Can I tell you something I consider one of my dirty little secrets? I love crappy food. You may be shocked to know that, because anyone who knows me knows that we almost never eat out, and also that I'm quite vocal in my disdain for the lack of nutritional value in most take-out food. But the truth is that there was a long period of time when I was a kid where my dad hadn't yet learned to cook and my mom was working nights, and my brother and father and I lived on McDonald's and Kraft Mac and Cheese and Spaghettios and such. We were hardly unique---it was the 70s, and everyone was digging...
So we're here in the frozen north, er, in the temperate north, attending to family and wedding festivities. We are staying with Otto's brother and sister-in-law, who live in a gorgeous house and are always gracious hosts. Usually when we stay here we camp out in their spare room, which is a smallish L-shaped space that has two twin beds catty-corner to each other. I enjoy sleeping in there because I never tire of saying "Good night, John Boy!" when we turn the lights out, but this time they opted to put my younger nephew in his brother's room and put us in his room on an air mattress. This...
I am still earnestly toiling over the containers out on my deck. In some ways, it's really an ideal set-up---there's no deer or rabbits willing to venture that high, so I don't have to worry about putting in all of this effort merely to feed the local wildlife. After all, that's what our compost pile is for. (I do love the mental image of a couple of deer dragging our scooped-out cantelope rinds down to the pond for a late-night snack.) At some point, the strawberry plants heaved an enormous sigh and all but died. I'm not sure what happened, although I DO know that the squirrels (unfazed by...
My goodness, is it Sunday afternoon already? I scarcely noticed, and that's because I have ONCE AGAIN been sucked down into the swirling maelstrom of suckitude that occurs every time I pick up a damn paintbrush. [You: Aren't you done talking about painting, yet? Me: Shut up and go tape that corner.] See, I thought I was done in the dining room because "touching up" the trim was only going to take a few minutes. HAHAHAHAHAHA. HA. HAAAAAAAA. *sob* Oh, it's fine. Really. I mean, I am going to finish painting the trim this weekend EVEN IF IT KILLS ME, and I am not at all bitter that Otto can't...
Technically, I think I may be on the fifth or sixth or EIGHTY GAZILLIONTH verse, when it comes to the never-ending process of painting the dining room, but I do rather feel like a hamster on a wheel, at this point. Get up. Check email. Do some work. Paint. Do some more work. Do other stuff around the house. Paint. And so on. I feel like a tremendous wimp. I mean, yes, applying plaster is extremely time-consuming, but it's not particularly DIFFICULT, and painting with regular paint is simple enough, and also, it's not a very big room, and why in the world does this seem to be the project that...
Or, This Is What Happens When Otto Isn't Here For Me To Yammer At. Or, Things I Thought About While Stretched Out Right In The Middle Of Our King-Sized Bed This Morning. Or, If It Wasn't Really My Life You'd Think It Was Crappy Fiction. Hey, I'd come up with something more meaningful, here, but I'm too sore. I am the venetian plaster's bitch, y'all. The walls have triumphed, and I no longer care what they look like, I just want to be DONE. Soon. I only have to prime and paint the area under the chair rail and trowel on the topcoat on the plaster and Oh, HI! Don't mind me! I am just going to...
I thought it was high time I gave my children's father something new he could tuck into the "Reasons Why The Mother Of My Children Is Actually The Spawn Of Satan" file. Why, just a few months ago when we were in court he expressed his belief that the problem with the kids being here during the summer was that they would end up "watching television all of the time," which made me laugh out loud because I'm sort of the TV Nazi. I keep a tight rein on that remote, you know, because I gots to watch Mah Shows while I'm eating Mah BonBons. Obviously. So, no, it's not an endless stream of...
On Saturday we got it into our heads that it would be a great idea to go pick our own strawberries at a local farm. Because that would be a great way to spend a morning! And we all love strawberries! Right? Sure! Okay, so, the first problem was that MY CHILDREN ARE TRYING TO KILL ME. And after begging to go berry picking they then refused to get ready to go and then took out everything they own and left it on the floor upstairs. At least, that's what it looked like. So I had one of those really charming teachable moments where, instead, I had a GIANT HAIRY HISSY FIT (that'll learn 'em!) and...
I'm pretty sure that the most obnoxious thing ever said to me about my blog was not a criticism of my parenting or some sort of personal indictment (though---let's be clear---I've gotten plenty of those, too), but a dismissive, "Well, blogging's just a fad, and it'll pass, so enjoy it while it lasts." This was said to me by someone who's always regarded my writing as a useless little hobby. Well, I've been enjoying the spoils of this silly little fad for over four years, now, and I'd be hard-pressed to tell you the greatest part about it. Because, clearly, the greatest part is getting to do...
