716. Oh Say Can You See

Do you ever want to take your eyeballs out and wash them?  I do.  A lot.  I go to Costco and buy a lifetime supply of Visine, which will last me about a week.  My eyes are itchy itchy itchy which has nothing to do with me owning a cat whom I stop to pet around 100 times a day. 

Right now as I type this, I feel like I have three prickly stray eyelashes behind the actual eyeball.  They are not underneath the eyeball on the lower rim where I could reach them with minimal effort, nor just to the side where I could poke at them with my pinkie.  The rogue eyelashes feel as if they have migrated into my brain. 

“Quit rubbing your eyes so much then,” barks The Husband unhelpfully, “You do this to yourself.” 

I rub them some more, partly to prove The Husband wrong, and partly because they itch.  My hands need to be sequestered far away from my eyes, like jurors in a high-profile case.  My hands should have a restraining order from my eyes.  Hands and eyes should dutifully stay on their own parts of the body and do what they each do best:  hands can wave politely at neighbors at the bus stop, and eyes can blink.    

I’ve never been to an optometrist about my little “problem” because I know exactly what would happen:  my eyes would bother me for the week leading up to the appointment and then on the actual day would be 100% fine.  This is called the Murphy’s Law of Medicine:  whatever ailment you go in for, you will be miraculously free of symptoms when the doctor looks at you.  My insurance does not give me any kind of break in the co-pay for absence of symptoms.  In fact, I think they charge double. 

That weird rash on my leg?  Gone for two hours on Wednesday morning, starting with the minute the receptionist says, “MOV?  The doctor will see you now.”  Swollen glands around my neck area that have been bothering me for a week?  Smooth and unpuffy on appointment day.  That gray spot indicating a potential cavity on one of my molars?  Just a tooth stain laughs my dentist after I drove 45 minutes in traffic to his office for an emergency appointment.  I suck at being sick. 

I go to the bathroom and splash water in my eyes.  Water water water.  I am a fish.  My beleaguered eyes have gone from pink and mildly irritated to red and demanding to talk to a manager. 

“Sweetie, you should lie down,” says The Husband with a sigh.  I do as instructed:  I lie on the bed with a cold, wet washcloth rolled up over my sore eyes, eyes that have been working too hard at doing exhausting things, like seeing. 

A few minutes later, The Husband forgets all about my eye situation.  He walks in the bedroom, flips the lights on full bright, and says something I might have been known to say to him once or twice in the past, “Sweetie!  You have to read this thing I just wrote!” 

MOV

715. I Hate New Blogger

I check my blog approximately 12,000 times per day.  After almost two years of writing in this space, I know the subtle nuances of my Blogger software.  I know how to add a link, and how to add a photo.  I know how to check for comments, and how to edit a previous post.  I am feeling pretty smug in my superior knowledge of all that is computers.  I am Bill Gates. 

One bright morning (a morning that started out with the sun singing happy energizing songs and blowing air kisses to neighborhood bunnies gallivanting by), I had the misfortune of noticing a new teeny-tiny microscopic itty-bitty box next to where I sign in for Blogger.  The box said helpfully, “Try New Blogger now?” 

I was suddenly Alice in Wonderland in Pandora’s Box.  Hmmm.  New Blogger, what is that?  Would I like to try it?  If I try it and don’t like it, surely I can go back to the way things were, right? 

Webster’s dictionary defines try as “To taste, sample, or otherwise test in order to determine strength, effect, worth, or desirability.”  I like Webster’s.  Webster’s is good at clarifying things for me.  

When I go to the mall, I try things on.  I might try on a pair of $500 Manolo Blahniks, but I never actually buy them.  I might try on a sweater that is two sizes too small, but then I hang its stretched out fibers back up on the hanger and scurry out of the changing room without making eye contact with the salesgirl.  Even Baskin-Robbins doesn’t force me to buy a pint of Chunky-Banana-Brownie-Mint-Rainbow-Madness after I innocently try a taster spoon of it and spit it out. 

New Blogger has a different philosophy than those places.  New Blogger operates on one principle and one principle only:  commitment. 

I clicked on “Try New Blogger now?” and was instantaneously transported to the jarring continent of New Blogger, a continent that did not come with a map, passport stamp, nor free bag of stale pretzels. 

“Bwahahahahahahahahahahahaha!” the computer cackled, “You will never get out of this place alive!”

I desperately searched for some sort of button, an escape hatch if you will, that would lead me back to the comfy safe worn-in fuzzy slippers world of Old Blogger.  I’m sorry, Old Blogger!  I wasn’t having an affair with New Blogger!  I only let New Blogger buy me that one drink, and then I gave New Blogger my phone number, but it was for business reasons!  We never even kissed, I promise!

My two years of devotion to Old Blogger evaporated in that one millisecond when my hand guided the mouse up to that innocuous little box and right-clicked on it.

Did I say it was like Pandora’s Box?  I meant Dante’s Inferno and the nine circles of Hell.  Using New Blogger is like going to sleep as one person and waking up as someone else in an entirely different country and not speaking a word of their language and not recognizing the unattractive person lying in bed asleep next to you.  Only it is more disconcerting than that. 

What was on the right is on the left.  What was up top is gone.  The font is different.  Blank lines appear in the middle of your text for no reason.  The screen you think you should click on takes you to the wrong place.  I wander the convoluted underground subway system of New Blogger without the local currency, crying.

In a fit of desperation, I Google “How to get rid of New Blogger,” but almost every single response of the 47,600,00 (I guess I am not the only person this has happened to) involves re-writing HTML code and getting a Master’s degree in Computer Science.  I don’t have that kind of time. 

Dante’s 9^th Circle of Hell is betrayal.  The 8^th is fraud.  I am tempted to open up my window and push the computer out.  But that would be the 7^th Circle of Hell:  violence.  (The 6^th Circle is alcohol, but it might be permissible given the circumstances.)    

In the end, I resign myself to my fate:  I am married to New Blogger with no chance of divorce or parole.  Until one day, five years from now, I will notice another little box beckoning, “Try New IMPROVED Blogger?” 

MOV

714. Design Weekend 4--The Toy Room

Welcome to Design Weekend!  We call this the "Toy Room" for obvious reasons.  Here is the finished product:

Toy Room

Now for the blank slate, the Before: 

Boring, but fixable!

Next, I will show you the inspiration photo: 

Magazine photo inspiration

My inspiration photo is obviously more about the color story, turquoise and lime green.  It is meant to evoke summertime, fun, the outdoors, the beach, tropical weather.   

Here is the floorplan of the room: 

Now I will fill you in on some details.  The room is in the attic space of our house.  It is a standard height ceiling though.  Here are some changes we made: 

• Installed air conditioning (in the entire house).  Therefore, the beadboard ledge or shelf on the far wall under the window houses the AC duct work for the ceiling of the rooms below (the two bedrooms). 
• We made the small closet on the left side of the floorplan bigger. 
• We removed the large closet to get more floor space. 
• We had a carpenter install deep shelves (right side) that actually go into the eaves of the house. 
• The paint is by Benjamin Moore (I should have a frequent buyer plan with them) and the turquoise is called "Tropicana Cabana."  I cannot remember the name of the lime color, but if you are dying to know, I can look it up later.  Mention in the comments if you want. 
• We chose to do all the trim work in the same colors (the turquoise and lime) so as not to draw your eye away and distract.  NO WHITE TRIM (except the door frame). 
• We wanted to add big windows, but Mr. Mastercard said absolutely not.  Mr. Cash said, "Why not give the illusion of a big window by taking the blinds all the way to the ceiling?"  This way, you just assume the window goes all the way up! 
• We added six recessed lights (and took down the one in the center of the room and ended up using it in the basement bathroom).  
• We installed wall-to-wall carpeting over the linoleum floor.       
• The vintage poster is from eBay. 
• The couch:  it is a couch from Ikea that we had to build from scratch in the space (because no normal size piece of furniture like a couch or even large squishy chair would fit up the narrow stairs).  The couch is actually white.  I had bought this fabric when we decided on colors, and I had a local fabric store give me the name of a seamstress that makes slipcovers.  I adore that fabric!  It is one of my favorite things in the room.   

Okay, time for more photos!  Here is a Before from the other side of the room (taking the photo standing by the window): 

There is that closet we got rid of.  The adjacent room is my study. 

And here is the After: 

Spacious, without that closet!

All right, let me tell you about this side of the room.

• That is a magnetic chalkboard paint on the left.  The kids can draw on that wall! 
• We got those cork squares from Home Depot and adhered them directly to the wall with rubber cement or glue or something and had the carpenter do a custom frame around the whole thing to look more like it is hung up than part of the wall.  Let me give you a close-up of that: 

The kids have a lot of artwork from school.  This is a nice spot to display some of it. 

Now for a close-up of some decor items in the room.  Here is that eBay vintage poster: 

We actually had this from our last house, and the colors ended up working for this room!

Okay, one more.  This is a neat watercolor my step-mom made for Short when he was born.  It is in the Toy Room, but in our last house it was in his nursery. 

She is a great artist!  This is watercolor. 

That is everything.  This room was a lot of fun to do, and a cheery place for the kids to play, especially if the weather outside is less than ideal.  You will notice we have NO television nor any kind of electronic games in here.  This was a conscious decision, as I wanted a spot that was for creativity and imagination play.    

One last look: 

 
Thanks for stopping by! 

MOV

711. When Healthy Is Not

Lately I have heard a disturbing amount of first-, second-, and third-hand reports of devastating injuries, injuries that said individuals sustained while doing something that is so-called “healthy,” like exercise. Several incidents claw their way to the forefront of my brain, so let’s examine them more closely.

Incident 1: The Husband. A few years back, he decided it was part of his “bucket list” to run a marathon. He trained carefully and intentionally for close to a year, with no injuries or problems. The day of the race, he chanted his mantra Drink water, drink water, drink water, and proceeded to over-hydrate himself to a dangerous level. He finished the race, came home, then had me call 911 to retrieve his listless and waterlogged body. One ambulance, four paramedics, one overnight hospital stay, and five saline IV bags later, the doctor signed his release papers and told him he was forbidden from ever running another marathon.

Incident 2: The Neighbor. One of my neighbors (like me, she also writes a blog), a life-long runner, was training for a marathon. She blew her knee out while training, to the point that not only could she not participate in the race, she was forced to have surgery.

Incident 3: The Brother-In-Law. He was riding his bike (he wore a helmet), something he does every day of his life, in a dense neighborhood in San Francisco. A driver of a parked car opened her car door without looking and, yes, brother-in-law crashed right into it, breaking his arm. It was not a clean break, and it took months of rehab to regain use of it.

Incident 4: The Friend. Blew out her ankle coaching her kid’s basketball team. Surgery is scheduled.

Incident 5: The Friend’s Husband (yes, same friend as above). Blew out his knee playing a pick-up game of basketball with his friends. Surgery is scheduled.

Incident 6: The Husband’s Co-Worker. Fell four stories onto a concrete floor while fake rock-climbing in a gym (her gear malfunctioned). She was wearing a helmet, which saved her life. She broke her back in three places, which surgeons repaired, and they told her she is lucky she will be able to walk again.

Incident 7: My Dad’s Friend. Dropped dead of a heart attack while playing racquet ball. He was 58, and was playing against his best friend (who happened to be a paramedic). A defibrillator was on site (they were at a gym), and his paramedic friend used it on him, to no avail. The ambulance was there in three minutes. Nothing helped.

Incident 8: My Mom’s Employee. She was jumping on a trampoline with her kids, felt something weird with her back, and collapsed. The ER doctors told her she broke her vertebrae. As this just happened a few days ago, she is currently in the hospital awaiting surgery, and in the meantime has developed a blood clot.

Incident 9: The Co-Worker’s Daughter. One of my co-workers just told me how her daughter was smashed in the face with a baseball bat by another team member (this was unintentional), and she ended up having to have her jaw wired shut to make sure her teeth were okay.

Incident 10: The Child. My younger son, Short, broke his arm last summer while at the playground sliding down the slide. His neon orange (waterproof/ swim-worthy) cast was on for six weeks.

I am strangely absent from this gruesome injury list. I do not like ambulances, hospitals, doctors, and dialogues that begin with “not sure about your recovery process.” I cringe when I accidentally nick my leg while shaving, and I pop a Tylenol if I have a particularly painful hangnail.

So instead I sink into my very comfortable couch, inhaling yet another sleeve of Girl Scout cookies while watching House Hunters, and marvel at my genius approach to fitness.

MOV

709. Happy Cleanaversary

The Husband and I celebrated 12 years of wedded bliss on Monday. To say that he is a great guy and that I am happy I married him is an understatement. Every evening when he comes home from work and walks through that door, I think to myself how lucky I am, mostly because I have a lot of quirks and am not sure how anyone could stand to be around me for 12 hours let alone 12 years.

One of my quirks is maintaining the illusion to friends, family, and complete strangers that our house looks like a beautiful museum at all times, with every piece of furniture dusted, every stray clump of cat fur vacuumed, and every dish washed, dried, and put away. Of course we do not live a messy life with papers strewn about, papers that someone else inflicted on us, like the school, the mailman, or The Husband’s job. No. Our lives are neat and organized with everything put away or at least looked at and decided about immediately. We do not let papers languish on the front entry table, the coffee table, the fireplace mantle, or the kitchen counter.

We would never do that. To do that would make us slobs, lazy slobs who do not care what other people think. I am a lazy slob who cares very much what other people think.

I want the illusion of perfection, the image that the Architectural Digest photo crew might be stopping by at any moment to photograph us for their June cover.

As you can imagine, I had to clean the house before the sitter came over.

I got off of work at 3 PM, which was just in time to race home before the kids got home. As soon as they arrived, I handed them a snack and scooted them in the yard to play. Next, I put on my apron (a souvenir from my days at the high-end kitchen store) and began to tackle my messy house.

I spent the next three hours washing dishes, dusting the dining room, making beds, deep-cleaning the bathroom, scooping up all offending papers in the living room and front entry into several large shopping bags (to be hidden in the master bedroom on the other side of the bed next to the window), shoving shoes in the closet, until suddenly, miraculously, our home had the appearance of looking semi-clean, effortless, comfy, and casual. This was a vast improvement from mere hours before when various bugs were on their cell phones, placing collect calls to their spider cousins, asking them to move in with us. Dust bunnies had morphed into something slightly larger, like, say, dust elephants or dust dinosaurs. The surface of the bathroom sink could only have been described as “fossilized.”

But no more. The house shined, maybe not enough to be on the cover of Architectural Digest, but possibly on page 232 of Architectural Wannabe in a quarter-page article about living with kids and pets in harmony.

I put on my black skirt and my best red sweater, the outfit I reserve for special occasions, and sat down on the couch to survey the scene. I was pleased with the cleanliness level, but I was more pleased with the fact that The Husband had fed the kids dinner and gotten them in bed already. We were ready for our dinner reservation.

The phone rang. The sitter gave some lame last-minute cancellation excuse (“My dad just had a heart attack and we’re at the hospital”—okay, fine, I guess that was actually an acceptable excuse). I did the only thing I could:  I asked the sitter if her dad would want to recuperate later at our house. It was nice and clean.

MOV

706. Why Being A Mom Is Harder Than Being A Kid

When Tall turned three, he went off to preschool for two hours, twice a week. Up until that point, we had been together all day, every day.  Now I could hardly bear to be apart from him.  I was at home with his sweet little baby brother, but I was still obsessed with wanting to know my genius Tall’s every move. Did he keep the sweater on like I told him to? Was he learning to use scissors and glue? Was he the best in the class at glittering? Did his peers respect and admire him, and consider him a leader? Was his teacher impressed with his super-advanced vocabulary, with him stringing words together like “more cake,” “big truck,” and “gotta poop”? Could he write his entire alphabet in upper and lower case, and could he do it easily in Russian and Japanese, too?

Five exhausting years later, I don’t really care.

Let me amend that: I do care, I just don’t care quite as much as his teachers think I should.

My sons’ teachers do a fine job. We are fortunate to live in one of the top public school districts in the country, with off-the-chart teaching scores in every subject. I have volunteered in their classrooms, so I know the absurdly high quality of education my sons are receiving. Which is exactly why I don’t spend 25 minutes reading the “Weekly Wrap-Up” sheet that comes home with Short, the one that says they are learning about ecosystems and the history of China and color theory.

I get hourly emails from the Spanish teacher, letting me know which vocabulary words we should be practicing at home as well as the conjugation of irregular verbs. Daily, the Director of Extracurricular Activities feels compelled to send home a multi-page list of things I should be doing with my child, such as complicated science experiments involving empty soda bottles, vinegar, and dry ice, or building historically accurate paper mâché models of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, or researching the origins of the Latin American political systems.  The Room Mom sends a note home that she needs me to bake four dozen nut-free, gluten-free cupcakes for the school bake sale fundraiser.  The art teacher wants us to craft detailed origami doves over Spring break, and make our own Play-Doh in 15 different colors, and she sends home a helpful recipe for just this purpose. Tall’s teacher reminds us to review complex math strategies every morning at breakfast.

Frankly, I’m tired.


The school's goal for mom


I wake up at a normal hour and get my kids ready for school. This involves multiple wardrobe disputes and editing. Jeans are deemed “too itchy” and the color red (which only yesterday was appealing) is now considered “what girls where” (to emphasize the point, Short calls attention to the fact that I, a girl, happen to be wearing a red t-shirt). Corduroy is “too hot” and cotton is “too plain.” Green is “yucky” and “only people on TV wear orange.” Oh, how I long for uniforms.

After the wardrobe dilemma is resolved (this only takes 20 minutes, an improvement from the previous day) I make breakfast. The boys are still too little to get it for themselves for the simple reason that they are not tall enough to reach the bowls or get the cereal out of the cupboard (note to self: redesign kitchen so that everything is accessible to someone under 48 inches in height). After breakfast, we have to have an argument about the merits of brushing teeth. The children inform me that they don’t mind if their teeth “rot out of their head,” since they are all baby teeth anyway. We compromise by brushing teeth with just water.  Hey, I rationalize to myself, it's better than nothing. 

Next, we spend 10 minutes locating shoes that match each other, backpacks, and coats that are not completely covered in mud. Usually about this time, I remember that I have to pack Short’s lunch because he refuses to eat the school lunch (unless, of course, it’s pizza day). We have to leave for the bus in two minutes, so I am dashing around the kitchen, chopping up apples and carrots, and chanting to myself “Don’t forget his juice box, don’t forget his juice box, don’t forget his juice box.”

I forget his juice box, and we almost miss the bus.

As you can imagine, this does not leave much time for math “strategies,” unless the strategy is: Can our little family get out the door in only one hour like normal people? (No.) Could we possibly get out the door in two hours? (Still no.)

And where, pray tell, is The Husband in this equation? He is strategically absent, pretending to “get ready work” by engaging in such time-wasters as “taking a shower,” “enjoying a cup of coffee,” and “reading the newspaper.” He is not chopping carrots.

After school is no better. The kids get out of school at 3:35 PM, and their bus deposits them at our stop around 4 PM. They play outside, we eat a snack, and then (the horror!) they might want to play with their Legos and cars for a while. If the Spanish teacher found out that we called cars cars and not coches like he advocates, he would be livid. If the Room Mom found out that we were not baking allergy-free cupcakes for the bake sale, she would immediately drive over here and search my pantry for the ingredients and pre-heat my oven herself.  If the Director of Extracurricular Activities knew that we tossed our old plastic bottles in the recycle bin and did not save them for her recommended science experiments, she would call Child Protective Services.

Sometimes, because I am a very bad mommy and want to get dinner made, I will let the boys watch cartoons on TV, or play Club Penguin or Lego Games on the computer. This (obviously) was not approved by the Director of Extracurricular Activities.

My sons also play sports. A few times a week, Tall must go to his basketball practice or games, which gobbles up more of his afternoon time. It’s a wonder he ever learned to read, what with all this time we waste on frivolous things like fun and exercise.

Tall is in second-grade, which means he has homework.  He sits at the dining room table for three hours working out the quadratic formula and derivatives and anti-derivatives. As a “hands-off” parent, I do not offer assistance with this, mostly because I have no idea what a quadratic formula is.

Then he settles in with a short novel, like War and Peace. 

Later in the evening, we eat dinner, take baths, put on pajamas, and read stories. This would shock their teachers to know, because it is not leaving much free time for building exact replicas of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.


Reality


The kids go to sleep and I finally take a moment to rifle through their bulging backpacks, looking for stray permission slips or overdue library books. I retrieve their latest artwork and hang it on our kitchen bulletin board. I glance at the bushel of papers the school sends home, and I wonder which Stepford mommies actually do all the things the school tells them to. Do I know any of those mommies? Do they ever sleep? 

Don't the kids do enough at school already?  Can't the schools do what they need to do in their allotted eight hours without trying to control my limited time, too?  Why am I feeling this intense pressure to do more-more-more when my kids are already doing so much? 

I suppose I could be studying up on what the school wants me to do while my sons are in school all day, or I could be making the damn cupcakes, but I work part-time, and if I am not working, I must wash eleventy-seven loads of laundry, go to the grocery store, run errands, or attempt to clean the house. This doesn’t always happen either. Sometimes I collapse on the couch and give in to the decadent pleasure of eating frozen Girl Scout cookies while watching back-to-back episodes of House Hunters.

I always feel guilty afterwards. But not guilty enough to make my own Play-Doh.

MOV
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705. Map of My Heart 3--etsy Digital Photo Illustration

Today I thought I would do something different.  I am showing you a piece of art that is a digital illustration by an etsy artist.  She did this for me a few years ago: 

I will give you her link at the end of this post.  (Frame not included, but you knew that.)

This is what she does:  you send her your digital file of your photograph (or you can mail her the photo via regular mail and she will scan it and send it back to you) and then she makes it into a digital illustration!  She prints it on oversized and very good quality paper.  She charges around 50 bucks.  A bargain for specialized personal art!  I just love the look of this.

Here is the original photo she scanned from: 

I love this picture so much.  I had the idea of posing my kids this way after seeing a picture of my cousin Kristi that my aunt had set up when Kristi was a baby.  My aunt had posed Kristi with all her stuffed animals and dolls, and it looked like Kristi was a doll, too.  Kids are only this little for such a short time, I thought it would be fun to photograph my sons like this.  They loved their stuffed animals, and we still have most of them.         

And now I will show you some close-ups: 

The artist meticulously colors in each part of the art.  If there is some part that is very "busy" or complicated (like Tall's checked shirt) or other busy patterns, she typically will reduce that to one color.  Also, she does one "proof" for you so you can make sure you are happy with it.  I had her do two version of this, one with Tall in a navy shirt, and one in a red shirt.  We opted for the red.

She did another one for me (not pictured here).  It was of my dad swimming with dolphins on a trip he took to South America.  In the first version of the picture she did, she made my dad look way too young (she had not really put in any of his wrinkles, he's in his 70's).  I emailed her that he looked like a Botoxed version of himself!  She immediately made the changes, adding strategic laugh lines and crows' feet as needed.  She is very accommodating, and a pleasure to work with.

Here is a close-up of just the stuffed animals:  

This is, in my opinion, a fun and different way to do personal art.  The size of the art (just the paper with no frame) is about 12 inches by 12 inches.  Hope you like it! 

The artist is named Sadie, and her site is called "Emmie Bean" (after her cat).  Sadie will also do multiples, so if you order a photo of your kids (for yourself) and then want re-prints for extended family, she can do that and give you a break in the price (I think it is $10 for the duplicates).   

Here is her LINK on etsy if you want to check out all the possibilities.  These digital photo illustrations make great Christmas and birthday presents, and are wonderful to commemorate a special occasion like a wedding or beach vacation.  Enjoy!

(*Disclaimer:  She has no idea that I am blogging about this, and this is NOT any type of ad)

MOV