Door-Slammin' Party Update

The door-slamming fun continued.  Spouse took the dogs downstairs to "take care of business" and confirmed that the party was being held "not by the pot-smokers but by the geeky African-American guy who lives with the geeky Asian guy and the overweight white kid - you know, the people with the Che Guevara flag on their wall.  Okay, they are probably pot smokers, too, but they aren't the pot smokers with the really huge and visible bong."  See, Spouse takes the dogs down to TCoB more often than not, and he is nosy and looks through curtains, so he is MUCH more familiar with the lifestyle habits of the downstairs neighbors than I am.

Okay, here's the fun part:  just as Ruby is assuming the position to TCoB, about three feet away from the railing of the patio to the party house, the party revelers decide to open the door and take the party outside.  This startled Ruby - or embarrassed her, because wouldn't you be embarrassed if a bunch of wannabe teenage Marxists walked in on you while you were on the toilet?  Anyway.  For a VERY sweet dog, Ruby can sound VERY menacing when she wants to:

RUFF-RUFF-RUFF-RUFF-RUFF!  WOOF-WOOF-WOOF-WOOF-WOOF!

Wannabe Marxists went back in their apartment, and did not come out again.

McGlincheys 1, Apartment Complex 0.

Countdown to the New Old House: Spring Break in the Apartment 'Hood

No sooner do I think the thought that "it's really great the kids have the week off from school, and it's particularly great that I took today off, because I can get used to the time change gradually and push myself to go to bed - and wake up - a little earlier every day," than the UNHOLY NOISE STARTS. At first, I decided that I was imagining something, or perhaps hearing a distorted version of something that Spouse was watching several rooms away, but surely I did not just hear a "WOO!" . . . in a MALE's voice . . . originating from the vicinity of our driveway. But then I heard it again:

"WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

A second later: a girly shriek.

Ohhhhkay. Processing . . . . Neither the wooer nor the shrieker sounds particularly perturbed . . . so I'm guessing that we're not talking about an episode of domestic violence. Or a fire - although WAS THAT A DOOR SLAMMING? Okay, THAT definitely was a door slamming. THAT made our kitchen cabinets rattle.

And THAT was another . . . are they really "woos"? I have heard of woo girls, but never a woo guy. Perhaps I AM hearing sounds of distress. I am no longer sure.

I inquire of Spouse: is he hearing what I am hearing?

Spouse looks at me blankly. I occasionally worry that Spouse is going deaf. But then I decide that Spouse CAN hear, he just chooses not to. On account of how I have sensitive enough hearing for the both of us.

MORE door slamming. I look out of the window of Spouse's office. No smoke. No signs of rioting or looting.

Spouse FINALLY hears what I am hearing, peeks out the front door - and confirms that a party is in progress.

Ahhhhhhh . . . because the college kids have this week off, too. And we live amongst a metric ton o' college kids.

It is now fifteen minutes later. Notwithstanding my "back to sleep" campaign plans, I'm still awake. On account of how the party is still ongoing. I now suspect that the actual THEME of the party is "slamming doors." But at least the wooing has stopped.

Or perhaps not. Because the Sheltie just heard something, and she started barking. Which set the Dorgi to barking. It's interesting when they bark, because he only contributes one bark for every ten of hers:

Ruby (high-pitched):  Ruff-ruff-ruff-ruff-ruff-ruff-ruff-ruff-ruff!

Ace (low-pitched):  Arf.

Ruby:  Ruff-ruff-ruff-ruff-ruff-ruff-ruff-ruff-ruff! RUFF!  RUFF!  Ruff-ruff-ruff-ruff-RUFF!"


Ace: Arf.

I tell myself that Ace takes after his dachshund parent, which is why he howls occasionally:  he inherited the hound gene, not the herding dog gene.

But I fear that the dichotomy in their "announcing" style is actually illustrative of that statistic about how many words a woman uses in a day versus the number of words a man uses in a day - apparently, it extends to canines.

The barking has stopped now. And, also, the slamming.

Going to try to go to bed now.

The Puppy Party

PJ's "friend since wombhood" LG (seriously, we have her ultrasound photo in his baby book) celebrated her seventh birthday with a "puppy party" on Friday, and I had to share some pics.

Photos above:  party favor stations.  The kids adopted [small stuffed] puppies and then loaded up on small-scale puppy accessories (collars, frisbees and "Scooby Snacks").

Photo below:  the awesome cupcakes.  I had a sheepdog.  He was delicious.

Naturally, we also had hot dogs.

The girl guests enjoyed wearing puppy ears and noses.

PJ, not so much.  We started out strong and even offered to carry in LG's gift basket (notwithstanding that it was pink and contained, among other items, a sequined cocker spaniel purse).

Then we discovered that we were the only boy in attendance - on account of how the birthday girl suggested to her male classmates that, notwithstanding the fact that they received invitations, the party really ought to remain a "girl party."  (Gotta love seven year-olds.  Don't think she'll make the same gaffe twice - not after her whip-smart mother pointed out that she had managed to reduce her gift intake by half.)

Anyway, PJ mostly kept to himself until his brother and some other older males showed up for the after-party.  Guess we're entering the "girls have cooties" phase.  I did tell him to remember this day and to let me know when he gets around to acknowledging that a ten-to-one girl-to-guy ratio is NOT THE WORLD'S WORST SITUATION.

Whereas PJ refused the puppy ears and nose, Big Bro went right to them:

Ultimately, a good time was had by all - to the extent that the McGlincheys didn't clear the joint until midnight, and two sleeping boys (including a rather oversized one) had to be carried to the car.  It helps that our temporary digs are just down the street - we really could have walked, although that would have made transporting the two sleeping people a bit more difficult.

Happy birthday, LG!  Glad that we are friends - and temporary neighbors.

Kid Stuff: Proud Mom of Two Metrosexuals

Both of my boys are Metrosexual. They come by it honestly, as Spouse is also Metrosexual. (Well, selectively so. He has his (man) cave-dweller moments.)

I actually enjoy shopping with the 12 year-old. He always manages to locate just the right jewelry piece for me, and, usually, it is on clearance. He inherited that talent from me, but it's nice to have another me shopping with me - if that makes sense. Four hands operated by two essentially identical brains, sifting through the clearance pile, you know?

Anyway, both boys are good about helping me with wardrobe concepts ("Lose the necklace, Mom, and add a dangly earring"), and they have strong - and consistently good - opinions about home decor.

But the 12 year-old blew me away the other day when I showed him some bedding for his room that had a geometric pattern in dark gray and a gold-ish, sort of egg-yolk-y yellow. I was prepared to have to fight for it: "It will pull out the colors in your walls and furniture, and check out this cool appliqued Beatles pillow that I found to coordinate." (The Beatles pillow was my ace in the hole, because not only was it cool-looking, I was going to actually have to ship it from Great Britain, which would turn the coolness factor up to 11.)

He cut me off: "No, I get it. I like it. I like the fact that the circles aren't perfect circles . . . they are . . ."

Organic?

"Exactly. You know what would look good next to that? An egg chair."

Excuse me?

"You know, an EGG CHAIR."

Yes, I know what an egg chair is.  I'm just surprised that YOU know what an egg chair is.  And, also, that you want one.

"Mom, the egg chair is a classic.  It never goes out of style."

This is what happens when an 8-crayon boy who nevertheless inherited Metrosexual tendencies from his father marries a 64-crayon girl.  MIDDLE SCHOOL BOY DESIGN SKILLS ON 11 . . . .

Countdown to the New Old House: Let's Get This Party Started . . . FINALLY!

Thanks to the intercession of general contractor/structural engineer/all-around great guy Sam Chambers (that's SAM CHAMBERS of ENGINEERED DESIGN CONSULTANTS, who can be reached at either 817-235-4199 or skcdesigns@sbcglobal.net), things are finally progressing at the house, in a logical, structurally sound fashion, to the extent that:

Crawlspace insulation is going in over the next couple of days;
The remnants of the old kitchen (old backsplash and that portion of the fur-down that Spouse didn't punch out with his bare fist) are coming out; and
New sheet rock is going up.

All of the above make me deliriously happy.  And they also signal that the time has arrived to begin purchasing the eighteen trillion items that I have pinned to my "Final Finish-Out Selections" Pinterest board.  Recessed medicine cabinet was ordered today and will be built and shipped to us by the first week of April.  In the meantime, I can at least advise the contractors of the size of the hole in the sheet rock that it requires.

In the next few weeks, we'll need to pull the trigger on:

The pedestal sink for the boys' bathroom;
The granite kitchen sink that costs as much as a car payment;
The faucet for the granite kitchen sink that costs almost as much as a car payment;
The other ridiculously expensive kitchen faucet;
The induction range and double oven combo, price of which I DON'T EVEN WANT TO THINK ABOUT;
A microwave to mount over said range/oven combo; and
A dishwasher that isn't a fire hazard.

Oh, you're wondering about that last item?  Well, we had a (KitchenAid) dishwasher all picked out, and then we found out that said dishwasher has an unfortunate tendency TO IGNITE WITHOUT WARNING, sometimes even when it isn't running.  THEN we did some research and learned that the same people who manufacture KitchenAid dishwashers manufacture the majority of other dishwashers on the market, and - guess what? - ALL OF THEM have been catching on fire.  Correction:  SOME OF EACH TYPE have been catching on fire.  So it's possible that you could purchase an XYZ model and never have it catch on fire, OR you could have one of the super-special self-igniting units, AND YOU DON"T KNOW WHICH ONE YOU HAVE UNTIL YOUR HOUSE BURNS DOWN!  It's like playing the lottery, except if you "win" instead of getting money you lose all of your belongings - which, I guess, would be a lot more like "losing."

Anyway . . . we scrapped plans to get THAT dishwasher, or any of its brethren, and then we turned to our Facebook friends and asked for non-igniting dishwasher recommendations.  Turns out that a great number of our Facebook friends are Bosch fans.  More like Bosch fanatics - really, really rabid ones.  Seriously, I'm not exaggerating.  I now suspect that it's some sort of a cult - perhaps a front for L. Ron Hubbard.  But I am pleased to join the cult, because it apparently does not involve things spontaneously bursting into flames.  So it's a really pleasant cult in that regard.

I fully expect to be taught the handshake when our dishwasher is delivered.

My new game is to see how much 529 account money I can bank by ordering stuff for the house through links from the Upromise site.  My new Pottery Barn bedding put $7.80 into C's college fund, and I see that both Best Buy and Sears are offering to contribute 4% of your total purchase through March 31st.  And I distinctly remember receiving a Best Buy gift card for Christmas from one of Spouse's brothers, so double bonus, right?  Range/oven is coming from AJ Madison, which only offers 1% back, but 1% of RIDICULOUSLY EXPENSIVE is not nuttin'.

I am also having an insane amount of fun ordering paint samples from MyPerfectColor.com.  My beloved Benjamin Moore recently stopped stocking those little paint tester cans (well, they have them, but only in a handful of colors), so if you want a tester you have to have them actually mix a small can of paint for you.  This irritates me.  Buuuuuut . . . My Perfect Color will sell you a standard sample size of a Benjamin Moore paint color, mixed into actual Benjamin Moore paint.  Annnnnnd . . . they will mix up other retailers' colors as BM paint as well.  Annnnnnnd . . . paint testers were ON SALE this week.  So I got six - all BM colors, although I had a brief flirtation with a Pratt & Lambert vis-a-vis the master bath.  But then I found THIS on Southern Living's Web site:

The girls at Southern Living are also notorious Ben girls, so of course I knew that his was his paint (I have decided to officially anthropomorphize him) - and it was.  It's called Lush.  When I looked up Lush on Ben's Web site, he informed me that Lush looks great with both Wind Chime and Palladian Blue, which happen to be my kitchen and dining room colors, respectively.  So, clearly, I AM SUPPOSED TO LOVE LUSH.  Which I think would look awesome next to my shower curtain:

I also like Lush because:  (1) it looks nice with tan, like the tan that is going in the adjacent master bedroom; (2)  it's the same intensity as said tan; and (3) it reminds me of my "Martha green" kitchen countertops, which are going bye-bye, and which I will miss.

Spouse points out that we currently have a green bathroom next to a tan bedroom, but I tell Spouse that THIS green is not THAT green, which is more of a true seafoam, and therefore terribly outdated, and likewise the OLD tan is way more yellowish than the NEW tan, which is browner and a little bit olive-y.  At this point, Spouse's eyes glaze over, and I am reminded of this illustration:

That's Spouse on the right (and me on the left, rocking the low-heeled mid-calf boots).  Poor boy:  his parents only ever sprang for the eight-crayon box.

Note to friends of this blog who have been in my house:  If I end up painting the master bathroom Lush, and if Lush ends up being the exact same shade of green that it replaced, DO NOT BREATHE A WORD.  Spouse might hear you, and then I will never hear the end of it.  And I won't need to be told, because you know that I will figure it out right away, given that I always had the 64-crayon box, with the sharpener in the front.

Because I Am THE MOST AWESOMEST MOM EVER

. . . I am letting my seven year-old redecorate his room with THIS as the focal point:

For those of you unfamiliar with "Sharktopus," the made-for-SyFy-Channel film starring Eric Roberts - yeah, it's about what you would expect from a made-for-SyFy film starring Eric Roberts that is about a giant half-shark, half-octopus.  I definitely would rate it below "Mega Python vs. Gatoroid," which gets a bump up due to the presence of Debbie Gibson and Tiffany amongst its cast members.  (Speaking of bump . . . its, I see that in June of this year, SyFy will be presenting the instant classic, "Jersey Shore Shark Attack," described on their Web site as follows:

Albino bull sharks are no match for attitude, fist pumps and spray tans.

O. M. G.  PJ will be all over this, because he loves bull sharks almost as much as great whites, and an albino bull shark (which is basically a BULL SHARK MASQUERADING AS A GREAT WHITE) will blow his mind.  And I will be all over this, because I have wanted to see Snooki get eaten by a shark for quite some time now.  Is that how you spell Snooki?   Pretty pleased that I don't actually know.)

I tried to hide the existence of the poster from him, because of the slight obscenity at the bottom (the dismembered guy is muttering, "Damn you, Sharktopus"), but, really, more because I wasn't sure about the concept of my child having ERIC ROBERTS-THEMED ART in his room.  (When I shared the poster with a co-worker, his response was, "Dear Lord, please tell me that Eric Roberts gets consumed by a shark in this film.")

PJ saw it, though, when I was showing his brother this poster on Wonderbros' Etsy site:

No sooner had C uttered, "Yes, I totally want that," PJ's hand flies out, and his finger stabs at the small thumbnail image of Sharktopus:

"SHARKTOPUS.  I SEE IT.  Enlarge it, Mom, NOW."

It was all over but the ordering.  We did conference in Dad, and we collectively decided that, if there's ever an appropriate time to swear, the moment after a shark dismembers you is probably that time.  So we agreed that, if PJ committed to not swearing in connection with anything short of a shark attack, he could have the poster.

And then I agreed to order both posters (to take advantage of a bulk discount promotion) IMMEDIATELY, so that I could walk the Sharktopus poster into the Benjamin Moore showroom and have them color-match the water before painting begins at the house.  Because PJ wants his room to be "Sharktopus Blue."  And I am totally fine with that, as long as "Sharktopus Blue" translates into "Philipsburg Blue," which is the color I already picked out for him.

And - trust me on this - it WILL.

I happen to love the Sharktopus poster, because it's an obvious homage to the great Saul Bass film posters from the '50's and '60's:

Not that PJ has a frame of reference . . . yet.  But, given his love of horror and suspense films, I'm confident that we'll be moving on to Hitchcock soon.

I am also ordering the boys these two gems from Austin artist Rob Osborne:

That's "Boba Yoga" up top and "Yoda Yoga"down below.  PJ picked Boba Fett, and C wanted Yoda.  I tried to sell them on the genius of the companion piece, "Droid Yoga" (BECAUSE ALL R2D2 CAN DO IS THE MOUNTAIN POSE, ON ACCOUNT OF HOW HE DOESN'T BEND!  HE JUST STANDS UP!  HILARIOUS!), but I was unsuccessful.

I feel particularly good about the kids' art choices, because:  (1) all of the artists come from Texas (according to their Etsy site, Wonderbros - I presume that there are at least two of them - hail from "Planet Houston"); and (2) the artists also have a healthy respect for DC Comics characters, as they should.  And Mr. Osborne, specifically, understands the concept that WONDER WOMAN SHOULD NEVER BE WITH THAT WIMP SUPERMAN BUT SHOULD ALWAYS - ALWAYS - BE PAIRED WITH BATMAN:

He speaks the truth, Diana.  You should trust him - he's the World's Greatest Detective.

And I am really kind of kicking myself for not throwing "Wonder Woman Picasso" into my Wonderbros' bulk order:

SHE'S IN HER INVISIBLE JET.  You got that, right?  Wonder if the Wonderbros would let me add Diana after the fact?

Because that would be Wonderful.

Countdown to the New Old House: Spouse and I Have "The Talk"

Yesterday, I had to initiate "The Talk" with Spouse.  You know, the one that starts with:

"I think that we need to go to IKEA."

Actually, I was much smoother than that.  I opened with:

"Given that all of the furniture is out of the house, and the insurance company is repainting every room, there's never going to be a better time to re-do the boys' rooms."

Do you like the way that I used his "given that _______, there's never going to be a better time to ______" construct against him?  What goes around, comes around.

I continued:

"I mean, C will be 13 in a few months, and PJ's not a baby anymore - it's probably time."

Spouse nodded and acknowledged that C actually had placed a request to him for more grown-up bedding, which is a sign of real desperation, because, seriously, what 12-year-old boy initiates conversations about home decor with his father?

"Right.  And they both are going to need area rugs.  And I think we can agree that low pile rugs are best, in terms of cleaning up cat yak and whatnot."

Spouse nodded again.

"So I've been looking at kid-friendly rugs when I'm out, and most of the ones that I see in stores are shag or other high pile - not vacuum cleaner- or pet-friendly.  Which makes me wonder if IKEA wouldn't be a good option."

Spouse stopped nodding.

"Okay, hear me out.  We could get rugs at a reasonable price point, and new duvet covers for C, and frames for new art, and some of those floating shelves for PJ's room, because your aunt's prize-winning quilt-as-room-decor no longer cuts it, since PJ has made it clear that the cowboy theme has to go.  So the quilt needs to go into storage and the quilt rack can be replaced with a floating shelf.  And we can probably get away with taking a car, as opposed to taking a truck, because we're just buying little stuff.  Oh, except for the rugs.  Okay, we're gonna need the truck.  BUT NO FURNITURE.  FURNITURE WILL NOT BE INVOLVED.  We won't even have to step foot into the warehouse - showroom all of the way.  AND NO ASSEMBLY."

Spouse stared at me for a long time - and then nodded once.

Yaaaaaaay.  Swedish meatballs and lingonberry jam in my future.

Kid Stuff: Things My 12 Year-Old Mathlete Says

"Hey, Mom, can you take me to McDonald's on March 14th at 3:14?"

"Which 3:14?"

"Huh?  Oh, in the afternoon."

"But you'll be in school . . . oh, okay, Spring Break.  Let's see:  March 14th, Pi Day, so you want a fried pie from McDonald's at 3:14?"

"Why would I want a fried pie?"

"Because . . . it's PI Day."

"But you know that I don't like pie."

"Ohhhhkay.  So, if not for pie, why McDonald's, exactly?"

"I want to order an apple juice, an Egg McMuffin and a Sausage Egg McMuffin."

"Please continue."

"An apple juice, Egg McMuffin and Sausage Egg McMuffin, with tax, cost $3.14."

"GOT IT.  Small problem, though."

"And that would be?"

"You can't order off of the breakfast menu at 3:14 pm."

[Pause while he's thinking.]

"Hey, Mom, can you set your alarm and take me through the McDonald's drive-thru on March 14th at 3:14 am?"

I [heart] my mathlete.  Possibly even enough to take him through a McDonald's drive-thru at 3:14 am.

Countdown to the New Old House: My Reptilian Brain Plots a Master Suite Redo

I SWEAR on the lives of my sweet children that I fully intended to leave the master bedroom "as is" upon our return to the house, with four exceptions:

1.  I have, since it became clear that all of the rooms in the house would get a new coat of paint, reserved the right to tweak the wall color a bit. It is currently a gingersnap shade.  I was, initially, thinking about going lighter, or greige-ier.

2.  Since the ginormous dog crate that formerly occupied the space behind the bedroom door did not accompany us to the apartment, the Sheltie with anxiety issues has learned a new routine (the master bathroom is now her happy place, and she is now the somewhat ambivalent owner of a "thunder shirt").  This means that the dog crate can go bye-bye, and the bookcase that used to be on the wall on my side of the bed can now be tucked into the opposite corner, which will make the room look a whole lot bigger.

3.  The painting that previously hung over the living room fireplace can occupy the space formerly utilized as bookcase space - freeing up living room space for a painting that we received for Christmas.

4.  No more carpet, so we are going to need an area rug.

Um, I guess I should restate #4 in past tense, because we no longer need an area rug for the bedroom, on account of how one kind of followed me home on Saturday.  67% markdown, and both the pattern and the color palette were absolutely perfect.  But perfect for what, exactly?  Halfway to the apartment I realized that the rug really had precious little in common with our current bed linens, but a whole lot in common with the tobacco leaf floral linen valances in our kitchen. The same valances that Spouse refuses to let me rehang in the kitchen when we return because they are, quote, "superfluous."  (OF COURSE THEY ARE SUPERFLUOUS.  GOOGLE "NON-FUNCTIONAL,  ENTIRELY DECORATIVE WINDOW TREATMENT," AND YOU WILL FIND EIGHTY TRILLION  LINKS TO VALANCE PHOTOS.)

I love those valances.  My mother sewed them for me, out of fabric that it took me an agonizingly long time to select.  She made me matching throw pillows, with our blended monograms and silk loop fringe that is the same color as the new master bedroom rug, actually.

Ruh-roh.

I love my primitive reptilian brain.  It is always engaged.  And, clearly, it had a plan for the master bedroom that it waited to share with the rest of me until I was most of the way home with a new area rug.

Call to Spouse from the car:

"So, the double window in the master bedroom - are the panes the same width as the two larger kitchen windows?"

"Yeah, they're all the same.  Why?"

"So, if I put the two kitchen valances side by side, they should cover the double window in the master?"

"Yeeeeeeeeeees.  What are you plotting?"

"Well, you-know-that-I-love-those-valances-and-also-the-matching-pillows-but-I-know-that-you-don't-want-the-valances-in-the-kitchen-and-the-pillows-don't-really-look-right-in-the-living-room-since-we-repainted-anyway-but-that-print-in-the-master-bedroom-would-totally-tie-in-the-shower-curtain-that-I-bought-for-the-master-bath-and-also-would-tie-into-the-big-painting-that-we-are-moving-in-from-the-living-room.  Oh,and, coincidentally, I just realized that this rug that is swallowing the backseat of my car is not really going to look right with the linens that we have now.  But we don't have to start completely from scratch, because I have the valances and the pillows, right?  And they match the rug exactly.  So, um, win-win."

Spouse has had eighteen years to get used to the way my primitive reptilian brain works.  And, God bless him, he doesn't even try to get in the way.

"Here's the deal.  Let me pick out one thing that I like.  Or give me veto power over something.  But, otherwise, go to town."

In the end, he picked the new wall color (a brown that reads olive depending on the light - okay, technically, I picked out the same one, but let the record show that I threw a handful of paint chips onto the rug, told him to express any strong opinions that he might have, and he pointed at the one that we were going to use, anyway).  He also selected our new duvet cover and shams, out of several Pottery Barn selections that were put before him.

So, at the end of the day, THIS fabric:

Which is somewhat complimentary to this shower curtain:

Begat this rug:

(Okay, actually not this rug, but you get the general idea.  Ours is more muted, with a beige and golden-tan ground and accent colors straight out of both fabrics.  Specifically, espresso, a grayish-lilac, sage green and a medium blue.  None of the colors in these photos are particularly true, but trust me, they mesh well in person.)

The rug, in turn, begat this wall color:

It helps that, after we both selected the same paint chip based on a shared hunch that it had olive-y qualities, I Googled it to confirm that hunch, and the above image is the first thing that came up. White Craftsman woodwork?  Check.  Dark Mission-style door?  Dead-on match to our Mission bedroom furniture.  So I know that everything will BLEND.

And, finally, the bed linens ("Lola" by Pottery Barn):

Espresso on one side, sage green on the other, with a greenish tan, a pale pink and a medium blue.  At least from pictures, the colors are a direct hit with the colors in the Big Painting - and, also, the linens are actually linen, the same weight as the linen in the valances.

I love it when a plan comes together.  Even when I was not consciously aware that I was forming one.

I am now plotting to, among other things:  retire some of the folk art that was formerly displayed in the master (I can still take it out seasonally); move some art and photos from the hall into the master, freeing up space for NEW ART AND PHOTOS (REJOICE, REJOICE!); and paint the existing bookcase white, change out the molding and install it to look like a built-in. I'm thinking that I'll paint the back of the bookcase the wall color - although I could introduce an accent color.  Ooh . . . the painters are painting EVERYTHING.  That means I can have the external door in the corner of the master painted an accent color, too.  Maybe a color to play off of the furniture color.  It's not a particularly Craftsy door, although it does have a speakeasy.  OOH!  We could add trim to make it LOOK Craftsy.  But there's that louvered closet door on the same wall.  I hate louvers.  Yup, door's gotta be changed out.  And if  I change it out, why not enlarge the door frame?  OOH, OOH, OOH - double pocket doors, and the closet becomes a gift wrapping station!

Yeah, we're screwed, glued and tattooed.  Because Primitive Reptilian Brain has invited the rest of my gray matter to the party.

Kid Stuff: Things My 7 Year-Old Said at Brunch at Pappasito's

Trash Talk

I will sue you SO HARD that no one will EVEN want to hang out with you.  (This is how one talks smack to one's brother when one is the child of two attorneys.)

Philosophical Discussions

Mom and Dad, why are you guys so awesome?

Years of practice.  Why are you so awesome?

Because I was BORN this way, BABY.  (Yes, we were then treated to the chorus of a Lady Gaga song.)

Fun With the Kids' Menu

The menu says to draw an iguana in this space. BUT I AM DISREGARDING THE INSTRUCTIONS.  (Uttered to the waiter, who looked confused - because the comment was apropos of nothing, or because a seven year-old said "disregarded"?)

I subsequently checked out PJ's drawing, which, in fact, was NOT of an iguana, and I took note of the fact that, where the menu asked, "Will you draw and color Izzy the Iguana?" PJ wrote in bold type, "NO."  With three exclamation points.  To make it clear that he was DISREGARDING THE INSTRUCTIONS.

Later in the meal, PJ drew something on the front of a cartoon armadillo that could have been udders (there was a  cow with udders in close proximity to the armadillo) or could have been an attempt at drawing genitalia.  We discussed the fact that it was not polite to draw penises on your kids' menu, but udders were okay, because . . .  um . . . udders are breasts.  Wait, let's back up and regroup.  But PJ couldn't move on from the "udders are breasts" concept:

REALLY?  I did not know that. Clearly, I need to brush up on my animal knowledge.  You need to send me to farm school.

Multiculturalism 

I know something about Mexican girls.

WOW.  That's an . . . interesting . . . statement.  Please continue.

When they turn fifteen, like, in Mexico, they have a quinceanera.

That's right.  And do you know what a quinceanera is?

Duh.   It's the thing that Mexican girls have when they are fifteen.

Riiiiiiiiiiight.

Kid Stuff: Things My 7 Year-Old Says

(When asked if his landscape art was one of the pieces displayed in the school hallway) "No, mine's the only one not in the hall.  The art teacher ran out of room, so she had to send mine to the district art fair."  (Either we are raising an incredibly humble child, or he really has no idea how these things work.)

"Mom, can I be your protege?"

"If I ask you who you hate, and you say ME, that means that you like me.  If you say you LIKE me, it means that you HATE me.  It's called reverse psychology."

"If you started to chicken out of taking the Underground Railroad, Harriet Tubman would pull a gun on you."  (This, ladies and gents, is what he took away from his library book about Ms.Tubman.  Not that she led 300-plus folks to slavery, or lived to a ridiculously old age for her time period and given her life experiences.  No, the important thing to know about Harriet Tubman is that SHE PACKED HEAT.) 

Things That I Like About Spring in "The Fort": Part 1

Because I still can't concentrate on work, because it's still too beautiful outside.

In no particular order:

1.  Dallas Blooms at the Arboretum (pictured above).  Yeah, okay, so TECHNICALLY the Dallas Arboretum is IN DALLAS.  But I claim it.  And, also, the Dallas World Aquarium.  But that's it.  Once upon a time, there was a Horchow outlet in Dallas, and I also claimed that, but then it closed.  So we're down to just the Arboretum and DWA.

The Arboretum is gorgeous year-round, but particularly show in the spring and fall.  And I am particularly excited that this year's "Dallas Blooms" theme is art-related.  That will be awesome - possibly even more awesome than the year that it was "Flower Power," and they constructed a full-sized VW van out of annuals.

The kids like visiting the Arboretum - once Mom finishes taking pictures of them in matching outfits with tulips in the background.  The picture-taking, they are not so keen on.  But, after the picture-taking, they get to visit the Texas village and check out all of the fountains, and actually run through the frog fountain if weather permits.  (Usually, Mom comes packing bathing suits.)  And, occasionally, there are rabbits to chase.

Speaking of rabbits:

2.  Ridglea Country Club Easter Egg Hunt.  There's something about collecting plastic eggs on a driving range that just says "Spring" to me.

After the hunt, we like to make cookies and cover them with gloopy icing, sprinkles and jelly beans.  Rendering them totally inedible.  But art is art.

We like balloon art almost as much as sugar art:

Here's C posing with his Easter monkey.  You DO know that monkeys are symbolic of Easter, don't you?

Apparently, dragons are also symbolic of Easter:

And, finally, at the end of the day, long-suffering big brother gets to ride on the mini train with little brother and his pals.  Occasionally, Dad accompanies them.

Stay tuned for Part 2.

March Madness

It's way too beautiful to be stuck at a desk today.  Seriously.  Not that we haven't had a plethora of beautiful springlike days over the course of this non-winter that we have been having in North Texas, but now it's MARCH.  It felt kind of weird and wrong when it was 72 in February, but for March it feels just right.  Like, I can see Spring Break just around the corner - and St. Patrick's Day and Easter and Main Street Arts Festival and Mayfest and . . . .

Really, it's incredibly hard to concentrate.

Of course, THIS spring is not going to be without its challenges.  Spring Break, for example:  can't venture too far from the old homestead (and I am referring to the actual old homestead - we have to be around to crack the whip and make sure that things are progressing on the restoration).  Initially, I felt bad about taking any time off for Break, given that I will need to take time off when we move - but I have subsequently decided that I need time off with the kids in order to keep going.  So I'll take a couple of days off, and we'll have a North Texas Spring Break - visit the Arboretum for "Dallas Blooms," and take advantage of the Groupons that Spouse just picked up for admission to the UT Arlington Planetarium and for mini-golf and kart fees at Mountasia.  That's kart fees, with a K - when he initially mentioned it, I thought he was saying "cart fees," and I was trying to reconcile the concept of miniature golf with needing a golf cart.  I mean, really, how lazy have we gotten as a society?

The other challenge this year is to fight the urge to plant pots of pretty annuals for my yard.  You know, the yard that is now ten minutes down the road from me.  It's not like I can just step out the door and water and prune.  So, no pansies and petunias - just as there were no mums last fall.  I have decided that this is a good thing:  I have been slowly making a break from my "container pot annual" obsession and trying to move towards "lots of shrubs and perennials with only a few container pots mixed in."  I think that this is the year that I find my tipping point.   So I'm going to go over to the house, relocate some of the shrubs that we have, buy some others, plant some container roses in the actual ground, and give myself ONLY A FEW POTS, interspersed between the ground-planted stuff.  I think I have worked through in my head which pots are keepers and which are going bye-bye.  And it's entirely possible that, before all is said and done, I will have to have an all-container pot garage sale, because I seriously have that many.  Like I said, it was an obsession.

Lawd, it really is gorgeous out there.  And it's FRIDAY, for pete's sake.  What time is it?

4:18.  [Sigh.]

Adventures in Party Planning: Drive-In Movie Party

Fort Worth is getting a drive-in movie theater - which sounds like an awesome deal, but then I wonder if drive-in movies will translate well to the current generation.  After all, back in our day, we didn't have on-demand, or a DVR, so if you missed a line because someone was talking or the audio was bad, then you just inferred what the character said from what happened next.  Not a bad skill to have, you know, and sad that kids today aren't forced to learn how to fill in the blanks like that.  (Yes, I realize that this is the same thing that my grandparents said about television:  "Back in our day, you had to listen to the story and form a picture of the characters in your head."  And their grandparents probably rolled their eyes at the kids gathered around the radio and said, "Back in our day, you had to read the story and imagine the faces and the voices."  What will our kids complain about when they get old and crochety?  "Back in our day, the images were on a screen in front of you, and you had to look at them with your eyes, as opposed to having them beamed directly into your cerebral cortex.")

Anyway, hoping that the drive-in is successful, and it's not a thing where people go once, indulge their nostalgia and never go again.

I have lots of happy drive-in memories from my early childhood days in Seattle.  I remember seeing "Escape to Witch Mountain" and "Herbie Rides Again."  I also remember seeing "The Sting."  Yes, that Sting, the one starring Robert Redford and Paul Newman.  Not exactly a kid's movie (and I would have been three at the time), but I have a good faith belief that my parents thought that I would play with my dolls in the backseat for a few minutes and then conk out.  No such luck.

I was particularly intrigued by the scene in the movie where they go to a brothel and the - ahem - "working girls" are on a carousel, and the patrons pick their partners for the evening off of the carousel.  Apparently, I was full of questions about the carousel:  where was the carousel?  Who were those girls riding it?  Could I be one of those girls someday?

My parents didn't particularly want to explain the concept of prostitution to a toddler, so they mumbled something about a "girls' school."  Big mistake.  For years thereafter, I was asking them about that girls' school - were they going to enroll me?  And, most importantly, did they still have the carousel?  My dad would always snort and snicker, a fact of which I took note but then filed away.

Ah, the innocence of childhood.

The other reason that I am waxing nostalgic about drive-ins this week is because I found THIS on the Interwebs:

It's a drive-in movie for kids.  How stinkin' cute is THAT?  Note the snack tray attached to the window.  Remember those?  And remember when you got those at Sonic, too?  Do they still have the trays at Sonic?  I don't recall seeing them recently.

For the full run-down on the DIY drive-in movie, check out Momma's Kinda Crafty's blog.

The Event: Not Loving the Roller Coaster Today

You know, when I was nineteen, Grandpa took me on a roller coaster.  Up, down, up, down. Oh, what a ride!  I always wanted to go again. You know, it was just so interesting to me that a ride could make me so frightened, so scared, so sick, so excited, and so thrilled all together! Some didn't like it. They went on the merry-go-round. That just goes around. Nothing. 

I like the roller coaster. You get more out of it. 

Love that line, spoken by the grandma in the movie "Parenthood."  Love the grandma in the movie "Parenthood," who reminds me of my own grandma.  Love the movie "Parenthood," period.  Lots of great lines, like this one:
 
You know, Mrs. Buckman, you need a license to buy a dog, to drive a car - hell, you even need a license to catch a fish. But they'll let any butt-reaming a**hole be a father.

Wise words - and from Keanu Reeves, no less.  Also love this exchange between the matriarch of the Buckman family and the Tom Hulse character:

Why didn't you write us when you had a son?
  
I didn't know myself until a couple of months ago. You see, a few years ago, I was living in Vegas with this girl. Show girl. She was in that show, "Elvis On Ice?" Anyhow, we drifted apart as people do in these complicated times, and then a couple of months ago, she shows up with Cool and tells me, "You watch him. I shot someone. I have to leave the country."  THAT's a parent?

Okay, so that one's not packing a high wisdom quotient, but it's flippin' hilarious the way Hulse delivers it.

But back to the roller coaster thing.  I am generally on board with the roller coaster metaphor.  Life has its ups and downs, but the downs aren't all bad, because they give you a sense of perspective, and a greater enjoyment of the ups.  And then there's always the little thrill you get when you weather the bumpy part and emerge, relatively unscathed, on the other side.

Suffice it to say that the last couple of weeks have been a roller coaster, house-wise.  The insurance company "forgot" to pay our housing allowance, result being that we had to come four figures out of pocket and double-pay for housing (mortgage plus rent) in February.  We got reimbursed, but the parties involved were less than pleasant about it - not that I expect an apology, or even halfway humane treatment, at this point, but,  you know, still.  Ultimately, Spouse had to conference the CEO's office back in, and we were assured (not for the first time) that the insurance company valued our business, that this wasn't the way that they wanted their customers treated (really?  THEN STOP TREATING THEM THAT WAY), yada, yada.  We were also assured that a project specialist would be assigned to the file, to serve as a traffic cop and hopefully help generate some forward motion.  Still waiting on that call, but Spouse did receive an unpleasant call from one head of the adjustment office hydra, and I was the recipient of a whole lot of spewed venom from another.  We kept our cool.  We pushed through.  We may, FINALLY, be approaching some meaningful resolution.

It remains to be seen if we will be made whole, or close to, but it's likely that I will never get what, equitably, ought to be coming to me (and to Spouse) for HOURS spent trying to get various people to listen to reason and do their jobs.  And, certainly, I'm not gonna be getting those brain cells back.

Still, I should feel a little bit exhilarated.  I mean, I went into this latest round of "negotiations" kind of expecting the worst, and emerged cautiously optimistic.  But I am having trouble mustering any real enthusiasm.  Instead, I'm just tired.  No, tired isn't the word - emotionally drained is the concept.  The same level of emotional drainage that I experienced after the third day of the Bar exam:  I had taken a cab to the testing venue ( the car that I owned at the time was having "issues," and I wasn't taking chances - at least if a cab broke down, another one would be quickly dispatched to rescue me), but I didn't feel like waiting for a cab to take me home, and I didn't feel like riding home with a friend, so I walked, from Austin's Auditorium Shores to 31st Street.  If you have any frame of reference for Austin, you will understand that this was a bit of a hike:  all of the way across the bulk of downtown, and then all of the way across the UT campus.  At the time, the walk wasn't that big of a deal, in terms of being an anomaly:  after seven years in Austin, I had grown accustomed to walking everywhere, and I actually walked downtown a lot - to the bank, to my internship at the Attorney General's Office, etc.

What was a big deal was the fact that I have very little recollection of making the walk, because I was in a total fog the entire time.  The fog did lift when I hit Sixth Street, because that was when two tourists (both middle-aged ladies) approached me and asked if I was "from here."

Ummmm, yes.  I mean, I live here.

In that case, did I have any recommendations for a place to have lunch close by?

Ummmm.  Seven years, and I could not muster a name of a single restaurant.  Bear in mind, that Sixth Street and environs was, at least at the time, the epicenter for all things cool in downtown Austin.  All I had to do was LOOK UP and note the nearest intersection in order to give them a recommendation, or four or five.  Instead, I just stared at them with my mouth open.  For a long-a** time.  Until they got kind of disturbed.  It's possible that they thought that I was a recent releasee from a 72-hour psych hold at a local hospital.  They mumbled vague apologies, and got the heck out of Dodge.

I must have kept walking, because eventually I made it home.  My roommates were waiting for me (my other, in-law-school-with-me roommate had beaten me home, on account of how she wasn't a total freak who WALKED THE ENTIRE WAY, and she warned them that the morning exam had been a nightmare - we were all expecting the examiners to zig, and instead they zagged, so no one studied the right material - which turned out okay, because when everyone flunks, well, there's your curve).  They handed me a glass of wine, and, if memory serves, took off my shoes and tucked me into bed, and then they turned on a cooking show (my way of destressing back then) and told me to wait for Spouse (who was then Boyfriend) to get there.

Fairly sure that the sound in my head while I was drinking said wine and watching said cooking show was ummmm.

When I got back to the office today, after a meeting at the house with various and sundry parties, there it was again:   ummmm.  The thought occurred to me (pushing through the fog) that it was really kind of ridiculous that I went back to work at all.  Years of conditioning, I guess.  But hardly in a mind frame to be of much use to clients.  Although, once I was at work, I didn't really trust myself to immediately venture back out in a car.  I needed to get lose my ummmms first.  Found myself desperately wishing that walking to the apartment was an option.  Trust me, it's not.  Walking to our house - actually theoretically possible.  To the apartment, not so much.  Another reason why the house is superior to the apartment.  Okay, getting angry now - but the angries clear the ummmms out.

Blogging also helps me focus, and relax - to the extent that "relax" is in the current rotation.  So, you know, thanks for listening.  And I really do hate to be whiny - but, I gotta say, this is one of those times when the merry-go-round, for all of its sameness, sounds like a not-entirely-bad proposition.

Sorry, wise fictional grandma.

Going home in a few, to hear about the Big Kid's day (heard about the Little Kid's on the walk home from school - the silver lining of a 2 pm meeting at the house is the opportunity for a 3 pm walk to and from the elementary school, something that I used to do with regularity but is a rare treat these days).  Probably won't watch a cooking show, but, hey, "The Voice" is on, and, also, "Smash."

Maybe one of my "roomies" will take off my shoes for me.  Just like old times.