cross-country flight.

Days of scraping came next.

My nephew can make anything look fun. It was voluntary, please don't call child labor.

Once we scraped and steamed the evil paper off the ceiling... we moved onto other things. Like tearing down the wall... ripping out the gnarly carpeting, getting our kitchen functional... day-to-day house maintenance. Eventually, the ceiling was forgotten. But, not gone.

The dining room was functional. Not attractive by any means, but functional. Once we had the time, energy, and resources, we got help from a drywall guy.

Rather than doing drywall on the ceiling, we decided to go for patching the ceiling first. We wanted to preserve as much height in the room as possible. And we figured you never know until you try.

I spent last weekend scrubbing, spackling, and sanding to get the ceiling as even as possible. It was still looking pretty rough, but it was an improvement.

After a few coats of primer and a ceiling paint formulated for particularly craptastic ceilings... it's looking not too shabby. We'll be adding a ceiling medallion in the near future. In the meantime, here is our almost finished dining room ceiling.

Hellz to the Yeahz.

They Make Stripper Clothes for Dogs... and other things our new puppy has taught me

2009-10-01T07:44:00.000-07:00

The day after I returned from my trip to Austin, my sister had a surprise for us.

She was shaggy. She was silly. And my nephew named her LucyEthel.

Yes, as in the two best friends in I Love Lucy.

"Not just Lucy? Or just Ethel?" I asked him.

"No." He said seriously, "Her name is LucyEthel."

Then he giggled.

"What?" I asked, giggling, too.

"Ethel is a funny name."

Apparently, LucyEthel is not a funny name. It is a perfect name.

At first, we told ourselves we were just fostering her. But, I think we all knew differently. Lucy Ethel would be our newest member of our household.

Here are some things I've learned in the few weeks since she's joined the roost...

Sweet, adorable, tiny dogs can hunt and kill birds. And yes, said bird was flying high above the little terrier. And yes, said bird was nearly given to me as a gift postmortem.
Sweet, adorable, tiny dogs cannot tell the difference between feet and chew toys. Ouch.
Sweet, adorable, tiny dogs are great at finding your absolute most embarrassing pair of underwear and parading them around the house. Can't wait til we have company.
Sweet, adorable, tiny dogs are capable of peeing on the floor if you look away for a second. Pooping generally takes 5 seconds.
Sweet, adorable, tiny dogs are so cuddly and undiscerning that they will snuggle with you through the absolute worst of your bad TV habits (DWTS, anyone?).
Sweet, adorable, tiny dogs are great motivation for aimless walks around the neighborhood on beautiful fall days.
Sweet, adorable, tiny dogs help you meet your neighbors and socialize with others.
Sweet, adorable, tiny dogs might pretend like they can't jump up on your lap (please, pick me up). But, you did see them scale a fence to chase a squirrel... so you should know better.
Sweet, adorable, tiny dogs are more afraid of the fat, declawed cat than they are of the dog who is several times their size.
Sweet, adorable, tiny dogs can be dressed in cute outfits. But, be forewarned, some of the stuff they sell at the store looks like S&M Barbie gear... *

*my nephew picked said slutwear out at PetSmart because, "It is shiny and pink. LucyEthel likes Shiny and Pink." At that point, we had avoided several near meltdowns. Though, parading Little Miss Thing around the neighborhood in hoochiegear might make for some interesting interactions. Then again, someone may have me committed.

Boots Were Made for Walkin

2009-09-02T17:15:00.000-07:00

“One must always have one's boots on and be ready to go.”

Michel de Montaigne

“You can do anything that you wanna do, but uh-uh, don't step on my cowboy boots.”

Hank Williams Jr.

This has been the week of Fireman Boots. Fireman boots that had been neglected for months. Fireman boots that are now a daily necessity.

Every day this week, he has worn these boots. Woe to the auntie who attempts to persuade him otherwise.

Seriously, Woe.

Every morning this week, I have considered battling in new direction. One morning, I even took him to the dreaded mall. One of my least favorite places. Here he is at the mall in his boots.

After exploring the various stoner lamps at Spencers, I bought him brand new crocs. Crocs with a Lightning McQueen thingie.

Bravo, I smiled to myself as he tried them on.

Fail.

He promptly put his boot back on before I could even say, "Auntie is a Rockstar"

Every morning I try a new tactic. Every morning, I surrender.

And really, why not?

I cannot remember anything ever making me as happy as these boots have made him. And so, I think. What harm can they do?

Sure, it's 90 degrees and humid.

Sure, they aren't the best for climbing, running, and jumping.

But he is so stinkin happy.

He has worn these boots ever since The Best. Picnic. Ever. During which we were ushered out of our favorite Bagel Shop during a FIRE ALARM. Which meant he was able to enjoy his bagel with extra schmear while watching THREE FIRE TRUCKS and SIX FIREMEN.

And guess what comes with six firemen?

That's right, TWELVE FIREMAN BOOTS.

We watched one of them take off his gear at the end of the alarm.

My nephew said to me very seriously, "I have fireman boots."

Since then, I think he is wearing them so that he will be ready the next time there is an alarm.

Today, we went back to the dreaded mall. I hate the dreaded mall (which is why, afterall, it is dreaded). On the way in, we saw a sight that is coveted in the hearts of all preschoolers:

The Cement Mixer In Operation.

Jackpot, Auntie!

Right? Right?

My nephew watched them work with wide eyes and a huge smile. One of the workers looked at him and came closer as the others raked the wet cement.

"Hey now," He said to my nephew. "You have yellow boots on just like me!"

He pointed to his boots and then to my nephew's. "You should come and help us out!"

My nephew looked at the man's boots and then his own.

I said, "Look, you have boots like his."

My nephew looked right at the friendly construction worker and said very seriously, "No, I do not. My boots are FIREMAN boots."

Dude, the boy knows his boots.

The Fat, Furry, Balding Women with Acne Disease

2009-08-26T15:36:00.000-07:00

Just over 4 years ago, I was diagnosed officially with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS), which I affectionately refer to as The Fat, Furry, Balding Women with Acne Disease.

No cute acronym for that, folks.

Since I was 11 or 12, I had many seemingly unrelated symptoms that were treated as unrelated (or not treated at all) for years. Which, like so many complicated, fun medical things, is very common for a woman with PCOS.

The thing with PCOS is that it is a syndrome not a disease and so different women with PCOS have different symptoms. Some have a couple of the symptoms, some have all of the symptoms.

Here are some of the lovely, gem-like symptoms that may accompany PCOS:

Irregular or No Menstrual Periods
Acne
Obesity
Weight Gain
Excess Hair Growth
Insulin Resistance
Fatigue
Oily Skin
Dandruff
Infertility
Skin Discoloration
Skin Tags
Depression
High Cholesterol
Elevated Blood Pressure
Abnormal Hair Growth and Distribution (what the hell does that mean?!?)
Hair Loss (Alopecia)

And... drum roll, please... my favorite:

Increased Sex Drive

So, you are losing your hair, growing a beard, gaining weight, breaking out... and are as horny as a 15 year old boy who just discovered the internet.

Yeah.

Amazing, isn't it.

Fortunately, I haven't lost any hair and don't actually have beard. Admittedly, I'm a huge fan of tweezers and am on a very friendly basis with the waxer at the salon. That said, I don't have full blown Hirutism (which translated from Latin is shaggy).

I have, however, had acne since I was 11... along with killer cramps, unpredictable periods, over 40 cysts on one freakin ovary, weight gain, skin tags... and Lordy, Lordy-- am I actually posting all this?

Why am I posting all this?

Here's the thing. After years of not knowing what the hell was going on with my body, once I was diagnosed, it didn't take that long to start to get my body back in order. Well, relatively not that long. I think my body has been behaving itself for about 2 years now. It took about 2 years to get myself on the right program.

Now I'm slllooooowlly losing weight and no longer gaining. Now my skin is relatively clear. Now I'm not in debilitating pain. I'm on the pill 24/7 suppressing my ovulation. I've heard pros and cons on this... but so far, this is what is working for me. And I've been fairly happy to do this and not feel like my body was competing in some biggest gainer competition against my will.

But... my freakin pharmacy (one of the mail order ones) screwed up my prescription. It's a long and complicated story in which they didn't send me my new pack on time... saying that I ran out of my prescription (I still have 4 more refills on a 3 month/pack, assholes).

Basically, in order to fix the snafu, I have to re-submit my script. My dr won't fax it to them... so I have to go into the dr's office and fax it myself to the pharmacy. Then, I have to wait 3-5 days for them to process it... and then mail it to me. (Dude, I am so paying for express mail).

I ran out of my pill on Friday and so I started taking the sample pack from my dr. It's the name brand for the generic I'm on (pretty similar, from what they said).

But here's the thing:

Since Friday, I have gained FIVE FREAKIN' POUNDS.

Are you kidding me??!?!?!

I haven't changed my diet or fitness activity.

You know how I said I've been losing weight sllllowwlly? I lose about 5 lbs in 2-3 months. Which, according to my OB/GYN and Reproductive Endocrinologist is just about right.

I am so trying to tell myself things like...

The 5 lbs will drop off as soon as you are back on the right pill
Extra weight is so not a big deal... it's not cancer
I am so much more than that number on my scale

I'm not doing so well with those mantras so far.

So, instead, here I am venting away.

*deep, cleansing breath*

I'm going to go hide the scale until I'm back on my regular pill. If hiding doesn't work, I'll donate it. I think there is an entire section at Goodwill with scales previously owned by yours truly.

Are You Professionals? Or Amateurs?

2009-08-15T16:02:00.000-07:00

A handful of people will understand the above reference immediately.

For the rest of the world (ie, the lucky ones) here is the backstory...

The question was asked of a group of us film students after spending a weekend of hell (one of many) out in the desert trying to make the impossible happen for the mancub that now posed the question.I remember looking back at our previous weekend and looking down at the burn marks on my arms from said weekend. I had spent a good part of that Saturday underneath a 1966 red Mustang operating a smoke machine of some sort. It was the end of the summer in the desert. Boiling water was dripping down my arms.

I remember coming out from under the car, dirt and dust caked on my face and jeans. A bit dazed as my eyes adjusted to the desert sun. And here is where my memory is fuzzy. I remember that it turned out that there was something wrong with the camera when they took that shot. And I must have blocked out what it is. But, I remember smiling and saying, "No problem," and crawling back under the car.

And there he was, in class, questioning the crew's commitment to the project.

Does being a professional mean doing more than what I did?

Then, Bitch, I am an amateur.

I was reminded of this situation when we looked at tackling the walls in the kitchen. My sister and I want to be proud, strong, resilient, DIYers. Really, we do.

We had done our homework on drywall and were ready to DIY.

And then, as you know, we saw this shit.

And my sister and I both thought, Oh helllzzz no, we ain't messin with that.

Here's what happens when you call a trustworthy, albeit affordable professional...

He might be cute.
He might be nice.
He might also be married. (It can't all be sunshine and roses, suga.)
He might actually know what he's doing.
He might finish in the time it would have taken you to open the bucket of joint compound.
He might restore your faith in home improvement.
He might give you hope that an end is in sight.
He might teach you what he's doing, which helps you realize just how much trouble you would have had on your own.
He might give you advice on other projects and give you the confidence to tackle said projects on your own.
He might be available to do more projects that require a "professional".

So yeah, he's not done yet... but he is close. We'll be able to paint next week.

Hall-lay-loo-jahs. Hall-lay-loo-jahs.

Plan for the Worst... Expect even Worse

2009-08-11T19:41:00.000-07:00

Yo'Kitchen is So Ugly, It Put the Boogie Man Outta Bizness.

Yo'Kitchen is So Ugly, It Took All the Ugly Sticks from All the Ugly Trees to Build It.

Yo'Kitchen is So Ugly, It's the Location For A Very 40th Brady Reunion

Yes, yes... our kitchen is that ugly.

I had thought it was ugly before.

Let me Count the Ways:

Drop Ceiling
Built-in Bachelor Stove (not working since perhaps the 80's)
Floor to (Drop) Ceiling Real Wood Paneling
Little House on the Prairie Curtains
Wagon Wheel Chandelier
Built-in Tea Kettle Clock, Hard-wired for Permanence
Concealed automotive piping used in place of real piping
Solid Wood Door that was paneled - on BOTH sides
Ancient linoleum flooring that is permanently filthy
Outdated Cabinets with Hardware stolen from the set of Little House on the Prairie

But you already knew all of that.

Here's the thing, a kitchen this ugly takes a lot of Time, Energy, Money, and Creativity to remodel. Having less money, means we need more time. Having less time, means we need more creativity.

It's all an intricate balance.

Once we took down the hideous, tobacco-stained drop ceiling, we discovered we would need more time and money before going further cosmetically.

First, we had to tackle the plumbing. Apparently, you really sho

uld have actual pipes for indoor plumbing rather than automotive parts.

Second, we had to get all the electricity up to code. Apparently, those people before us didn't use any electricity (otherwise, it might have killed them).

Third, we had to make the kitchen livable until we had more time and money to make it look less horrific. This means getting a stove, which was an adventure in and of itself, in addition to a refrigerator and dishwasher... and remodeling only what was crucial cabinet-wise.

Finally, after months of looking angrily at the hideous eyesore of a kitchen, we were able to set aside enough time and money to move forward. Having had a break from home improvement, we also had more energy. Most importantly, The Dames came to our rescue once again.

What can I say, they are dykes with power tools. We couldn't live without them... and certainly wouldn't want to.

They. Freakin. Rock.

The Dames helped us to put in our brand spankin' new ceiling.

Having a new, beautiful white ceiling reminded us that the ugliness in our kitchen is temporary.

And we are moving full speed ahead.

But, we hit a road bump.

We knew that anything could be under the paneling.

ANYTHING.

We knew this from experience.

We braced ourselves for the worst.

And yes, it was even worse.

Allow me to present: What Lies Beneath the Kitchen Paneling.

You blind yet?

Here's what you are looking at:

Underneath the hardwood paneling is a layer of what looks like tin foil. Perhaps to guard against the commies?
Underneath the tin foil, is a layer of what looks like wallpaper from Gargamel's Castle.
Underneath the stone wallpaper, is beige and red laminate wall "tile". As well as some black and white laminate wall "tile" from the same application.
Underneath that is not plaster. It's the mortar. Ie, we have no finished wall of which to speak.
The window on that wall was resized SMALLER and reframed ghetto-style with furring strips. Crumpled pieces of foil were thrown in between the actual from and the ghetto frame. Seriously.

Ok... I would have more... but I just can't look at it anymore. I'm starting to get vertigo from the ugly.

Originally, we were going to pull a DIY and drywall this wall ourselves. Then we realized that we love Renovation Realties, but really don't want to be on the show.

So, we are going to have someone fix it who knows what they are doing.

We have plenty of other things to do ourselves... and really... we just need that shit gone yesterday.

Someday, we are going to look back at pictures of our kitchen, we are going to realize how far we've come.

Hopefully, before we lose our minds. Cuz our kitchen is so ugly, Chuck Norris is too afraid to renovate it.

Journey to the Unknown

2009-08-01T22:48:00.000-07:00

About a month ago, my universe was turned on its head.

Not that this is anything new for me. I mean, a few months ago I left a fridgid cubicle in a large corporation for the hot basement of a local bakery. Months before that, I blindly left Austin (which I thought of as a small town) for Lancaster.

No plan.

No job.

A move involved leaving a cushy 2 bedroom poolside apartment for a bed in an unfinished basement in Conestoga.

So yeah, my universe has been doing flips for awhile now.

And yet this particular life changing flip still has me a bit dizzy, unsure, and confused.

Boytoy asked me to stop referring to him as Boytoy.

*record scratch*

He also asked me if I realized we were going on 4 years.

FOUR YEARS.

Four years is the seemingly unending length of high school.

Four years was the time I spent in film school.

Four years.... really does seem to go by faster lately.

"You look sad!"

I realized that he was looking at me while I tried to grasp the reality that he had been in my life for more than 3 and a half years. And that he was keeping track. And what was going on 4 years? Were we in a relationship?

"I'm not sad... I think I'm more confused - or surprised, even. Four years is a long time."

"I know it." He said and put his hand on my lower back.

Party Like a Rockstar

2009-07-28T16:22:00.000-07:00

This is a picture of my nephew after his 3rd birthday party.

Yeah. He parties hard.

Here are some recent quotes and conversations.

"What did you do at school today?"

"I pulled Zachary's hair."

"How did that make Zachary feel."

"He cried."

"That's not nice."

"He's ok."

"I'm glad he is ok. But, that's not very nice. How did you feel when you got the race car stuck in your hair? Or the steam engine?"

"I don't want to talk to you right now."

Driving together I say, "Hello Girls" as we drive past a dairy farm.

His response?

"It's just you and me and the cows, man."

After telling him not to, he drops one of his toys over the half wall and down the steps. I put him in his room.

After waiting for the anticipated wailing to stop, I poke my head in.

"Do you know why you are in your room?"

"The digger flew down the stairs!"

"Did it fly down the stairs? Or did you throw it?"

"It accidentally flew!"

While driving...

"You're driving too fast!"

"I'm driving the speed limit, bud."

"Drive faster!"

While stuck in traffic...

"Why aren't we moving?"

"We're stuck in traffic."

"Why?"

"There are a lot of people trying to get to where they are going. Where do you think they are all going?"

"They are going to traffic. Can you ask them to move?"

Who knew I was so powerful?

Back to the Source: A Hefty Scoop of Reality

2009-06-24T09:13:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, during my afternoon with my nephew, I decided to take him to have ice cream with the cows at Pine View Acres Dairy.

Before I visited Lancaster a year ago, I thought I liked ice cream. After my first taste a year ago at the Strasburg Creamery, I realized that I had never had ice cream before. Not real ice cream, anyway. There is nothing like ice cream from a dairy or a creamery in Lancaster County.

This girl has had a lot of ice cream in her day. I have had ice cream at Berthillon in Paris. I've had Amy's Ice Cream in Austin.

Seriously.

I like ice cream. Good ice cream.

And nothing comes close to the creamy freshness that is available here.

Sure, I love my nephew and my sister. But, the ice cream and the cherries here really did have a lot to do with my cross country move.

So, back to Pine View Acres.

The staff was very friendly and patient as he chose his ice cream of choice (light brown, aka chocolate). I had a ridiculously heavenly and intoxicating Maple Nut. While my nephew and I enjoyed our fantastic cones, large cows were milked in front of us in their enclosure.

It was such a unique experience for a city girl like me. I had never been sitting so close to members of the bovine club.

It was surreal for me. Looking around, we were on a farm. Oh. My. God. I had a moment of "Holy Nowhere, Batman" as I looked around seeing rolling fields and towering silos.

As we finished our cones (or rather... I finished mine and his became a mushy, melty mess), I decided we should go greet the baby cows.

We washed our hands and walked to the individual pens that were all in a row.

I have never been so close to a cow before. I'm not kidding. I don't even remember ever going to petting zoos as a kid.

And here we were, inches from the baby cows.

Two of the baby cows were mooing at us.

One of them came right up to the fence where I was and leaned her nose over as far as she could reach.

I reached over and started to pet her.

OH MY GOD! I was petting a cow!

And she was loving it. She lifted up her head and let me rub her strong, long neck. It was the sweetest thing ever. And see, we both have spots.

My nephew and I talked about the baby cows and named a few of them. He asked me questions about why they had tags and if they eat ice cream. And he lived vicariously through me. He would ask me to pet this one, or scratch this ones ear.

It was a beautiful day, a wonderful time. I felt like The Best Aunt Ever.

I'm in the midst of patting my bad ass self on the back, when two guys came out with a wheelbarrow.

"What's that?" my nephew asked.

"Uh, a wheelbarrow..." I said unsure. I knew it was a wheelbarrow... just had no idea why. I quickly hoped that he wouldn't ask why.

"WHY is there a wheelbarrow?"

"Umm... I'm not sure, bud." And I really had no idea.

My nephew was disappointed in me. I looked at the wheelbarrow. I said to the guys, "What's going on?"

Silence.

Oh Shit.

I realized what was going on way too late.

There wasn't a chance to pull my nephew's gaze from the train wreck. It all happened too fast.

In an instant, the two men pulled the lifeless baby cow from his pen and threw her in the wheelbarrow.

Like a sack of flour.

I had moved to shield my nephew, but it was too late. He saw it clearly.

"What happened to the baby cow?" He asked me.

"Uh... remember when Cooper- Dog wasn't feeling well? And the vet gave him medicine to make him sleepy so that he could take better care of him?"

"Yes."

"Well, they gave the baby cow medicine to sleep so that the vet can take better care of him."

I hated that I lied.

But I didn't know what else to say. It's what came out.

My nephew repeated what I said several times. As if trying to make it stick. Trying to make it make sense.

"He's sleeping."

"Yes."

"They will make him feel better."

"Yes."

It was a lot of reality with our ice cream.

The Ponderables of Prince Akeem (or I think I'm worth a goat and 600 pesos).

2009-06-16T19:33:00.000-07:00

In case you are concerned that my only conversations are with Mr. Toddlerpants, I thought I would reassure you with some snippets of some conversations I've had recently with another new friend of mine.

Prince Akeem works at a mini-market near my house that I frequent quite frequently. His name is not really Prince Akeem and he does not really work at the mini-market. But, I'm doing my best to protect the innocent.

Prince Akeem is a very attractive, very kind man who really enjoys asking questions. He is from a village in Africa and is living in Lancaster now. Which is quite cosmopolitan, relatively.

He is a very liberal, caring person who is very active in some denomination or another of the Christian church. Prince Akeem is working on his English, but is fluent in several African languages and French. It is fair to say that I'm physically attracted to him. He is, after all, physically attractive. That said, I'm eternally puzzled at how to answer some of his questions.

Our first conversation, moments after I introduced myself, went like this...

Prince Akeem: Are you a Democrat or a Republican?

Me: Democrat, Why?

Prince Akeem: Democrat is good. Thank you.

*a moment of silence*

Prince Akeem: Your parents, are they Democrat? or Republican?

Me: Democrat.

Prince Akeem: Really?

Me: Uh, yeah... they sometimes make me look conservative. Why?

Prince Akeem: The Republicans say they are better Christians. Can you tell me what you think about that?

One week later... skipping the hello...

Prince Akeem: Can you tell me when your life is good? And when is your life bad?

Me: Wait, what?

Prince Akeem: Can you tell me when your life is good? And when is your life bad?

Me: That's pretty deep, man.

*several beats*

Prince Akeem: So you aren't going to answer the question?

Me: Well... I guess that life is good when I'm crocheting with my nephew?

Prince Akeem (shaking his head): You think about that one, ok? We'll talk about it next week.

Aye Aye Captain.

I didn't see him for a week because I was sick and didn't go to the mini-market.

Two weeks later...

Prince Akeem: Where have you been?

Me: Aww, no one to answer life's quanderables?

Prince Akeem: Yes. Were you ill?

Me: Yes, but I am much better now.

Prince Akeem: You are beautiful.

Me: Uh... thanks.

I chalked it up to lost in translation (ie: You don't look like you are dying of the swine flu).

Prince Akeem: Do you have children?

Me: Nope.

Prince Akeem: Do you have a husband?

Me: Nope.

Prince Akeem: But you do not live alone?

Me: No, I live with my sister.

Prince Akeem: Ah, that is very good. Sisters should live together.

Yeah. Our little convent of virgin sisters is so very holy and innocent....

One week later, I am later than usual and covered in cat hair... likely looking very flustered after taking Beethoven kitty to the vet for a $400 visit.

Prince Akeem: What happened?

Me: This is what taking a cat to the vet looks like.

Prince Akeem: You have a cat?

Me: I have two.

Prince Akeem (Incredulous): TWO?!?

Me: Yep, crazy cat lady, I guess.

Prince Akeem: Are they boy and girl?

Me: Yep.

Prince Akeem: Are they sentimental together?

When I lived in South Central, there was one particular ghetto house that I lived in which introduced me to the sounds of alley cat sex. Let's just say that it didn't sound sentimental.

Me: Uh... no... They are... um... like brother and sister.

Prince Akeem: Are they brother and sister?

Me: Nah... not actually...

Prince Akeem: Well then, why don't they have babies together?

Me: Ohhh... Um... they are fixed.

He looked puzzled. Damn.

Me: My male cat is neutured.

His puzzlement dissolved into HORROR.

Prince Akeem: Is this something you did yourself?

Suddenly, I saw what he saw.

Me yielding gardening shears.

*shudder*

So, of course, time needed to pass before our next in depth conversation. Never fear, Dear Reader, said time has apparently passed.

For your entertainment, here is our conversation from earlier this evening.

Prince Akeem: So, I forget, have I asked you how it is you feel about gay people?

I have a moment where I really have to focus and remind myself that yes, this is reality and yes, Prince Akeem did just ask me what I think about the queers.

Me: Well, I love all people. I don't just pick out one group not to like.

Prince Akeem: Hmm. That is good. What do you think about them marrying? To me, marriage is between a man and a woman.

Me: Well, I disagree... I believe in civil rights - equal rights.

Prince Akeem: I think that I am ok with being gay, just I don't like the Spirit of gay. Do you know what I mean like that?

I pictured jazz hands, leotards, and bad techno. Is that what he meant?

Me: I'm really not sure, I don't think.

Prince Akeem: I can't think of a good English word for it...

Flaming hot disco queers? Grown men in pink fuzzy speedos?

Me: Are you not ok with... uh... seeing it?

Prince Akeem: I think I am trying to say that I don't like when they want to make other people gay.

whhhhaaaaaaaaaaaat?

Me: Uh... well I think you either are gay or your not gay. It's not something people want to convert you to. I have plenty of gay friends and...

Prince Akeem: GAY FRIENDS?

It was almost as if I said I have vampire friends (or perhaps, more appropriately, fairy friends). He looked at me with eyes that said he didn't actually believe said mythological beings existed.

Hang around me honey... like bees to honey. That's how this hag rolls.

Me: I also have straight friends...

Prince Akeem: I have never known someone with gay friends.

Well, to your knowledge, dear.

In case you are worried that the conversation ended there... it didn't. After awhile... he broke the silence with...

Prince Akeem: When will you get married?

Me: Uh... I have no idea?

Prince Akeem: Will you get married?

Me: Um... eventully, I guess. I don't know.

Prince Akeem: Why not?

Me: I've heard having a groom helps.

Sarcasm. Tool of the Weak.

Prince Akeem: So, when you have a groom, you can say when?

Me: Uh... probably.

Prince Akeem: So, you can't say, one year from now? Or 5 years from now? That you will marry?

Me (nervous laughter): I guess I never really thought about it.

Prince Akeem: Well, what are your conditions?

Me: My conditions?

Prince Akeem: Yes.

Me: For what?

Prince Akeem: For marriage. You do that a lot.

Me: What?

Prince Akeem: Ask a question with a question. Or laugh.

Me: Uh... I guess I don't know what to say.

Prince Akeem: What would a man need to have for a marriage to you?

Images of goats, chickens, and dusty wooden box with the family silver cross my mind.

Me: That's really not something I have thought about either.

Prince Akeem: Does color of skin matter?

What a nice trap. If I say no, am I saying, please pursue me? If I say yes - in order to dodge any potential advances - it's a racist statement.

Me: Skin color shouldn't matter to anyone.

Prince Akeem: It matters in this place.

Which is sick and wrong, but it does matter in many circles in Lancaster.

Me: That's really unfortunate. You know, in Philadelphia, it's really diverse and open-minded.

Translation: Maybe you can find a woman who has favorable conditions there?

Luckily, I had to run out the door at that point.

Being Your Own Best Friend

2009-06-16T11:13:00.000-07:00

Lots of kids develop imaginary friends.

Sometimes the imaginary friends are members of team toddler to help manipulate their environment and exert control. Sometimes its learning to play with others. Sometimes it's companionship. It seems to me that no two imaginary friends are alike.

Lately, Mr. Toddlerpants has a new imaginary friend. Only, the imaginary friend is himself.

Which, as his teacher observed, means that the chances of losing his imaginary friend are slim to none.

Convenient, eh?

His imaginary friend is Baby Kitty.

Baby Kitty needs to be snuggled. Baby Kitty needs to be held. Sometimes Baby Kitty is hurt, scared, or even tired.

Mr. Toddlerpants is never guilty of feeling these things.

But, when he takes on the role of Baby Kitty, he is able to be all of those things or at least some of those things.

Baby Kitty likes to be snuggled by his Mama Kitty. He will say, "I'm so tiny!"

When Mr. Toddlerpants does something particularly brave, strong, new, or big... sometimes he needs to spend some time as Baby Kitty.

For his Mama Kitty, I think it helps her to have her Baby Kitty moments, too.

O Captain! My Captain!

2009-06-16T08:10:00.000-07:00

There are times, more frequently perhaps than I care to admit, in which it is difficult to distinguish who is the boss of whom in my relationship with Mr. Toddlerpants. It is only slightly consoling that his mom seems to constantly reinforce the upper hand, too. But, it's something.

Mom: Ok, your choices are White Milk or Apple Juice.

Toddlerpants: No. My choices are, Chocolate Milk or Apple Juice.

Mom: No, here's the deal: White Milk or Apple Juice.

Toddlerpants: I choose Chocolate Milk. That's the Deal.

Arriving at Salvation Army to drop off donations...

Toddlerpants: I'm going inside.

Mom: I'm just dropping off some donations.

Toddlerpants: I, on the other hand, am going inside.

Driving past farm animals (as we inevitably are). The farm has goats, cows, and horses. Though, the goats are much further away.

Aunt M (joking): Oh- look, there's goats... those are goats, aren't they?

Mom: Oh, Aunt M! You are acclimating! We're so proud.

*beat*

Toddlerpants: Uh...

Aunt M: What's up bud?

Toddlerpants: Actually, Aunt M, those were cows.

Did You Hear What Mr. Toddlerpants Said?

2009-05-29T07:50:00.000-07:00

Mr. Toddlerpants has a birthday coming up. His third birthday. Which means, officially, I can no longer refer to him as Mr. Toddlerpants.

Mr. Preschoolpants just doesn't have the same ring to it.

A year ago when I visited, this was a typical conversation...

Me: What does a rooster say?

Him: Woof!

Me: Woof??? WOOF!?!?!

and we would dissolve into laughter.

Me: What does a rooster really say?

Him: Cock-a-doodle-doooooooooooo!

Here is a conversation from the other day...

Him: Did you hear what Jenny did?

Me: No... what did Jenny do?

Him: Jenny climbed all the way to the top! All by herself.

Me: Oh, wow!

Him: Yes! She climbed all the way up!

Me: Then what happened? Did she need help getting down?

Him: No. She could do it all by herself.

See, now not only do we get complete sentences, but we get the playground gossip from school, too. "Did you hear..." is such a juicy opener.

We were at Target the other day and my sister spotted the perfect gift for his birthday. Since Mr. Toddlerpants was with us, we had to be very secretive so as not to ruin the surprise. I distracted him while she checked it out and vice versa. Then, embracing my inner stealth, I carefully loaded it on the cart so that the picture was not visible.

We were soooo top secret with the whole purchase. He never saw the picture. He never saw where in the store we got it. We were so stinkin proud of our impressive elf tactics.

We got into the car and I carefully slid the box in so that the picture wasn't visible.

Him: What's that?

Me: Uh, it's a big box.

Him: What's IN the big box?

Me: Umm... box stuff. (I think so great on my feet).

Him (looking coy): Nooooo... it's not box stuff.

Me: It's not? Then what is it?

Him (matter of fact): It's a motorcycle.

WTF.

How did he know?

Is it osmosis?

Can he read?

No freakin idea, seriously.

So, the birthday surprise wasn't meant to last until the end of June. His mom put it together for him while he supervised. And, I really do mean supervised. When she was all done, she said, "Here it is, Bud! You're very own motorcycle!"

She was surprised to see that instead of utter glee, he looked disappointed. He started looking around in the box for an extra part.

My sister looked at the bike. It had the handles. It had the wheels. It had the seat. It was all there.

"It's together now, you can ride it. We finished it."

He looked at her sadly. "Where's the clutch?"

Lancaster County. Like No Where Else.

2009-05-26T13:32:00.000-07:00

Ah, scenic Lancaster County.

Where Grandma's Place boasts a bikini clad mannequin selling a motorcycle.

Where, while stuck in traffic along a rural route, you might get passed by a Mennonite man with his full beard, hat, and conservative dress riding his rascal scooter.

It's how he gets the chicks. Pretty fly for an amish guy*.

He passes me by and the opening scene of Office Space flashes before my eyes. You know. Where the old man with his walker passes by the traffic. Only, this isn't Orange County. And there are no offices in sight. Just stretches of corn and cows far as the eye can see (and the nose can smell).

Which makes me wonder how I am stuck in traffic.

Where you can drive by a stone farmhouse (circa 1800) on a beautiful farm... and see the owner... a peroxide blond in a string bikini and daisy dukes. Sure she's pushin 50 and a mower. And her skin brings to mind an Oompa Loompa. But, where else can you see a reality show just driving around? It's like The Simple Life meets The Cougar. Ooh. Real Housewives of Lancaster County.

Yes, Lancaster County, you are unique.

Driving around is just not the same anywhere else.

*I realize he was probably a Mennonite. But Pretty fly for an amish guy sounds so much funnier.

Lucky Bitch

2009-05-20T18:08:00.000-07:00

I am feeling very lucky.

see more Lolcats and funny pictures

Lucky and loved.

As you can tell from my last post, I was feeling really craptastic.

But... to embrace my inner hallmark card writer...

Friends are angels who lift us up to our feet, when our own wings have trouble remembering how to fly.

-Harriet Beecher Stowe

I am lucky enough to be blessed with amazingly supportive friends who did just that for me.

That night after I posted my post about being down, I took a dose of the prescription my dr gave me for the pain and inflammation in my back. Within about 20 minutes, I went from a lil depressed to a sobbing basket case. Which, if you know me well, you know that it's not often that I get there.

I called my sister who lives in Seattle. She's someone I can call in tears and not feel self conscious about it. She's also someone who can provide amazing support and perspective.

It had been awhile since we had spoken, but I didn't hesitate.

Within a few minutes, despite the fact that she was also trying to comfort her teething 13 month old baby girl, she had me more centered and less on the edge.

We spent only a few minutes on the phone, but it meant the world to me right then.

Then, Austin Boy called.

He made me laugh until my sides and face ached. Which is a decidedly good antidote for depressive thoughts. And he helped me come up with some new ideas for what I can do. We talked until we both fell asleep.

And I fell asleep feeling lucky.

Waking up, I checked out the prescription info packet. Warning: May Cause Depressive Thoughts.

Doh.

Cuz when you're already down, it feels freakin' awesome to get your head smashed into the dirt.

The next day, I received a package via UPS from one of my nearest and dearest. Mr. Vegas sent me something that I've wanted for a long, long time. It's a book that I have taken off the shelf many times at bookstores in different cities. I have sat and just stared at some of the graphic color photos, memorized by their beauty.

Baking Illustrated

The ultimate food porn.

Ah, Vegas. You know this girl too well.

Vegas and I drove into the desert together to some godforsaken location soon after we met. It's not everyone that you can spend an hour laughing in the car together so soon after you meet them. But that's Mr. Vegas. He is by far one of the funniest storytellers I have ever met. One of my favorite of his true stories starts off with a shrug and saying, "When I was little boy, I used to play with my mom's breasts."

That statement is generally followed by looks that vary from confusion to horror to disbelief. Then, of course, there are stubborn skeptics like me, who tip their head to the side waiting desperately for a punchline rather than an awful disclosure.

After the dramatic pause, Craig looks surprised. "Oh, not her actual breasts, of course! But I used to sneak her prosthetics, since she had a mastectomy. And sometimes I'd use them as a football."

Of course, writing it can't be possibly as funny as his actual delivery. But, I promise you, it's hilarious.

Vegas also introduced me to Lucky Bitches.

And somehow his package made it to me just in time. And yes, Vegas, I said package for your benefit.

So now, I have spoken to my sister in Seattle, the Boy in Austin, received a package from Mr. Vegas... and I had my normal wonderful hanging out with my nephew and my sister at the house.

So I was feeling lucky and loved by the time I needed to go to work.

After making a delivery in the neighborhood, I returned to my car and discovered a gift bag hanging on my side mirror.

WTF?!?

I looked to my left and to my right.

No one that I recognized.

I thought for a second that maybe the giver of said gift bag mistook my car for someone else's.

I pictured a very sad little girl who should be receiving a sweet gift from her love.

Then, reality hit. I have a toaster oven on wheels with Texas plates.

It sticks out.

So, then, logically, I decided it must be from a religious zealot.

Ok, ok.

That might not seem logical to you. But understand, I don't know many people here.

I was ready to put the bag down on the street.

So, I looked around looking for a man in a cheap suit. A stereotypical JW. Yes. I'm a bad person.

I didn't see anyone that looked particularly like they were groovin for some proselytizing. I looked inside the bag and saw Christmas wrappings.

Ok. Not Jehovahs.

And wait... maybe not Christians even.

WTF!?!?

I hoped that the gift giver wrote the name of the intended recipient on the card. I thought maybe I could leave it in the market for the rightful owner to claim it.

Shocked, I saw my name on the card.

And immediately I realized that the Dames of Deconstruction had gotten me.

They got me good.

I later found out that the two of them were watching me with the gift from around the corner. Laughing hysterically no doubt at my perplexed and shocked state.

The bag was exploding with wonderful, pampering spa gifts and crafty fun items that were each individually wrapped. It was so sweet and lovely and wonderful... and sigh. Chocolates. Did I mention there were chocolates?

Told you.

I'm a lucky bitch.

A little depressed...

2009-05-18T07:27:00.000-07:00

Driving home from the grocery store yesterday, my sister made the comment, "Well, you aren't doing the things that make you happy. I think you are a little depressed."

*Record scratch*

The checklist ran through my head...

Sleeping more.

Check.

Exhausted all the time.

Check.

Unmotivated.

Check.

Disinterested.

Check.

Not going out and being social.

Check.

Not crafting.

Check.

One of the benefits of living with my sister, she knows me so well she can call me on my shit. Which, for me, is something really invaluable.

Once she brought it to my attention, I thought about the factors....

Losing my income. (Not my job, of course... totally different. Losing the shitty job, liberating. Losing the income, depressing.)
Realizing that opening a small business isn't in the cards for me right now.
Hurting my back at the bakery. Pain is depressing. So is having lots of time and not the ability to do things.
Being without a routine or schedule. For a creative, crafty chick, I sure do like structure.
Realizing that working at a bakery long term isn't enough income for me. Though, I love the work.
Loving a boy that lives 1,600 miles away.
Feeling at a loss goal-wise. I love having goals to work for... and a lot of them are shifting right now.
Missing friends that live far away.

Lists always help me divide and conquer.

Or at least gain some objective.

And what I can see from the list is that none of this is too terrible or too much to take on. I am blessed with a roof over my head. And under that roof is my family. A loving sister, a smart and wonderful nephew... a silly, insatiable dog... my old general Beethoven Kitty... Princess Lily-Cat, and of course, the fabulous Mizzzz Chubbbs.

I can come up with new goals and direction. I can create a schedule for myself. I can find a new job.

Things will get better.

In an effort to snap this blog out of a navel gazing extravaganza...

Allow me to explain where my nephew's quote "I want to live on the edge, please" came from.

Basically, he was precariously balanced on the edge of the papasan. Which any of you who have had one of these know, that the dish part of the seat has a tendency to shift in the base of the chair.

My sister said, "Careful, bud, you're on the edge."

His response?

"I want to be on the edge."

We both laughed.

He looked at us very seriously, "I want to live on the edge, please."

Not sure if that explains where it comes from. But, that's the context anyway.

I want to live on the edge, please.

2009-05-14T08:26:00.000-07:00

This morning, that was the request that my nephew had for my sister and me. I want to live on the edge, please.

I'm not even sure if that really is a question.

So much as a statement of fact.

We went to a small festival at a local park this weekend where my nephew was able to live the dream.

Perhaps the highlight of his career as a 2 year old, my nephew was able to climb inside a REAL fire truck.

We arrived at the park and carefully steered past the large inflated bouncing thingamagig and the likewise inflated jumbo suicide slide for preschoolers. We headed straight for the big yellow fire engine.

As we walked closer, my nephew's eyes lit up more and more. Before my sister and I even realized that kids were taking turns getting in the fire engine, he was in line with a huge grin on his face.

He looked at us, "I'm going to take a turn driving!"

His mood was euphoric and contagious.

Jackpot!

He waited for his turn and then scrambled quickly

up into the cab of the truck. He climbed over the passen

ger seat, over the central console, and into the driver's seat.

Destiny.

After driving, he let another little boy have his turn living the dream. My nephew scrambled into the back seat where he got to sit in a jump seat and check out the flashlights, hats, boots, and all the other schtuff that goes along with firefighting.

He was in heaven.

At some point, I heard a mom say, "Uh-oh-- get out of there, we're going to get in trouble!"

Then I heard a dad say, "Wait, you mean the kids aren't supposed to be in there?"

Panic ensued as parents attempted to wrangle their children out of the fire truck.

I looked over to the front of the truck and saw two volunteer firemen who had giant sandwiches in hand.

Apparently, they didn't realize that leaving an unlocked, unattended, open-door fire truck at a children's festival would mean that their cab would be crawling with kiddos.

Doh.

For the rest of the day, my nephew, my sister, and I felt like we had just had the perfect day. We arrived at the perfect time for my nephew to have the ultimate toddler experience.

Which was followed by another coveted toddler experience, bright blue ice cream.

Life is good.

The Yuppie of the House and Conversations with Preschoolers

2009-05-04T20:42:00.000-07:00

My nephew is going to be 3 years old at the end of June, about a month after I turn 30. In my head, 30 calls to mind all sorts of images of yuppie. Khakis. Smoothies. Macchiatos.

Really, though, if it were a competition between the two of us on a scale of yuppie... I would lose miserably to this pint-sized, capitalist powerhouse.

For a time, I felt slightly outcast in my socially conscious, liberal family. Working for a large financial company, tweaking my 401k, drinking Starbucks, and lusting after Audis... didn't seem to jive with my hippie family roots.

On the other hand, my sister is far on the other side of the scale of yuppie. There is barely a trace of yuppie. She's worked for a non-profit for years. She worked on the farm for her share at her CSA. Name brands aren't even on her radar.

So for her son to be a natural born yuppie, it's really quite traumatizing.

It started with cars. The boy likes bimmers (aka beemers). I couldn't even pick out a bimmer in a line up until I was living in Los Angeles. This boy sees a bimmer and his eyes light up. When we drive by the BMW dealership, he says, "Maybe sometime I can take a turn with one of those cars."

This never happens at any other dealership.

So, he has a piggy bank. He wants to save his money to buy one of those cars.

Here are some other hints of his status as a natural born yuppie... or at least 3 going on 30.

Can I have a iced coffee?

I like lattes.

Can I have a latte bar?

When we get home, can I have passion fruit sorbet with a white spoon?

Only a yuppie could like passion fruit sorbet.

Nephew: I got married.

Sister: So how did that go for you?

Nephew: Great!

There are chocolate chips in my ice cream! Mine don't like chocolate chips in my ice cream.

Seriously. Only yuppies are that picky about food. Like the yuppies at the farmer's market. "Is there sugar in your chocolate chips?" "Where does the sugar come from?"

Oh, yes. I would love a latte bar.

I'm going to a meeting now.

Should we go to our little cafe now?

How many preschoolers have a coffee shop that they refer to as "our little cafe"?

My niece and nephew in North Carolina also enjoy keeping us on our toes. Here is a recent recap of a dinner conversation as written by my sister-in-law...

"What makes clouds?"

"Caterpillars turn into cocoons and then cocoons turn into butterflies."

"If you're dead, then how do you get to the cemetery?"

... followed by a long conversation about coffins, hearses, and other things to do with dead bodies ...

Q: "So ... the law says that if two guys want to marry each other, they can't ... right, Mommy?"

me: (giggle) "It's kind of complicated, Q. Did you hear someone talking about guys marrying each other?"

Q: "No, I just was wondering."

me: Something to the effect of ... "Well, in most states, guys marrying guys and women marrying women is against the law, but in a few states, they can."

Q: "Oh. Can guys marry guys in North Carolina?"

Introducing Mizzzz Chubbbs

2009-04-16T09:18:00.001-07:00

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.

I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size

But when I start to tell them,

They think I'm telling lies.

I say,

It's in the reach of my arms

The span of my hips,

The stride of my step,

The curl of my lips.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

From "Phenomenal Woman" by Maya Angelou

Despite the mewing and wide-eyed stares of many playful, perfectly tiny kittens, Mr. Toddlerpants fell in love with the gloriously voluptuous Mizzzz Chubbbs at the Humane League. For weeks and weeks, he asked about Mizzzz Chubbbs and how she was.

Finally, on Easter Sunday, he said to my sister, "Can Mizzzz Chubbbs live here?"

My sister responded, "Will you be gentle with her?"

"Yes."

"Will you take care of her?"

"Yes."

Then, he said very seriously, "I will LOVE her."

What mother could say no to that?

And so the queen-sized feline came home to live with us. With her massive tummy, tiny legs, dandruff covered hair, and very stinky hiney.

Poor girl could hardly fit in the carrier box let alone turn her head to clean her hiney.

Despite the dubious welcome of the other 2 felines of the house, Mizzzz Chubbbs has gotten very comfortable very quickly and is making our house her home. Yesterday, Mr. Toddlerpants was snuggling with her.

He was curled up around her on the couch. I asked him, "Ok, give a goodbye hug and a kiss to her, and let's go."

"I don't want to go, I want to snuggle Mizzzz Chubbbs."

"Well, it's time for school."

"Mizzzz Chubbbs can go to school.""Aw... she can't go to school. Mizzzz Chubbbs needs her beauty rest"

"No, she does not need her beauty rest, Aunt M-"

Yeah, Aunt M-, quit imposing Western Standards of beauty on the feline world.

Sigh.

When he sees Lilycat, he screams and runs after her. With Mizzzz Chubbbs, he is calm, sweet, and caring.

It's inexplicable the trance that Mizzzz Chubbbs has put him under. So yeah. Right now I can't tell if she owns him or he owns her.

Regardless, she is one of the sweetest, most affectionate, and laid back cats I've met.

Last night, while I was at the bakery, my sister brought Mr. Toddlerpants to the store to buy Mizzzz Chubbbs her own brush, food bowl, litter box, and collar.

Apparenly, according to him, the color for Mizzzz Chubbbs is barbie pink.

Pink collar. Pink litter box. Pink brush. Pink food and water dish.

"Why did you get Mizzzz Chubbbs a pink bowl?"

He looked at me like I was a very silly and slightly slow auntie.

"I like brown. Mizzzz Chubbbs likes pink."

Good Day Sunshine

2009-04-16T07:38:00.000-07:00

I need to laugh, and when the sun is out

I've got something I can laugh about

I feel good, in a special way

I'm in love and it's a sunny day

Walking through the parking lot this morning, the breeze was warm, birds were chirping... and it was a sunny day.

And it still is a sunny day!

I can feel it even though the walls of my cubicle are between me and the windows.

It's a sunny day, dammit.

So let them ask me 101 questions.

Let my phone ring off the hook.

Let them nag (and believe me, they are)...

Bring it on.

Cuz ain't nuthin gonna cramp my style today.

Here are a few reasons why:

This time tomorrow, I might still be sleeping.
Or maybe I'll be watching Ellen.
Tomorrow afternoon I'll hang out at the Chesnut Hill Cafe.
Or maybe I'll just veg at home in my PJs all day. Cuz I can.
Next week, I can finally finish moving into my room. Boxes no mas.
I never have to tense up when I feel the ground shake... because it no longer signals the approach of my boss.
Going forward, when the ground shakes, it might be the approach of our newest kitty. And she's all sweetness.
I can put more energy into the bakery, because I won't be going to an energy sucking job all day beforehand.
I won't have to feign interest in minutae anymore and I can put that energy into things I actually believe in and care about.
Did I mention I can veg at home in my PJs all day tomorrow?

One Day More!

2009-04-15T13:05:00.000-07:00

So, one of my bestest of friends said to me via email yesterday that she pictured me today standing on my desk in my cubicle belting out, "One Day More!" from Les Mis.

Yesterday, I was imagining that it'd be more "Beautiful Day."

Instead, today was much more Les Mis in general.

Without Jean Valjean.

And really, the story is miserables enough with a protagonist.

Without... it's just sick.

So yeah, guess who's coming to work tomorrow?

boo.

But guess who's done with work after tomorrow?

Das right.

Ok. That's a close to an entry as I can do today.

2 Legit 2 Quit

2009-04-14T07:39:00.000-07:00

Too legit... Too legit to quit (hey...hey...)

The finish line is in sight.

Despite the lecture I had on bare legs this morning (only the third or fourth since I've started), I've got my eye on the prize.

To celebrate, I filed my taxes while at work... and did many extra trips to the water cooler to stretch said bare legs.

"You feel comfortable without hose?"

"Much more than with, that's for sure."

"I could never have bare legs at the office! I remember the days when we would wear them even when it was 100 degrees because we weren't allowed to wear slacks. You know, you could wear slacks."

Could I?

Could I really?

Thanks for the permission.

Said bare legs are feeling stronger as of late.

I am certain that working at the bakery is as good for my body as it is for my soul.

My sister commented the other day that the bakery job is my version of The Biggest Loser. Friends have said that they could never work at a bakery for fear of ballooning up from the temptation. But honestly, I've never worked in such a physically demanding job. I can feel my clothes fitting better and my body feeling stronger.

So yeah, check out my bare legs.

And Stay Tuned for Tomorrow's Post... Where I will introduce the aptly named Mizz Chubbs, the newest member of our family.

What Lies Beneath

2009-04-13T11:18:00.001-07:00

It has been ages since my last update on the home renovation project. Likely because it has been ages since my sister and I have embarked on any sort of home renovation project. Ages in home improvement terms means 4 months.

During those four months, we had much ado about everything other than home improvement. We had lots of snowday-induced scrambling for childcare, a huge fundraiser for The Humane League, several wonderful visitors from out of town, a funeral in Cleveland, a concussion in Cleveland, and, of course... me losing my job.

whew.

We are just now almost catching our breath. Which is nice.

On the first weekend where we didn't have anything pressing to do, my sister said to me, "you know, you'd feel a lot better in your room if you could put things away."

And she was right. My room was a sea of boxes. Some of them mine, some of them my nephew's, some of them my sister's. Getting in and out of bed was an aerobic feat.

We had a bookcase I could use.

And then my sister spoke brilliantly, "You know, if we could get that nasty carpet out, I bet your room would feel much better."

I'm not sure if the above picture truly conveys the horrors of this carpet. It was scratchy, thin, worn carpet in a very odd mixture of camo greens and browns. The carpet looks more like astroturf in that picture. And the texture was like that of astroturf. But the color was more like that of split pea soup and gi joe brown mixed with random bits of yellow and beige.

I kind of feel like it's what happens if you indulge in too much split pea soup and vodka.

But regardless of how ugly the carpet was, nothing could have prepared us for what was under the carpet in my room.

We had peeked under the carpet before purchasing the house and knew that there were wide planked, painted wood floors beneath the carpet under one of the corners. But, we had not seen all of the floor.

Here you can see some white painted planks under the carpet in one side of the room. Nice, Right?

Sure, I knew that in the tv room, there was some lovely Armstrong tile permanently placed with roofing tars by Panelson MacGuyver as pictured below.

But, I imagined my bedroom to be all lovely wood flooring that could be painted easily.

Yeah... I'm a fool.

We pulled up the carpet to reveal a border of laminate sheets placed around a large, vintage linoleum sheet carpet. The likes of which I have never seen before.

A fake rug. Laid down on a partially painted, partially unpainted floor. With scraps of laminate wood flooring dispersed here and there. The laminate may have been used to let the carpet lie flat over the linoleum "rug".

Which was not only ugly, but was not treated properly. So it was very porous and completely caked with decades of yechiness.

Pulling the carpet up, pieces of the linoleum tore like paper.

So in case you were wondering if this antique was worth anything...

it really couldn't possibly be anymore.

Admittedly, it was highly therapuetic to break it into pieces. Especially since I think it was made by the same company that just laid me off. heheh.

Oh, and under the laminate pieces, we found sections of a newspaper from 1966. So, I believe the split pea soup vomit carpet was from then.

Which makes sense. I mean the 60's were all about the great colors, weren't they? That is, if by great colors you mean wallpaper inspired by sinus infections...

Three is a Magic Number

2009-04-13T06:56:00.000-07:00

Three time ten is (30 - Keep going), three times nine is (27),

Three times eight is (24), three times seven is (21),

Three times six is (18), three times five is (15),

Three times four is twelve,

And three times three is nine,

and three times two is six,

And three times one... What is it?!

Three!

Yeah, That's a magic number.

When was the last time that you needed to do mental math? For me, when math needs to be done, I automatically alt+tab to the nearest excel workbook and do my math there. And I never really have to do mental math at all.

When I go to the grocery store, I do a rough estimate in my head of what the total will be... but I never even bother factoring in the taxes. It's done for me by that newfangled contraption called a cash register.

I use cash so rarely, that I don't have any change to count or bills to add. It's just a quick swipe of the debit card and voila! It's done.

My never stellar mental math skills have fallen to the wayside.

Which, as I've discovered, makes both baking and selling bread trickier.

Doh.

All of the recipes for the mixes that we do are counted in ounces. And of course, we don't measure in ounces, we measure in pounds.

I looked at the numbers... 96 oz of x flour. 74 oz of y flour. 129 oz of water at 76 degrees.

And my head hurt.

"Do you remember your 16 tables?" The kindly baker asked me when he saw my obviously perplexed state.

"Uh, my what?"

"You know, 16 times 1 is 16. 16 times 2 is 32...16 times 3 is 48..."

"Oh... those tables. I think I only learned up to 12," I responded, and realized that I didn't even remember those.

"Well, we use the 16 tables a lot, so you might find yourself learning them!" Which honestly, the baker sounded very gleeful that he was giving me an opportunity to learn said tables. It reminded me of my Dad, a former math teacher, and his insatiable interest in my algebra homework when I was 15. What could have taken 30 minutes to do would take hours. He enjoyed the process of learning that much.

So yeah, I've re-entered the 4th grade and am memorizing a times table.

But, you know, that's not so bad. I can handle that. It's something I can memorize and have in my head. And there are only so many recipes that we use. So, I can seemingly just memorize the ounces to pounds measurements that we use regularly.

Whew.

I thought I was safe from calculating things in my head.

And then, on Saturday, I worked at the Farmers Market at Clark Park in Philadelphia.

The baker has a cash register, which was a huge relief to me. I figured I'd just type in the amounts and it would tell me how much change I would need to give someone.

Easy Peasy.

Then I saw said cash register.

It's a toy. It doesn't actually function other than to hold bills.

Doh.

At first, it was easy. Lots of people were buying the $4 bread an paying with a 5 spot. Yayy!

Whoot!

Then, it got complicated.

People were buying several different things, all at different prices. I was having trouble remembering the prices that I just learned for all of the different products. Then, combining them together in my head was proving difficult. Especially when there were several customers at the same time.

Then there was the change.

Oh... my head hurt.

And I'd be lying if I said I made no mistakes...

Luckily, the baker was helping me since it was my first day and was able to prompt me when I actually owed someone an extra nickel or quarter.

That said, it was unnerving and frustrating.

Total is $9.75.

Customer gives me a $20...

I start counting it out...

Customer says, wait! I have a $10!

And hands me a $10 and $0.50...

Another customer asks how much the matzo is... $2.50

I lose count on the $10... am I counting to 20 or to 10?

And another customer is asking if the biscotti is organic and how much is that?

Oh, and where do we get our sprouts? Are they local?

What are the 7 grains in the 7 grain bread?

What's the difference between the Sourdough and the 3 day sourdough?

And the thing is that it wasn't even that busy.

It rained the entire day. Which means that fewer people were at the market buying.

And yet, it was busy enough for me.

Despite the fact that my feet and legs were completely soaked within the first hour and that my head was aching from trying to remember everything... I somehow managed to keep my composure.

That said, next time I'm bringing a calculator!

I don't think you can train yourself to do mental math. I have never been good about adding, subtracting, multiplying, or dividing in my head.

Oh... and I think I need those weird rubber pant things that fisherman wear when they wade in the water. I could totally rock that look... especially if it means not being cold and wet all day.

No More Than Four

2009-04-09T08:20:00.000-07:00

Last night I had my first weeknight off from the bakery since I started. It was an odd feeling to go home after a day at the office and not immediately dash out the door.

When I first got home it was to a quiet house. I let out the dog, pet and fed the kitties, and dressed into sweats.
Then I looked around.

What to do with myself?

I had flashbacks to my life in Austin and plopped my ass on the couch and flipped on the tv. Within a few minutes, I heard the sweetest voice coming up the stairs, "Aunt M-, are you going to be so excited?"
How could I not be excited?

I feigned surprise when after a slow, steady, thudding walk in his fireman rainboots, he peeked his head around the top of the stairs and said, "Are you surprised, Aunt M-?"

My sister, nephew, and I dyed Easter Eggs in greens, blues, oranges, and yellows. At one point, my nephew was strutting around like Rocky. He'd hold his hands up high in a V for Victory with an egg adorned with his artwork in each proud hand.
Of course, due to the commotion and the force of gravity, one of the masterpieces tragically fell to the ground. The egg shell cracked into pieces around the hard boiled center.

He looked at it and then us in dismay. "It Broke! I need a better one!"

It was a tough lesson to learn, that eggs aren't built like baseballs.

After we dyed Easter Eggs, we made pizza. The lesson for that activity was: Do Not Put your Tongue on the Dough. The broken egg not being like a baseball was a far easier lesson for him to grasp.

Another tough lesson from last night: When your mom and aunt are watching a hot, shirtless frenchman dance on Dancing With the Stars, that is not a good time to start throwing things and testing our patience.

As his teacher has said, he is in a stage where he is testing, testing, testing. And we are teaching, teaching, teaching. And enforcing, enforcing, enforcing.

Here are four things I've learned since finding out my position was eliminated:

I have an amazing support system.
Sometimes it takes getting a kick in the ass from fate for good things to happen.
I love working with people who have similar morals and values to my own.
The more I do things that I love, the stronger, healthier, and more alive I feel.

Five Easy Pieces

2009-04-08T06:35:00.000-07:00

Yesterday during lunch, I went and got my eyebrows did. It had only been a few weeks, but normally in between brow waxes, I do a lot of tweezing, snipping, and combing. This girls got brows.

As my last day draws closer, my interest in getting ready in the morning diminishes further and further. I've gone from darting out the door made up and dressed well just in the nick of time... to dragging my lazy, barely dressed ass out the door well after the time I should BE sitting pretty at my desk. I comb through my hair as I drive and think to myself, "whatever" as I glance at myself in the mirror.

Yesterday, though, I caught a glimpse of my brows in the rearview mirror. It was as if my brows had grown brows.

Yikes.

One of my coworkers stopped me as I was stacking 15 boxes. One of the few coworkers that gets it and gets me.

"You're wearing heels? Shit, if I were you, I'd be rollin in here in my sweats!"

Which made me feel better about the shock of undomesticated fringe on my brow.

Better, but not great.

So, at lunch I drove myself to the Korean nail salon. I walked in, pointed to my brow and said, "Help me!"

The women in the shop giggled at me as they looked up from their work.

Two of the women took me into the back room. Yes, two.

At first, I thought that they were both going because they felt that they would need two brow wranglers to get through the thicket.

Luckily, the older one was training the younger one on how to do it.

And really, what a better way to learn than on monster brows?

There is something very cathartic and therapeutic about getting your eyebrows waxed. Sure, it hurts like hell and turns my pasty skin into ragin red hue. And sure, it's odd to lie there and listen to two women chatter and giggle away in Korean while they torture your brow. But, it's just amazing how much of a difference it makes.

After the throbbing died down and they snipped and tweezed and tamed away... I sat up and looked in the mirror.

Two perfectly manicured brows.

And I felt control and composure.

They charged me $5.00 for the taming of the brows.

Seriously, $5.00.

Walking a little taller as I headed out the door, I realized that I have just 5 more days.

5.

That's not a high price to pay.

Exhaustion. SixFold.

2009-04-07T06:31:00.000-07:00

My body aches.

Shoulders, back, stomach, sides, arms, legs, neck, chest.

Everywhere.

And I'm sooooooooooooo freakin tired.

Yup... I'm a whiny bitch today.

Yesterday, I cleared out 3 file cabinets. Cabinets with files went back to the 1940's. Cabinets that after sitting ignored for decades suddenly needed to be cleared out ASAP.

One of the managers walked by while I was filling and stacking the cardboard boxes with the dusty records.

"Wow, they really are making you work for that severance, huh?"

But, like I've said before... I'm a stubborn lass.

After work, I grabbed a sandwich and my crappy old sweats and raced off to the bakery.

I worked late last night lifting, slicing, moving, sweeping, scrubbing, and mopping.

I got home well after 11pm and my feet were screaming at me.

All that said, while I was at the bakery, the hours were indistinguishable from the minutes. When it was time to leave, it was as if I had just gotten there.

Whereas every minute at my day job crawls along at a snail's pace.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m3Kgj6EiZtw

I would embed the above, but Big Brother blocks youtube.

It's They Might Be Giants "Never Go To Work."

Six more days. I can do it.

Seven Wonders

2009-04-06T06:05:00.000-07:00

Seven things my coworkers have said that have made me go, "Hmmmmmmm".

On Abortion: Mark my word, Rampant Abortions are going to cause the next job crisis... all these baby boomers are going to have jobs that need to be filled and the next generation is aborting the future generation.
On Gays: Well when it's biological, I don't mind-- it's when it's a DRUG that I mind. When people are using Homosexuality as a new DRUG that they are trying, that's the problem.
On the Death Penalty: I'd take them out back and shoot them one by one if I could.
On the Puerto Rican population in the city: It's all those Spanish!
Or: There are too many Mexicans!
On Obama's Inauguration: He's been hiding all his blackness. Just wait until his blackness comes out, then people will realize what they voted for.
On Bush Leaving Office: The Son of God has left the office in disgrace. Just wait until people realize his legacy for the unborn. Then they will know their sin.

Are you still wondering why I'm relieved to not have to come here everyday?

Smitten

2009-04-03T10:14:00.000-07:00

Many of my friends have emailed to ask me for details on Boytoy's visit. My confession is that I have withheld details, stories, information, and yadda yadda yadda.

Which is not really like me.

First of all, I think that I hate being wrong. And I really hate admitting when I'm wrong. I mean, it happens so rarely, that I'm just out of practice.

And I was wrong about Boytoy.

There. I said it.

I was wrong.

I said that he would never visit me here.

Sure, we talked about it. And he always said he would. But it's so far out of his element, that I didn't believe him. I couldn't imagine him making that kind of gesture. And I couldn't imagine him in Lancaster.

And so when he arrived, I was in shock.

and really kind of flattered.... and excited...and nervous.

We had an awesome weekend. He opened up more to me than he ever has before and I did the same. There was no awkwardness at all. Just a really wonderful, fun weekend that I did not want to end. We hung out at local pubs, with friends, and around town. It was chill, sweet, and very fun.

And, he fit right in. With my friends, with my family, with my life.

Oh, and he made me realize that I'm not giving this place enough credit. He told me that I made Lancaster sound like Buda, a tiny railroad town in Texas. When really, it's more like Austin was 25 years ago. Lots of local artists, friendly people, and fresh produce.

Damn. I'm wrong again.

For the first time in the almost two and a half years since we first hooked up, I felt like we were a couple. And it didn't feel scary. It felt nice.

One of my friends said to me during my last month in Austin, "You know, you gave him a name this week." Which means that I called him by his real name instead of referring to him as Boytoy.

I think that when I moved away, it made me realize how great it was to be with him.

Yes, he is GU (geographically undesirable). But maybe that's the level of commitment that this girl can handle for right now.

So yeah, I'm feeling smitten.

Eight is Enough!

2009-04-03T06:08:00.000-07:00

Yesterday late in the day, I had a huge realization. My company is closed on Good Friday. Which means there are only 8 more times that I will drive up to my building, walk through the halls, and sit in the storage area (aka, the cubicle that I've been reassigned to). Sure, these will be 8 tough days. They are piling the work on me, perhaps in an effort to convince me to quit before my time is done.

But, I'm a stubborn lass who needs her severence.

I'm also a stubborn lass who believes that 8 days is a small price to pay.

After work, I was so tired driving to the bakery that I took the wrong way down a one way street. Doh.

Luckily, it was a small residential street. Although I had many very irrate residents discussing the situation at hand with me. Once I realized why they were yelling at me, I thought, "What am I doing? I'm too tired to go to the bakery. I need to go home."

I thought about pulling a U and going the right way on the one way and heading home.

Instead, I cut through an alley and made it to my destination.

When I started slicing the bread, I was tired and crabby.

By the time I got to mixing, I felt calm and content.

For the first time, the mixing formulas started to make sense. The next step would pop into my head before I had a chance to even ponder it. The letters in Greek suddenly spoke to me.

It felt invigorating, exciting.

8 more days is cake.

P.S. If you are sick of reading my countdown, I am planning on posting on some of our house renovation this weekend.
Warning: This post will involve Vodka + Split Pea Soup Vomit - Colored carpet... and what lay beneath the carpet was even more disgusting.

ir-i-spon-si-ble [ir-re-spon-suh-buhl]

2009-04-02T06:36:00.000-07:00

I'm feeling slightly irresponsible. There are jobs out there to apply for; there are job fairs happening in town to go to. In the past, even at times when I was gainfully employed indefinitely, I was religiously checking job postings. Just in case.

Right now, I'm just not that into it.

I know the economy sucks. I know that I am lucky to have the time to find a job. I know that I'm lucky to live in a town (*ahem* city) where there are actually still jobs being posted.

But...

I just not that into it.

I don't want to be at a desk right now. No more cubicles. No more faxes. No more admin's dirty looks.

Mags girls: No more Cubicle, No More cube-i-cal, Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey!

For years and years and years, I have wanted to be able to at least try to do something creative, hands-on, and true to myself. I think I've finally hit the point where I am having a helluva time considering settling for anything less.

What would I do if I had no fear?

That is, I think, what I'm finding out. I am standing on the edge, afterall.

My free-spirited friends say things like, "Let go and the universe will take care of you." My religious friends say, "Put it in God's Hands."

And I think... shit, must be nice to have faith.

I'm trying to embrace my inner free spirit (Come out, Come out, wherever you are!). I'm letting down my guard of practicality and responsibility.

Somehow, things are happening.

All of a sudden, I have choices. Real actual choices. And all of them are stirring a creative energy and excitement in me.

I'm working at a local, organic bakery and learning so much every night. Last night, I learned out to make Lavash! I'm finding opportunities at every turn... paid work on sets, a potential coffee shop partnership, local venues for selling my work, and even an opportunity to help my favorite moms-to-be with their little bundle of joy once she/he arrives.

I am finding that despite the exhaustion that comes with working 12 hour days, there is a huge fringe benefit -- I am feeling ALIVE and GOOD.

After 8 hours in the office, I am crabby, tired, and just meh.

Then, I go to the bakery and feel invigorated.

Maybe being responsible and working a day job all these years kept me financially afloat. But, I don't think it did much for my soul.

Ok... enough navel gazing for now.

11 Días Más

2009-04-01T07:14:00.000-07:00

Here are things that I will miss...

Tickling my boss first thing in the morning. How many jobs do they tell you do that? To be fair, they meant "Hand him a tickle file", ie a reminder file. But, to be honest, saying, "Be sure to tickle him first thing in the morning, that's when he needs it and wants it most" really doesn't translate well. I'll miss saying, "Did you tickle your boss today?" and, "Oh, I tickled him right away!" It's too bad that I'm the only one here that giggles about that.
Being able to spend lots of time on the internet because the others here don't know what it is or how to use it. Seriously. They refer to the internet as the home page that our company has. And they don't know what an address/link/url is.
Having the status of being "the exotic girl" of the office. I'm a pasty white girl originally from Ohio. I've never gotten to be the exotic girl before. It feels hot.
Missing out on the one day when one strand of my coworkers hair finally gives up and becomes unfeathered. Apparently, it has withstood the test of time and fashion and has remained perfectly feathered since high school.... which was a very, very long time ago.
Losing endless amounts of material that I use to entertain my sister when I get home.
Witnessing the battle of the Conservative Christians versus the Employee Counseling Program. It was so much fun to see one group hiding the materials of the other and replacing it with their own paraphenila. "His Way or No Way" cards in place of "Caring Counseling."It was more drama than a soap opera.
Having something to bitch about. I might go through withdrawal.
Getting that little thing called a paycheck.
Wearing my work clothes. I do like to wear cute work clothes.
Going to the gym. Oh wait, I wasn't even going anyway.

And the Countdown Begins!

2009-03-31T10:58:00.000-07:00

My 5 year old nephew in North Carolina makes countdowns for all of his most exciting and celebrated events to help him get through the waiting period. And yes, I have an exiting and celebrated event approaching.

Yes, I might be hurting financially before too long. And yes, it's not the right economy during which to lose your job.

That said, here are some things that I won't be missing...

Overhearing, "Judas Priest!" in the next cube approximately 10x's a day. I think she uses that "colorful language" instead of saying fucking monkey balls. Just a guess.
Coworkers coming up and patting me on the shoulder while muttering such things as, "Lord be with you" and "God Bless" and "God Love You." Or better yet, "Oh, we loved you so much. You were such a nice girl." Checking my pulse, I am still alive.
Being asked, "Are you still single? Maybe you should come to my church and see if you can't meet a nice young man." Aww, are all the old assholes at your church taken? Must be because I've been single for too dern long.
10 emails in 1 hour over what color we should use for appointments versus meetings on calendar entries.
Said topic used as topic for next Admin Meeting. Which is scheduled for 1 hour and lasts 2.
Getting reactions like, "My Word" and "Good Night!" For example: "Oh, yeah, I already did that and am working on the next one." Response: "GOOD NIGHT!" Which, I guess is more like "Holy Shit!" than "You can go home now." Big disappointment.
Sitting at a desk for 8 hours and pretending like I care.
Color coding spreadsheets to make them look like Easter Cards.
Lotus Notes.
4 months of Intense Holiday Sweater Hell.

Shoes of Evil

2009-03-26T06:07:00.000-07:00

The above bubblegum pink shoes are evil. They look so innocent with their candycoated heels and cotton candy fun fur. But, there is something obscene about flamingo pink drag queen hooker shoes sized for a little girl.

I knew something was wrong with my nephew trying on these offensive fuschia stilettos.

Not because he was a boy wearing girl's shoes, mind you. Afterall, I think it makes me even queasier to picture a little girl wearing hot pink high heels.

We were in Cleveland for the weekend and he was being such a good trooper and travelbuddy. Really, whatever he wanted to play with was fair game... so long as it wasn't anything overtly unsafe.

Sure, I thought it was odious that these vile shoes existed, but must admint that I was giggling at my nephews slow walk in the furry slippers.

But, then I found out that these "darling" shoes are actually lethal weapons.

I leaned forward to get a better look at the silly shoes and my nephew kicked up his foot to give me a better look. It was like Laurel and Hardy. The shoe flew off his foot and hit me just below the eyebrow. I heard a very, very loud thud and my head snapped back.

My nephew and two of my sisters looked at me in shock. Making a big deal out of an injury around a toddler doesn't do you any favors and the shock of pain was wearing off quickly.
"Well, at least I wasn't wearing my glasses. They would have broke!"

And we went on with our day.

Well, at least they did and I attempted to.

Shortly thereafter, I was dizzy, exhausted, and had a royal headache. I thought it was because I needed coffee. So, I decided to borrow my brother's car and drive to the coffee shop.

And I did.

I got to the coffee shop that was just a few blocks away. I was so uncoordinated, that I spilled my coffee everywhere.
"Wow, I must be really tired."

I headed back to the house and went downstairs where my nephew was playing with my dad. I felt really nauseous and things started to blur a bit.

There was talk about leaving to make the 6 hour drive from Cleveland to Lancaster. So, I decided to go upstairs to start to make sure everything was packed.

Then the earth moved, and my belly was displaced with it. I started throwing up, thinking, "Oh, I guess I have the flu."

Before I knew it, I was shuffled out to the car like a drunken sailor. After a few hours of having things waved in front of my face and giving everyone in the ER something to laugh about ("Wait, they were PINK high heel shoes? For little girls?"), I was given a Cat Scan. Apparently, the tiny slipper hit just the right spot with just the right force.

Et voila!

Concussion.

Sure gender stereotyping in toys seems innocuous, but it can kill.

Life, the Wha-Who-Nah-Verse, and Everything In It

2009-03-17T13:05:00.001-07:00

My nephew has entered a new stage where he is very curious about everything. Here are some of the questions and topics that have surfaced recently.

The BIG Bang.

Above is a picture of my nephew explaining The Big Bang. I really do have to get a video of this. He starts off explaining that there was a very tiny hot point that expanded with A BIG BANG. Usually when he gets to that part, you need to watch for flying markers, magnets, toys, etc. Because he will demonstrate said bang with projectile objects. Then he'll get serious and say, "and the galaxies are still moving apart and expanding!"
He might also quiz you on Red Giants, Cepheids, Super Novi, Edwin Hubble, Galieo, The Hubble Telescope.... and all things related to the Universe.
Oh- and he has become an even bigger fan of cinnamon bread from the Market because, as he noted, "It looks like a spiral galaxy like ours!"
I'm thinking that he'll enter the next stage very quickly, which is where he realizes that his aunt and his mom actually don't know everything.
For now, I am in love with Google.

Hineys.

We have been attempting to create some interest in using the potty. Of course, with potty training comes the realization that he has a hiney and a penis. Which, he seems to have realized before, but now he seems very, very interested in talking about hineys and penises (is that the plural of penis? It looks weird...).

We bought him a potty seat to place on the toilet for when he is ready for potty time.

Nephew: Why do I have a potty seat?
Mom: Well, because right now, the toilet is too big for your hiney. When you get bigger, you can use the toilet without a potty seat.
Nephew: I have a little hiney. YOU have a BIG, BIG HINEY!!!

Which is exactly what every woman wants to hear.

That same week, he was strutting around the dining room like a cowboy or something while wearing his green blanket sleeper (pictured in this post). Total man strut in his dino pjs. I thought it was hilarious. I pointed it out to his mom with an eyebrow lift and said, "Wow, Bud, You are such a big, big Boy!"

He turned towards me and shouted at the top of his lungs, "And I have a big BIG PENIS!"

It starts so young.

When my aunt, a bio professor, was watching him the other day, he asked her, "What is Life?"

And really, who better to ask than someone whose life work is biology and genetics?

Soap

2009-02-26T07:34:00.000-08:00

Last week, my nephew was in a committed relationship.

With a bar of gold dial soap.

Man soap.

He clenched that man soap in his tiny hand as if his life depended on it.

The soap went to the store. The soap went to school. The soap went on playdates. The soap went to bed with him.

By the end of the week, the soap was dented and bedraggled. But, it was still intact.

“What’s that, bud?”

“My Soap”

“What does it smell like?”

“Flavor.”

“What flavor is it?”

“A different kind of flavor”

“Can I have it?”

“No, I keep it safe.”

The entire house smelled like Dial soap. And then the relationship with the gold dial soap ended as suddenly as it began. Which was a huge relief. We had no idea where the man soap had come from. And we assumed that that was the end of it.

Then, I moved out the rest of my stuff from my apartment. And several bars of blue dial surfaced. Which is just plain bizarre. I have never in my life bought dial man soap. Afterall, I’m a sturdy Irish lass with delicate Irish skin.

Perhaps the universe that Atticus loves so much is returning the love by providing him with an endless supply of Dial Soap?

For me it's just annoying. For my sister, it seems that she has actually developed an allergy to said soap.

Dear Universe,
Thank you for providing such wonderful topics for my nephew as The Big Bang and Cepheids and Super Novi. Please, no more soap.
Thanks.

House Mouse

2009-02-25T10:07:00.000-08:00

The other night, my sister, nephew, and I were watching what my nephew refers to as "The Wha-who-nah-verse", which is a Discovery Kids show about The Universe. The host says phrases like, "Let's Party with the Stars" in between long documentary portions about the universe. The documentary portions feature poorly dressed astrophysists with immensely large glasses explaining things like black holes, white holes, WIMPS, MACHOS, and ... my nephew's favorite: THE BIG BANG!

Anyway, we were all comfy cozy in the tv room learning all about the wha-who-nah-verse. My sister and I would crack silly jokes while my nephew took in the program with full, avid attention. At some point, my sister said something about how there should be a What Not to Wear episode just for the fashionably inept astrophysists of the program. Then she got this look of horror on her face.

I thought to myself, well the man's clothes on the screen were bad... but not THAT bad. Not horror movie bad.

Then, I realized that she was looking just past my shoulder, unblinking. With the same concentration that my nephew had on the tv.... she held on the space of the room just past my shoulder.

I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. An image flashed in my mind of a giant spider hovering above my shoulder.

"What is it? Is it a spider?"

My sister jumped up and put on her best, it's not a big deal armor. "Nope."

I jumped up and looked behind me and saw nothing. Then, I laughed nervously like I always do when I'm freakin.

"Seriously, what?"

She crossed the room to the space that had captured now both of our interest.

"I saw a mouse."

She poked at the bag that was on the floor where the mouse, we thought, had run under to hide. She picked it up by the strap after shaking it out. "Are you attached to this?"

It was my Paramount Pictures messenger bag that I got one year when I worked there ages ago. I never used it. And I thought about the mouse running around in it.

"Nope. Not attached!"

She raced down the stairs and out the door with it.

And we thought it was done. We went back to the wha-who-nah-verse and the bespectled fashionistas that study it.

Eventually, she and my nephew went to bed and I started watching Ace of Cakes with my cats. My cats are smart enough to not sit in toddler range when possible. My nephew loves the kitties, which is sweet. Though, Lilycat might argue with his definition of sweet. She's not really a fan of tail grabbing, chasing, and screeching.

About this time, my cats took a strong interest in a box that was up in the tv room. One of the many things I am still unpacking in our new home. I realized that mayhaps the mouse did not leave the house in the bag.

Just then, Lilycat leapt ontop of the box. Which is no small feat. Lily is no spring chicken; it takes a lot of effort for her to go airborne.

She landed on a file folder which somehow propelled a very scared brown mouse into the air in front of me.

And I shrieked like a little girl.

The mouse ran under the loveseat that I was sitting on and I jumped up in the air.

I stuffed my feet into the toes of my sneakers, letting the heel hang out. Figuring that there was no way I was going to allow a barefoot-mouse contact.

My cats ran to either end of the loveseat and began guarding their sides.

I paced back and forth. Trying to decide what to do. Do I encourage the cats to mouse? Do I let mouse just wander free? How can I go to bed?

Images of a mouse crawling in my hair while I slept poisoned my mind.

This is a girl who has never liked camping.

Just as I pictured that, scared Mr. Brown Mouse ran out from under the futon and crossed my shoe.

I shrieked like a scared little girl again and kicked my foot.

My shoe went flying into the other room.

The mouse went flying God knows where.

The cats went running in opposite directions trying to figure out where their meal went.

I raced down the stairs where my sister was just finishing reading bedtime stories to my nephew.

"I can't do it! I'm totally flipping out. The mouse flew out of no where and ... the MOUSE... touched... my SHOE"

My sister laughed.

My nephew, my TWO YEAR OLD nephew said, "Oh, Aunt M, that's silly."

seriously.

He said I was being silly.

Then my nephew said, "I saw a mouse. It was green. Then it turned yellow. Then it was pink. Then it was blue. It has wings. It flew by me. But I didn't chase it. That makes them sad."

My sister laughed and looked at me and said, "If he can handle a color-changing, flying mouse, I think you can handle a little brown one."

I went to bed with all the lights on. I barely slept a wink and kept tabs on my wannabe mouser cats who were chasing the mouse all over my room. I kept on picturing him nibbling on my blanket.

After a restless night, I got up and grabbed my towel. As I walked out the door in my room, I looked down in horror and felt waves of nausea followed by waves of guilt.

Apparently, my cats aren't terrible mousers.

And apparently, cats don't actually eat the whole mouse.

I felt guilty and sad for the disgusting innards that remained of the scared little mouse. With paper towels, I cleaned up the remains and threw them in a plastic bag which immediately went out in the trash. I had to fight hard to keep myself from getting sick.

Then, first thing at my desk at work, I got an email update from the Humane League. And the featured article is here.

When I got home from work, my Aunt had given my nephew a darling book that she made with pictures of cute little brown mice playing about in the house and outside.

My nephew said, "See, they are really nice."

I've never had a moral dilmena about killing cockroaches. But the mice, man, they get to you.

20 Things I Don't Hate About Lancaster, PA

2009-02-17T13:32:00.000-08:00

One of my friends who is from this area said to me the other day, "so, is there anything you don't hate about it here?"

I hadn't realized that I was being so negative. And really, that much negativitiy is a big bag of lameass.

I'm going to attempt to curb my sarcasm and list out 20 things that I Don't Hate About Lancaster, PA.

Walking around town. I can afford to live in a walkable area of the city. Which means I can walk to a coffee shop (or 3, really), shops, a pharmacy, pubs, restaurants, etc. About 1/2 a block or less from me is The Chesnut Hill Cafe. Great coffee, fun, hip atmosphere. Live music. Good people. OH... and the only vegan brownies that I've ever had that I love. Here are all many of the things I can walk to from our house.

It's Friendly. Although I had been told that people are very closed off here and do not welcome new friends to their established cliques, I have found that those that I am interested in being friends with are totally laid back and very welcoming. Case in point, we posted Ikea bunk beds on Lancaster's Freecycle. The sweetest, hippest, nicest, most fun and arty mom named Maggie came to get them for her son. Turns out that she is a city artist who has her stuff at Square One, has a booth at Eastern Market, and is friends with the hipster spinner Rachel-Marie at Lancaster Yarn Shop. She befriended me and told me about all of these wonderful venues and events and groups for local artists.

Cherries. They grow cherries here and you don't have to go far or pay much to have freshly picked cherries. There is nothing like a cherry crisp with the Cherry Hill cherries. Yummmmtastic.

Central Market. Central Market the country's oldest market... actually has hitching posts out front. It's been operating at the same site since the 1730's. That's like 250 years older than any building in Los Angeles. The most amazing deals on produce. Great food, people watching. Really, where else can you eat falafel after buying jam from an Amish woman while overhearing a drag queen yelling at her boyfriend?

Take Out from Rice and Noodles. Rice and Noodles. Some of the best Vietnamese food I've ever had. It's always packed and it's always amazingly fresh and tasty. The family that runs it is friendly and welcoming.

Ethiopian Food. I love love LOVE Ethiopian food. I was first spoiled by the food in Little Ethiopia in Los Angeles. During my first few weeks here, I was delighted to meet Etayehu, who is a native Ethiopian who moved here and began to make and sell organic Ethiopian food. Her food is awesome and she is a warm, lovely woman. She sells at Eastern Market and her company is called Gursha Organic.

Building Character. The Marriage of Architectural Salvage, Music, and Art. Building Character is located downtown and hosts an art market, music fridays, and cultural events.

Old Stuff. This kind of goes hand-in-hand with the Architectural Salvage of Building Character. But, I think it merits its own item number. Like here is the first paved road in the US (now Rte 30). The Conestoga Wagon is here. There are shops open that have been operating since the 1700's. Like, as I found yesterday, the oldest cigar shop in the country... operating since 1770. Walking around, there are amazing architectural elements from several different periods. I like old stuff and missed old stuff while I was living elsewhere.

Landis Valley Farm and Museum. I've never been to a place before and thought, "Wow, this would be a gorgeous place to get married" But really... uh... This would be a gorgeous place to get married. The description is "Largest Pennsylvania Dutch Living History Farm & Village in the country, interpreting German Heritage from 1740-1940, including tours and traditional craft demonstrations." Really, it's a village set up historically with beautiful grounds, horse drawn carriages/wagons/sleds (depending on the season). The do spinning demos, yarn dying, blacksmithing, pumpkin-picking. Most importantly, Apple Cider and Apple Butter demonstrations. The best apple butter I have ever had. Maybe I should just marry the apple butter.

Lititz. I remember going to Lititz when I was somewhere between 10-12 and loving the chocolate and pretzel museums. Coming back now, I still love it. It's the definition of a charming town. They even have a Dosie Dough. Which, I can walk to one from our house, but there is something really great about the one in Lititz.

Ice Cream. I've always loved ice cream, but the first time I had ice cream at the Stratsburg Country Store & Creamery, I felt like I lost my ice cream virginity. I discovered what real ice cream is. It's the best I have ever had. It transcends all other ice cream experiences I have had. You think I'm exaggerating? Try it.

Local Dairies. We frequently purchase milk from Pine View Acres Dairy. In the summer, you can, as my nephew says, "Eat Ice Cream with the Cows". They have tables set up and you can enjoy your treat while Bessie grazes. It's nice to see how well Bessie is treated. And it's even better to have such high quality dairy products.

No Traffic. Ok, so rarely, there is traffic. But, since I've moved here, I have only been "in traffic" twice. One of those times, I was close to the Outlets right before Christmas.

Buying Produce Locally is Actually Possible. Ok, so admittedly, I do enjoy eating things like avocados and drinking things like Costa Rican coffee (fair trade!). I love me some chocolate from Brazil and won't think twice about eating a pomegranate. That said, I do think that it's awesome to get produce locally when possible. And here, it really is actually possible to get the majority of your produce locally. There are awesome CSAs, like the one that our friends John and Beth have.

Historic Railroad. Where else can you have wine and cheese on a historic railroad? Though, my nephew is much more interested in a Thomas ride.

First Fridays. Art. People out and about. Food. Music. Good times. Every month.

LancasterARTS. The group that puts on First Fridays every month and are absolutely pumping life, creativity, energy, and ingenuity into Lancaster City.

The New School. My nephew's school. They were able to teach a 2 year old how to take turns. He's better at taking turns than I am. Also, his class gives me an excuse to bake at least once a month. And I love baking.

The Humane League of Lancaster County. Sure, I'm biased... but, check it out.

Family. Living with my adorable nephew and my wonderful sister.

Conversations with my Nephew the Dictator

2009-02-17T06:32:00.000-08:00

My nephew can be a bit of a micromanager. He's constantly assigning me and my sister tasks, "No, you do it" and attempts to ensure that we follow his directions.

Life's hard when you are 2 and you are not the boss.

I think his defense mechanism is to act as though he is in charge.

Scene: Kitchen, President's Day
My sister took off work since my nephew's school was closed for President's day. During the day, she had fun things planned as well as a few chores. One of the chores was mopping the floor. My nephew got the mop and she used a sponge to scrub.

Sister: You are such a big boy! You are doing a great job!

Nephew: When I get bigger, I mop faster

Sister: Well, we did a great job
(Sits back and looks around at the floor around her).
Wow, bud, I think we're done.

Nephew: No. We are not. KEEP SCRUBBING!!!

Mush, mush, Sister.

Scene: TV Room, evening
Sister: Ok, bud, after Tigger and Pooh, we are going to go to bed.

Nephew: Actually, we watch dog training (It's Me or the Dog)

Sister: No, it's bedtime

Nephew: Actually, it's not.

Me (turning off the tv): Ok, kiddo, time for bed.

Nephew (looking right at me in a sing-songy voice): Are you kidding me?

Scene: Basement, afternoon
Our friends the Dames of Deconstruction are over. I'll call them Willow and Skye because they love nature and stuff. After a long day of working on the house, we are hanging out in the basement eating Rice and Noodle -- which is our favorite and worthy of its own post. My nephew is playing near the stairs. We are joking around and laughing loudly about something or another.

Nephew (very serious): What's going on down here?

Sister: Wow, I think the last time I got asked that when I was in the basement, it was high school and it was my dad coming down the stairs.

Me: Quick, hide the beer.

Scene: Bedroom, evening.
My nephew and my sister are cosleeping until we get her room set up. They share a queen-sized bed.

Nephew (to the dog): That's my side.
My sister gets Cooper the Dog to get out of the bed, where he shouldn't be anyway. My nephew crawls into bed, leaving about two feet of space between him and the wall. My sister lies down next to him, almost on the edge of the bed.

Sister: Scooch over, bud.

Nephew: No, I can't.

Sister: Look at all that room... just move over a little bit.

Nephew: No, that's Willow and Skye's side.

Apparently, Willow and Skye sleep in my nephew's bed. It seems that little boys start imagining sharing their beds with lesbians very early on. I have never gotten that before and never will, but I did find it very amusing.

It's 60 degrees out, does that mean Holiday Sweater Season is officially over?

2009-02-11T11:30:00.000-08:00

No matter how long the winter, spring is sure to follow.

~Proverb

It's been a long, cold winter for a recent Northern transplant. For awhile there, it was dark when I drove into work and dark when I drove home. The days were cloudy and brisk. I had forgotten how much work it is to scrape off a car. I also came to a realization that cute boots do not mean funtional boots.

Last week, my nephew had two snow days from preschool. Today, it is warm, sunny, and balmy out.

The cold seemed endless. The dark seemed endless. But way more traumatizing: the holiday sweaters were endless.

But I think the end is in sight.

Today was one of those freak Spring days in Winter. Mother Nature embraced her inner tease and did a tassle twirl with a day of unseasonably warm weather.

Spirits were high as many of my coworkers took advantage of the warm weather during lunch. Shoulders were back and smiling faces were lifted.

And, I thought to myself, does this mean no more Sequined Snowman Sweaters?

Really, as annoying as the cold weather was, nothing was more uncomfortable than the obsessive display of obnoxious Holiday sweaters. Halloween was two weeks solid of pumpkin sweaters and witch pins. No one but a pregnant woman has the figure for an orange globe worn on the tummy.

Then came 30 days of leaves, cornucopias, and turkeys (---yes, Turkeys!) on sweaters.

That was followed by holiday sweaters for Christmas from December 1st and still counting. Of course, there seems to be a rule that no trees, ornaments, gifts, or Santas be worn on your sweater after the 2nd week of January. But, as far as snowflakes, snowmen, snowscapes, and holly goes... it's all fair game.

Rediscovering my faith during this difficult ordeal: I pray that now that we've had a day of warmth, the snowflakes will no longer be apropos. That finally, FINALLY, we can have fewer sequined, fuzzy snowman on the tummies of my coworkers.

I would ask you to pray for relief me, but if you are anything like some of my new friends here... you will instead buy me the below sweater and dare me to wear it into the office. I do, however, like the idea of wearing it for Halloween with a mullet wig.

Now if only we could fix the mullet problem... then we would have Peace on Earth.

IKEA - A Brief History of a Love/Hate Relationship

2009-02-09T08:04:00.001-08:00

The first time I went to Ikea it was 1997.

I was living in Brussels and my cousins had been telling me all about this magical, wonderful place where furniture is inexpensive and designed for hip young families and the just out of college set. My cousin's wife was in the South of France taking some French immersion program. After filling our weekends with the kids looking at castles and historical stuff, I think I needed a cultural experience, too. And so my cousin and his two kids took me to Ikea.

We drove on the Belgian freeway which is so brightly lit, I've heard you can see it from outer space. The drive felt like it took forever, even though we were probably going 100 mph like everyone else on the road.

Once we got there, we got the kids hot dogs, which seemed so weird to me. Hot dogs and meatballs at a furniture store?

Of course, that was only the beginning of the weird.

We walked around a showroom on a path. It was very orderly, two-way pedestrian traffic through a showroom. I don't remember anyone sitting on any of the furniture to test it out.

I do, however, remember a lot of the guys walking the other way checking me out. Then they'd see my cousin and the kids and move on.

As I discovered, this furniture store with funky, clean designs was a total singles scene.

"We met over swedish meatballs and soft serve while comparing our Poangs and discussing our hopes of new fabric colors for Klippan"

In Los Angeles, I remember making the trek to either the Ikea in Carson or the Ikea in Burbank. For some reason, Ikea always has to be a drive. The Ikea in Burbank shakes (maybe overcompensating for earthquakes?). The bright lights, intense crowds, crying children, and shaking floors really make for a craptastic Ikea experience. Before I even got through the showroom, with children running around on top of Malms and adults fighting to test out the Ektorp, I'd feel overwhelmed and exhausted. By the time it came for my favorite part - the Marketplace - I would be zoned out and miserable. In the lines, you'd see families with 4-5 kids all screaming. Some covered in ice cream... some covered in meatball sauce. And I would think to myself: those commercials for Yasmin should just shoot at Ikea.

But here's the thing: I love Ikea.

I hate that I love it, but I love it.

I hate the drive, I hate the crowds, I hate the size of it, I hate how tired I am by the time I get to The Marketplace.

But I love it.

I love the deals I get. I love the colors they have. I love that they now sell funky fabric. I love that they have cheap prices. I love that they are constantly designing new things. I love the Swedish names of all the furniture.

I even love building the furniture with the lame ass allen key.

Every year when the catalogue comes out, I flip through it hundred of times. I mark my favorite pages and try to commit some of the pages to memory. Yes, it is my porn.

I look at all of the storage boxes and organizers of every shape, size, color, and pattern and fall in love a hundred times. I longingly admire the amazing uses of space in kitchens, baths, desks, and bedrooms. And I drool.

On Saturday morning, my sister and I were sitting at the dining room table. We were surrounded by piles of clutter. Mail. Bills. Letters. Junk. Kids books. Nephew's artwork. And it didn't stop at the table. Each room has piles of things. In all of the chaos of remodeling a home that you just moved into, we are still struggling to find places for things. So, my sister says to me, "What if we just went to Ikea today? Would that be crazy?"

Of course, we immediately jumped in the car, buckled in my nephew, and drove off towards the nearest Ikea.

On the turnpike driving there, I was reminded of how much I hate the country. Terrible, I know, but I get so intensely bored driving through peaceful farmland. After the intense boredom, anxiety floods in. It's like I get anxious to put an end to the boredom. I said to my sister, "I hate this, I feel like I'm in the middle of nowhere."

So, my sister said, "Well, you are in the middle of nowhere." Looking around, she was right. Nary a landmark in sight. I think I lived in Los Angeles for too long.

Eventually, we made it to beautiful Conshohocken (yes, that is the name of the nearest town with an Ikea).

This time, I was with the family with the unruly toddler who screamed and reached for everything that was not safe. My sister and I wrangled him through department after department, until he found something that made his little toddler heart go pitter-pat.

That something was a feather-type duster.

Yes, a duster.

After a very messy soft serve ice cream cone, he cradled that duster in his arms all the way from Conshohocken to Lancaster.

"This is my sister. I keep her safe."

And my heart melted.

Despite all of the drama he had through the store, he left with something that it seems was the one thing he was missing in his life that would make him truly happy.

Which is what, it seems, Ikea specializes in. Overstimulation and exhaustion followed by bliss.

Conversations with my Nephew about Food

2009-01-28T08:26:00.000-08:00

For your amusement...

Scene: Car, Evening.

After eating dinner at with our visiting family at a farmhouse out in the boonies, we are driving home. Not suprisingly, my nephew did not eat much at the actual dinner. My sister was driving us home.

Nephew: Where are we going?

Sister (sing-song-y): Are we going to our NEW house?

Nephew (equally sing-song-y): Nooooooooooo.

Sister and I exchange glances of curiousity.

Me: We're NOT going to our new house?

Nephew (matter of fact): No. We are not going to our new house.

Sister: Really? Well, where are we going, bud?

Nephew (as if we are a little slow): The pizza place.

Duh.

Sister: We're going to the pizza place?

Nephew: Yes. On State Street.

Thanks, kid. Nice to know we're allowed along for the ride.

************************

Scene: Chinese New Year, his new friend's house.

My nephew helped make dumplings at his new friend's house. Here is a conversation we had with him over dinner.

Nephew (Taking a huge bite of a dumpling with a big smile): Wow! That's a good Dumpling!

Sister: Did you make the dumplings?

Nephew (matter of fact): Not THAT one!

************************

Scene: Dining Room, Breakfast.

We are sitting together eating his daily favorite breakfast - oatmeal with raisins and milk. Ours is piping hot, his is fridgid cold (just the way he likes it).

Nephew: These raisins are black.

Sister: Well, they are the color of raisins.

Nephew: I like brown raisins.

Sister and I exchange glances... a mixture of, Please God don't let him be turned off of raisins and amusement...

Nephew: I make them brown.

He starts squishing the raisins in his bowl with the bottom of his spoon.

Nephew: I squish them so they are brown.

Triumphant, he takes a huge bite of his oatmeal with mashed raisins and milk.

Laminate Flooring: Easy? No. Worth it? Yes.

2009-01-19T11:35:00.000-08:00

We saw some lock and fold laminate flooring at Ollie's awhile back. My sister was interested in putting it down over the tiles we discovered on her floor. Tiles that were stuck down with roofing tar and that looked like they were standard issue for every classroom floor circa 1960.

Just what you want for your bedroom.

Since the tar was on the original wood, there is no salvaging it. Oh, and when we pulled up the carpet in the closet, the unattached floor came with it. My sister had a gaping hole that went straight from her bedroom into the kitchen beneath it. Our first thought was to put a fireman pole in for her son. Then, we realized that we didn't have the budget for that.

We purchased 10 cartons of the laminate stuff (and had to go back for 5 more) and brought it home.

The directions on the box were in 4 very easy steps.

Once you open the box, you discover that there are very, very complicated instructions and that you have to actually a) be meticulous (which uh, I'm not) and b) have a jig saw (riiiiiiiiiiight).

So we sought out the help of two friends of mine. They were the ones that used to work at the plant that made the tiles and were able to tell us that those tiles did not have asbestos in them.

They are also the ones that met at Legs and Eggs.

One of them also offered me a joint during a lunch break.

They are 50-ish.

yeah... that's what I said.

Anyway, in a day, they laid down the laminate flooring AND repaired the hole in the closet.

As it turns out, the hole in the closet floor was not due to rotting wood (which had been my fear). Rather, it was due to lazy home repair.

McGuyver Panelson (my new name for the former homeowner) pulled out the floor in the closet, repaired the pipes beneath it (most likely using radiator hoses and paperclips, and no, I'm not joking) and then instead of putting the floor back in...

he just put the tiles on top of the GAPING HOLE and carpeted right over it.

I mean, it's only a 2'x1' hole in the floor.

*shrug*

That's nothing.

Anyway, I didn't have a chance to clean out the room last night, but I wanted to share some pictures. We'll be adding trim around the bottom, obviously, and painting the rest of the trim this week.

The room before. Sugar, it looked much worse in person.

The room after we painted the walls, before my sister scraped up all of the tiles with a putty knife.

The room with Curtains (thanks to our friends from DC who actually have the patience to drill through paneling and ancient slat walls). Note the laminate floors.

Just a reminder. Sorry if you just ate your lunch... hope it still tastes good the second time around.

Still not done... but still way prettier.

Why Buying a Stove from a Trailer Park Can Be Disasterous....

2009-01-16T08:41:00.000-08:00

Yes. We did.

http://lancaster.craigslist.org/hsh/993999450.html

And Yes. We are sorry we did.

But it is funny. My sister wrote the above ad.

More Notes:

The place we bought it was so far South, we could see Maryland from the Trailer Park.
The woman who sold the stove was very nice, but did not know how to cash a check.
All of our other craiglist.org purchases are urine-free.
It's not cat pee.
Although some people have suggested that it's mouse pee, we kind of think it smells like people pee. I lived in Santa Monica long enough to know exactly what human pee heated up smells like.
How exactly do you pee on a stove?
Why exactly do you pee on a stove?
Only 2 of the 4 burners work. 1 of the working burners doesn't have enough power to boil water. The other one only has 3 flames, the rest are so clogged.
Sometimes paying full price for a new one is worth it, since unless the delivery guy pisses in it, we will have a urine-free stove.
I also was able to get a discount on the stove from the guy at Sears. Apparently, pity stories like these can bode well for discounts.

A Hat for Boytoy

2009-01-08T06:19:00.000-08:00

Since I've moved here, Boytoy, who is very much a Texan, has mentioned visiting me here in the land of the Dutch. That has yet to happen... but he did send me this link yesterday with the following note:

I'm thinking about getting this for my visit to chilly Lancaster, PA.

You have to read the reviews for it.

Wow. Just WOW.

How Things Have Changed...

2009-01-06T12:12:00.000-08:00

Typical Weekday Then:

Wake to LilyCat and Beethoven alternating nudges to get up and feed them.
Feed the cats, lest they wilt away.
Crawl back into bed and snooze.
Realize I have barely enough time to shower, dress, and get to work.
Slink into the office just after 8am.
Pretend I know what I'm doing while I sit at my desk.
Work through lunch.
Leave an hour late.
Creep home in traffic, feed my cats when I get home.
Heat up a WW frozen meal, eat in front of the tv.
Sit with my cats and crochet for a few hours while watching tv or talking on the tv.
Crawl into bed after brushing my teeth and washing my face.
Rinse, and repeat.

Typical Weekday Now:

Wake to LilyCat and Beethoven alternating nudges to get up and feed them.
Feed the cats, lest they wilt away.
Crawl back into bed and snooze.
Realize I have barely enough time to shower, dress, and get to work.
Slink into the office just after 8:30 am.
Try to make myself busy and try not to laugh audibly at any of the "major issues" in the office.
Run an errand at lunch to pick up something for house repairs.
Try to look busy while trolling the internets.
Finish up my work, and head out just on time.
Drive to my sisters, hug my nephew, change into painting clothes.
Spend 3-4 hours painting, scraping, ripping, moving, lifting.
Spend 30 minutes noshing on food while watching "Hairspray" for the 100th time. Whatever dude, my nephew is secure enough in his masculinity that John Travolta in drag is a non-issue.
Tell my sister I'm too tired to drive the 3 blocks home.
Drive home, feed cats.
Read a chapter of Sookie Stackhouse.
Pass out.

Typical Weekend Then:

Lie in bed all day/night with BoyToy.
Order in Chinese or drive to Taco C.
Go to a movie and eat popcorn and drink sodas.
Get back in bed and watch dvds.
Say Goodbye to Boytoy and swear off Laundry and going back to work.

Typical Weekend Now:

Run errands to Lowes, the Grocery Store, Sherwin Williams, the houses of various craigslisters... all with the company of my sister and nephew.
Spend 6-7 hours painting, scraping, ripping, moving, lifting.
Read "Go, Dog, Go" to my nephew 20-30 times.
Realize I need to run another errand.
Do several loads of Laundry with my nephew (he is addicted to doing laundry).
Say goodby to my nephew and swear off going back to work.

Amazing I haven't lost like 20 lbs, huh?

Things I learned this week...

2009-01-06T07:52:00.000-08:00

Wallpaper steamers are really heavy.
Holding a steamer over your head with one hand while scraping with the other hand is a very intense workout.
Turning the steamer away from you after applying it to the ceiling is key. Unless of course you like to have boiling water dripped on you.
2 people, 6 hours, 1 steamer = 1/2 a ceiling free of wallpaper.
Wallpaper is evil.
Friends don't let friends wallpaper.
If you are scraping wallpaper off the ceiling and covered head to toe in wallpaper scraps, you will meet the first guy that you have found cute since you moved here. And you will think to yourself of how nice it would be if you were not dressed in paint covered clothes with your ponytail full of old wallpaper. Maybe then you could date said boy and perhaps even get free direct tv. But no... you had to be on a ladder covered in schmutz looking butch and filthy and tired. Hurrah.
Scraping wallpaper for hours with a coworker is apparently a bonding experience of sorts. They might just let you know that they met their best friend at Legs and Eggs. Which is apparently a breakfast special at a strip club.
They might offer you a joint. Which would have been so cool... 10 years ago.
Before you scrape wallpaper off the ceiling with a steamer, it's a good idea to put down plastic sheeting on the floor. Unless you are ok with later scraping said wallpaper off your newly uncovered wood floors. Because it falls down and then sticks when it dries because that's how evil wallpaper adhesive is. Oh, and if you do have old wood floors, don't forget that the water will go through said floor into the basement... if you don't have plastic sheeting down. Oh, hindsight... you are such a bitch.

I heart Ollie's

2008-12-30T09:29:00.000-08:00

I love me a bargain... I buy things used and avoid paying full price at all costs. I cruise craigslist all day and am a sucker for cheap ass deals. So, my sister introduces me to the "Mid-Atlantic" bargain outlet called Ollie's. And yes, I am in love.

What can I say... Ollie's sells yarn for 90% off.

Of course, it wouldn't be a bargain outlet without attracting all of the most interesting locals. So, there is always great people watching. It's kind of a mecca for white trash, crazies, and the otherwise odd and cheap. I'm not sure which category I fit into (shuddup, you), but I'm willing to let that go and shop there anyway.

Sometimes, you can't believe what you find at Ollie's. Like an RCA flat screen tv that's 70% off and in fantastic condition. There is nothing wrong with it and it's just an amazing deal that rocks your socks off.

Other times, you look carefully at something, and you can figure out why it's in a bargain basement.

Example:

Perfectly nice looking Matchbox brand Ambulance.

Fine, right?

Oh, dear!

Pay no attention to the dying man in the stretcher!

Perhaps a lil morbid for the Barney bunch... But perfectly suited for Ollie's!

Wood Floors are Underrated

2008-12-30T08:58:00.001-08:00

Just sayin...

Before

During

Before

During

Scary Carpet Tacks... ie, torture device.

Before

During...

drywall courtesy of Mr. Maxwellhouse. Who also brought the coffee.

Stove, Fridge, and TV Stand. Craigslist Rocks.

More Progress!

2008-12-22T13:49:00.000-08:00

I don't have much time today, but wanted to show you a quick before and during shot!

This is my sister's room before we started attacking it:

This is my sister's room after painting it with Benjamin Moore's Butter Up. We also tore out the carpets. A box will be built to go around the pipes next to the window. The tile underneath the carpet was a sad discovery. It's over the original wood floors... and the tile is full of yummy asbestos, so we can't pull them up.

We purchased some Brazillian Cherry Laminate to go over it... which will look AWESOME.

Progress!

2008-12-16T07:12:00.000-08:00

Restlessness and discontent are the first necessities of progress.

-Thomas Edison

A week ago, I completely burned out. I was frustrated and exhausted. My sister and I took 4 days off from working on the house. It was refreshing and necessary. On Friday, we returned ready to attack.

As insane as it feels, we are still targeting a move in date for my sister and nephew of just before Christmas. Which would mean, uh, this weekend.

Some Notes on the Slideshow:

The living room is almost done! Just needs moulding and for the stones & trim to be painted.
A friend of ours tore down the paneling on one wall in the dining room. He also tore out the hideous, useless closet at the foot of the main stairs.
Those ugly couches were $50 on craigslist... and I know how to sew...

Here are some interesting things we are working with...

When looking at the plumbing in the ceiling in the kitchen, our Plumber asked my sister if she recognized what she saw. Uh... pipes?

Actually, as it turns out... those are radiator hoses for a car. Apparently, Mr. Former Homeowner pulled a MacGuyver with car parts in place of plumbing. Just what you want, a jerry-rigged toilet.

If you think that ceiling is bad... wait until you see the ceiling in the dining room. Here's my nephew checking it out.

The former owners applied wallpaper directly to the plaster without priming it first. At some point later, they painted the wallpaper.

They must not have been happy with the result, because after that, they added a drop ceiling and hideous beams.

We quickly tore down the drop ceiling and beams (with help from the Dames of Deconstruction). But this wallpaper has been quite a beast. What we are doing is scoring it, then spraying it with hot DIF sprayed with a weed sprayer, letting it sit... and then scrape it.

This section represents 3 hours on my hip, happenin' Friday night.

Lest you lose faith in our progress, let me share some of my favorite pictures with you.

Here is the before and "during" for my nephew's room. His room will be Raindrop with a chocolate brown floor. Raindrop is very aquatic, peaceful and tranquil.

Something to Add to the Resume...

2008-12-12T13:35:00.001-08:00

So apparently, it is in my job description to keep a poinsettia alive. This wasn't listed in the posted job description and this was not mentioned in the interview. I don't remember bragging about a green thumb or bragging about any gardening awards in the interview, either.

But somehow, it seems, that they assumed that I could keep a poinsettia looking "full", "shapely", and "lively".

I consider myself to be full, shapely, and lively and happy to maintain myself as thus... but the idea of a plant being described as this is just odd to me.

Honestly, I thought it was a gift. My supervisor came by and said, "this is from the managers for the holidays."

I reacted with a, "Oh, how nice. Thank you so much."

How wrong I was to be actually thankful.

It turns out that they are part of the office decorations. Each admin is responsible for keeping their Poinsettia full. shapely, and lively.

I've never had a poinsettia. For one thing, I heard they are poisonous... and I'm rather fond of my uber-fluffy kitties. For another thing, I've only ever had one plant that didn't die from either neglect or from being mauled by one of my cats.

But, you know, I looked up the care online, and it sounds really easy. Just water it, right?

Well, I'm freakin missing something. Because my poinsettia looks like it's suffering from depression.

And really, I wouldn't care so much... but the office seems to think that I'm singlehandedly killing Christmas.

Sure, I'm not wearing the lame ass holiday sweaters like the rest of them, but I swear I'm not a grinch.

I just don't know what's wrong with Settia (that's what I'm calling her... because naming her Sylvia Plath seems like it might add to my grinch-rep...).

I have had 10 people come by my desk today. The comments have included the following:

"Oh, doncha water her?"

or, "You are going to water her, right?"

and, "She really isn't lively, is she?"

or, "Where did her shape go?"

I have had lots of helpful hints on HOW to water her and WHEN to water her...

And also a, "you know, they really like us to keep these looking festive! I still have mine from last year, nice and full. You should watch me water mine."

Nice. So now we're getting competetive about our Poinsettia plants, huh?

You know, Maybe Settia doesn't like people to talk about her so negatively. Maybe Settia has a health problem, ok? Maybe Settia is JUST FINE the way she is.

Wow. I really am glad it's Friday.

With Lotsa, Lotsa Cream Cheese

2008-12-11T07:05:00.000-08:00

This is what happens when you give a toddler a bagel with "lotsa, lotsa cream cheese" while he sits in the backseat of the car.

"Mine like cream cheese"

"Where's the Bagel, bud?"

"What Bagel?"

Observations

2008-12-10T09:15:00.000-08:00

I thought as a brief interlude to the house pics, I'd share some observations on life here in Lancaster.

OBSERVATION: Don't ask for directions.

Very few people know where they live or work. They may drive to work on a regular basis, but ask them how to get there, and you might just get a blank expression. Even better, try to get directions to a doctor's office like I did the other day. I spoke to 6 people in the office. Not one of them knew where the office was in relation to 30 (the only highway in town) or downtown.

Me: Is your office North of 30 or South of 30?

Them: Just keep going...

Me: Ok-- so it's North of 30?

Them: Uh... what do you see? Do you see a closed gas station? That's close to us.

Me: No...

Them: Are you in the city?

Me: I'm driving out of the city...

Them: Well that's the problem, we don't know the city.

Please note that the office is one block "out" of the city.

OBSERVATION: Mullets are not Dead.

Mullets are very much alive. If you have been feeling as if your life has been missing the mulletted ones, you should come visit me. You'll be sure to get your fix. Other historic finds: feathering, stonewash, pegging jeans, and perms.

OBSERVATION: People Shop at JCPenney's and Kmart

Seriously. They do.

That is all for now. Please stay tuned for your regular programming.

Look Ma! No Drop Ceiling!

2008-12-04T10:32:00.001-08:00

The night before last, two of our new neighbors-- who we will lovingly refer to as the Dames of Deconstruction -- came by and gave us a ton of help.

The Dames of Deconstruction are currently moms to several pets, including (but not limited to) a mastiff, great dane, cats, and even a few reptiles. They are waiting to hear back today to see if they are pregnant... and if they are they will be celebrating this weekend!

If not, I suppose they might just come and help us out again this weekend. As much as I love them and appreciate the HUGE push they gave our project, I hope not to see them this weekend. Cross your fingers that they will soon be moms to a two-legged critter.

Without further ado, here are pictures & anecdoes of the current state of the living room, dining room, and kitchen.

My nephew picked out a tool set for me at the store. His mom didn't realize that it was an "Inspirational Multi-Tool" with a Psalm on it until she got home. I think my nephew might be trying to Save me. And really, what better way than to Save somone than with a combination bottle opener and nail file. Hallelujah!

Behold the Wagon Wheel Chandalier in the Kitchen. I think it could also be used as a medieval torture device.

Dining Room Primed- with the Dropped Ceiling mostly gone. The ceiling fan is put up there in an orgy of glue, random blocks, and all sorts of wire ties, and rusted nails. The beams were MacGuyvered up there with what looked like uncoiled paperclips. Imagine that they were that desperate to get something that ugly in place.

Here is the nicer part of the kitchen ceiling post-drop ceiling demolitian.

...and the not so nice part. I think that we may have found the trigger for the drop ceiling addiction. It started with wanting to cover up the water damage to the acoustic tiles in the kitchen.

Logic: Instead of paying to get that cleaned up, let's cover it up with something even more expensive and eight times more hideous...

For some reason, this logic lead to drop ceilings in the entire house.

Under the tiles, is some insulation and a few holes. In one of the holes, one of the Dames found an old cottage cheese container. Yummmmtastic! Oh, and that teapot clock? It's hardwired into the wall. They intended for every inch of this house to be permanently decorated as is.

Suckers.

Living Room Sans Drop Ceiling. Over the door, we discovered a window-- which they paneled over. Because, really, natural light is SO overrated. I mean, it really gets in the way of depression.

Our First Room that is Ready for Paint!

Hooray for more expensive Primer that actually took most of the metallic sheen out of the formerly spray painted rocks.

They used metallic spray paint to add sparkle to the vent cover. My nephew wanted the copper gone as much as we did.

Redefining Ugly - Part Two: The Second Floor

2008-12-02T08:33:00.000-08:00

picture above from http://icanhascheezburger.com/

I'm King of the World! I'm 22 years old and ain't gotta mark on my face, I'm pretty, I easily survived six rounds with that ugly bear... because I am the greatest.

-Muhammad Ali

I think my sister and I might need to hang up that quote on the wall somewhere. That quote might be inspiring, as we move upstairs and start attacking even more ugly.

Here is the staircase. Yes, it is paneled floor to ceiling. And yes, there is a drop ceiling above the staircase. C'mon, are you really suprised?

At the top of the stairs is a bathroom. Not just any bathroom... but a huge bathroom. It is huge both in its size and it's level of hideousness.

The small window to the right over the vanity was at one point a very large window with an arched top. They bricked in the window. My sister says they were possibly vampires. As my aunt said, "it's so dark in here that you could get seasonal affective disorder year round."

Oh, please note that even the vanity is paneled.

Here is one of the bathroom closets. The wallpaper is textured in vertical stripes, kind of like paneling... Only Uglier. I looked in this closet a dozen times, as did my sister. But, as we are both petite we never did see what was sitting on a higher shelf...

Vintage Tampons!

According to the box, no belt is required for this "internal protection system". This find was not quite as disturbing as the porn we found hidden in a cubby in the basement ceiling. Finding porn in the house you just bought is amusing. Finding a dvd porn in a house that was occupied by a man in his 80's?

Creeptastic.

And no, I didn't take a picture of that. Just know that according to its graphic cover collage, this rental was hardcore. I'm hoping that the place he rented it from doesn't come looking for it.

Of course, the idea of an 80 year old hopped up on Viagra and enjoying some nasty smut really puts into perspective the next closet in the bathroom. I mean, it's hard to be disturbed by anything after that, right? So the fact that they used wallpaper that LOOKS LIKE PANELING inside the closet is almost less disturbing than grandpa renting Nature Orgies IV.

Almost.

Here is a lovely decorative screen between the toilet and the vanity. Yes, it's meant to look pretty.

And here we have my sister's new room.

The paneling is a lovely tan with american eagle light switches and hooks. The carpet looks like what happens if you mix Vodka and Split Pea Soup.

They actually didn't board and brick up this window. We need to be thankful for such things. The plastic black base boards on the otherhand... those we don't have to be thankful for.

Here is the convergence of three areas all with one thing in common...

Three hideous shades of green carpeting.

This next cheerfully decorated room will soon belong to my nephew.

Of course, when we asked him what color he wanted his room to be, he said, "Brown!" Brown is, afterall, his favorite color. Ironically, this is the only room in the house that is not paneled BROWN. The paneling in this room was stained a lovely shade of olive green. And yes, we are painting it.

They installed this makeshift closet door incorrectly, so the door is a royal pain in the ass to close. You'd think with all this work they would at some point get good at building things. Instead, they seem to have only gotten worse.

Ah, the third floor. The only room that is not paneled in this house is up the corn-colored stairway.

The one room not paneled. So refreshing. One would hope that this entire floor would be free from the Paneled Syndrome.

But apparently, it was an epidemic...

Thanks to all of those that put in time, energy, support, and... empathy for the project at hand. We are still planning on a move in before Christmas. And plan to get the house livable by then. There will still be work to be done longer term, but I think we can get it a whole lot less ugly in the next few weeks.

Also-- I'd like to send out a huge hug to my friend Nicole who lost her brother last week. I don't normally use real names on blogs, but believe this is a good exception. For those of you who know Nicole, please send her your love -- she needs it right now. For those of you who don't, please send healing thoughts and prayers.

Nice and White

2008-12-02T06:08:00.000-08:00

You know, white does seems to come up a lot in this here blog... I'd analyze that as a neurosis, but navel gazing is so livejournal, you know?

Here are some pictures from yesterday showing the progress in the front room. It's amazing what a bit of primer can do. My nephew got in on the painting and as he said, "mine make it nice and white."

Someday, he'll be on a couch discussing his own neurosis and say something like, "Mum put me at work, painting her house when I was only 2 years old."

I swear, though, the kid was happy as a clamdigger.

We started on the copper/metallic shimmering masonry which obviously needs a lot more time and tlc.

After seeing the dining room with fresh eyes, I realized that the paneling wasn't as evil has I had thought. Sure it eats primer for dinner and turns it beige... but once you have the 3rd or 4th coat on it, you win and the paneling loses. We will be priming it instead of tearing it down.

From what I've heard, we reallyreallyreally don't want to go that route. Some guys gotta ice skate uphill. I... don't & won't.

Proof that Scions are construction-worthy.

Yes, we are tearing out the carpeting.

The moulding around the door is also coming down. This was also wood that was "antiqued" by hitting it randomly with a hammer after it had been painted.

Same goes for the trim around the windows... the blinds are also going... as is that copper and brown cover for the vent.

The ceiling beams are going, too... and maybe someday so will this wall. For now, we're making it nice and white.

Copper rocks in the living room are so underrated.

Stop taking pics Aunt M- and get back to work!

Redefining Ugly - Part One: The First Floor

2008-12-01T05:28:00.000-08:00

The ugly is very appealing to man. It's instinct. One shrinks from the ugly, yet wants to look at it. There's a devilish fascination in it. We extract pleasure from horror.

--Sonya Levien

When the personal lives of celebrities take a tragic turn, our eyes are glued. When there is a Buick twisted around a pole on the other side of the highway, our rubbernecking causes traffic jams. When Sarah Palin is interviewed by Katie Couric, we watch it on youtube over and over and over again. Even after the election is over.

With that in mind, I am sharing with you the Before pictures of my sister's new house. The interior of the house is tragically horrifying and will hopefully provide you with some entertainment.

Luckily, my sister has great vision and I like to paint... so before too long, I will be sharing the After pictures. The house has great bones and was thoroughly inspected. It was decided that it was in amazing shape... just hit extremely hard with the ugly stick ...hit a few times over, really. But ugly isn't forever. We can tackle ugly.

For now, though... sit back, relax, and bask in the horror that is the decor...

View from the Front Door.

The wood paneling starts here and ... well never stops. Each room is paneled in a uniquely ugly wood paneling. No two rooms are paneled alike. Adding to the dark cave-like feel of the paneled front room is a dropped ceiling with wood beams. The wood beams were "antiqued" by being struck by a hammer at random points that are as random as a checkerboard. The beams are affixed like Lincoln Logs at notches on both sides. IE, dem beetches are comin down. My sister wisely pulled down all of the drop ceiling pieces before we started priming. They are large squares of some sort of awful material and the "stuffing" was stained brown from nicotine. The ceiling underneath is a beautifully maintained plaster ceiling. Apparently, protected for years just for my sister.

Speaking of protected for years, you'd never believe it, but under that stained carpeting, there are beautiful wide plank wood floors that likely won't even need to be refinished. They are in excellent condition. And haven't seen the light of day for probably 48 years. Can you imagine having the drive to take something beautiful and spend time and money making it unattractive?

The stone wall in the middle of the front room is real masonry that was built for the furnace. The stones were spray painted with a faux finish in copper and black so that they "shimmer" like gold. The former owners could have left it, but they were dedicated to their tackiness. Why go a little tacky when you can make something truly hideous?

Here are some more pictures of the front room.

"Aunt M- Stop taking my picture and start getting rid of the ugly!"

"Look! It's Ugly! Paint Over There!"

"PAINT RIGHT HERE!"

Moving on to the dining room, we see more of the same low drop ceiling, which reduces the height of the ceiling by about a foot. Of course, there is more paneling in this room. This paneling, however, is highly textured and eats primer for dinner. After 3 coats of primer, it was still turning the primer beige. We are likely going to tear it all down and drywall because honestly, the paneling is tougher than I thought, and my butt is still sore from the ass kicking it gave me yesterday.

Here is a real wood lovely banister. One of the few things the former owners didn't hit with the ugly stick. In the small coat closet, please note that the tiny interior of the closet has been paneled as well.
Here is the view from the kitchen to the front of the house. In the bottom left hand corner you can see a "throne" that was made for the light dimmer. My, how lovely.

And here we have the kitchen.

Please note the curtains which were made from one of Laura's dresses on Little House on the Prairie. Note also the lovely brown cabinets and linoleum. The oven and separate burners are such quaint antiques. Too bad they are completely useless to anyone who wants to bake anything other than a TV dinner. We'll be pulling out that entire cabinet floor to ceiling where the oven is located. A butcher block will go in place of the stove top. Oh, and you can barely see it, but there is a medieval torture device hanging from the ceiling... er, a wagon wheel chandelier. That's going in my sister's bedroom. ba dum dum ching.

So there you have it, the first floor.

We have 2 more floors and a basement to go... and honestly, you haven't seen hideous until you see the bathroom. Spoiler Alert! Think of your last sinus infection, now picture it as wallpaper in your bathroom.

Really, though, I'd like to thank the former owners. Without such horrendous decorating inabilities, this house would go for so much more. And now my sister gets to live in the neighborhood she loves...

Well, once we make less nauseating to be in there.

My Nephew

2008-11-26T11:01:00.001-08:00

My Nephew is ridiculously cute.

Here is a conversation from the other day, while he played with his front end loader.

Himself: "Mine Drive a Front End Loader"

My Sister: "Oh, a Front End Loader! What do I drive?"

Himself: "A Clamdigger."

My Sister, "Ooooooh... and what does Aunt M- Drive?"

He pauses for a second and thinks. Then he says very excited, eyes lighting up, "A SCION!!"

cuz apparently to a toddler, Scions are perfectly suited for construction.

The Other Whitey-Whiteness

2008-11-26T07:32:00.000-08:00

Per usual, I was running late for work last Friday. I grabbed my keys, my purse, and my new coat (which is post-worthy in and of itself) and darted to my door.

I swung the door open and gasped in shock.

Snow.

SNOW!

It was so pretty and clean and I couldn't believe it.

Excited, I jumped onto the steps in my ballet flats.

... and promptly slid about 2 feet. Luckily. I caught myself before I became one with the snow.

Apparently, pretty little shoes aren't the best in snow. You'd think a girl from Cleveland would have gotten that memo. Guess LA knocked the snow sense right out of me.

Cautiously, I crept to Toasty (my car is a toaster oven on wheels and is thusly named) and realized that I needed a scraper thing and some gloves.

I got into my car and pumped the heater and waited for it to melt enough for me to make the drive.

Update: Apparently, this year is supposed to be super-white.

A Racist By Any Other Name...

2008-11-26T06:17:00.000-08:00

Before I moved here, I emailed my sister and said, "it could be a nice break for awhile... my only concern is that there is a ridiculous amount of whitey-whiteness there."

Her emailed response?

"Oh, it doesn't snow that badly here & doesn't even snow every year. And when it does, it's like the whole city goes into shock."

I had to re-read my initial email to figure out why she thought I was talking about the snow. I mean, I was eloquently inquiring about the demographics of the area, right?
Guess not...

Anyway, she explained that the area is pretty dern white, but getting more diverse than it used to be. Also, she mentioned that the shift is kind of confusing for the white population that has been used to being the only game in town.

Ridiculous amounts of whitey-whiteness? You betcha.

I guess that when you're used to being the one and only demographic in town, you start talking like you are the one and only demographic in town. It's odd to me, because it's as if I've stepped back in time into the 50's. People say the most shocking things, but no one is shocked. No one misses a beat. And it's not even laced with sarcasm or intent. It's just conversational.
When they watch The Office, do they get it?

So many things to ponder.

A few days ago at my office, we were wrapping up a planning meeting for an event. Everyone was gathering their things and engaging the typical end of meeting jibber-jabber.

"Maybe we should have celebrity impersonators?"
*laughter*

"Only if we can have someone be Obama"
*increased laughter*

"Ooh, he can carry a commie flag!"

"Hah, and ask for hand outs!"

"Or Bailouts"
*laughter to the point of tears*

"Yeah, but someone would have to wear blackface"

How do you type the sound of a record scratch?

I didn't know what to do with myself. The funny thing is that they continued to laugh and the conversation went on with more laughter and more possibilities. I left the room and made a beeline for the restroom.

A friend of mine that lived in Scranton, PA for awhile (incidentally, the setting for The Office) had told me, "that line about Pittsburgh and Philly with Alabama in between is dead on."
And really, I didn't get what she meant until I experienced it.

My second day at work, I got it. I was at a work lunch. The conversation went like this:

"My girlfriends and I are looking for something new to do for our Girls' night next month"

"How about pedicures?"

"Oh, but there are eight of us. No place can take us"

"Well not unless you go to a Chinaman"

"My word, I won't go to a Chinaman"

"Me, either, I won't step foot in a Chinaman's shop"

"Dirty"

"Filthy"

Of course, for once I'm not the palest, pastiest girl in the room. So, there's that...

Corn, Corn, Cow

2008-11-24T13:46:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, not too long ago, my commute was a nightmarish 5 mile creep that would frequently take over an hour to complete. My beat up old honda would stop and start, stop and start in the endless line of beemers, benzs, and audis. The scenery was a combination of asphalt and concrete. Car dealerships and manicure shops. Lovely Nails. Pretty Lady Nails. Pretty Lovely Nails.

Every corner either had a manicure shop or a gas station. In between there was either donuts, sushi, or tacos. It's amazing that Angelenos stay so thin with all the fast food and slow traffic.

Then again, bullima and coke aren't completely passe.

There were some shops that I could see clearly into as I crawled slowly down the road. I would make up conversations that the Korean manicurists were having together while filing a customers nails.

Yeah, that's how long the commute was.

The urban scape was comforting to me, though. Bored as I was, it was something to entertain me as I inched my way home. It was that or road rage, and frankly, sometimes you get so bored that you get angry just to wake yourself up.

Another huge wake up call is to leave Los Angeles and move to Amish Country in Central PA.

My commute when I first moved to Lancaster County, PA was corn, corn, cow. If I got lost, I was screwed because my only markers were silos and cows versus horses, goats versus sheep. Oh, and llamas!?! And really, what Thomas Guide lists farm animals?

There's nothing quite like getting lost somewhere along corn, corn, cows and realizing that your cell phone doesn't have any reception because, well...

Toto, we're not in the city anymore....

Goin' Dutch

Things My Mother Told Me

Little Man and his Mall Mayhem

Dining Room Ceiling: A Painful History

They Make Stripper Clothes for Dogs... and other things our new puppy has taught me

Boots Were Made for Walkin

The Fat, Furry, Balding Women with Acne Disease

Are You Professionals? Or Amateurs?

Plan for the Worst... Expect even Worse

Journey to the Unknown

Party Like a Rockstar

Back to the Source: A Hefty Scoop of Reality

The Ponderables of Prince Akeem (or I think I'm worth a goat and 600 pesos).

Being Your Own Best Friend

O Captain! My Captain!

Did You Hear What Mr. Toddlerpants Said?

Lancaster County. Like No Where Else.

Lucky Bitch

A little depressed...

I want to live on the edge, please.

The Yuppie of the House and Conversations with Preschoolers

Introducing Mizzzz Chubbbs

Good Day Sunshine

One Day More!

2 Legit 2 Quit

What Lies Beneath

Three is a Magic Number

No More Than Four

Five Easy Pieces

Exhaustion. SixFold.

Seven Wonders

Smitten

Eight is Enough!

ir-i-spon-si-ble [ir-re-spon-suh-buhl]

11 Días Más

And the Countdown Begins!

Shoes of Evil

Life, the Wha-Who-Nah-Verse, and Everything In It

Soap

House Mouse

20 Things I Don't Hate About Lancaster, PA

Conversations with my Nephew the Dictator

It's 60 degrees out, does that mean Holiday Sweater Season is officially over?

IKEA - A Brief History of a Love/Hate Relationship

Conversations with my Nephew about Food

Laminate Flooring: Easy? No. Worth it? Yes.

Why Buying a Stove from a Trailer Park Can Be Disasterous....

A Hat for Boytoy

How Things Have Changed...

Things I learned this week...

I *heart* Ollie's

Wood Floors are Underrated

More Progress!

Progress!

Something to Add to the Resume...

With Lotsa, Lotsa Cream Cheese

Observations

Look Ma! No Drop Ceiling!

Redefining Ugly - Part Two: The Second Floor

Nice and White

Redefining Ugly - Part One: The First Floor

My Nephew

The Other Whitey-Whiteness

A Racist By Any Other Name...

Corn, Corn, Cow

I heart Ollie's