Happy Birthday to you
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday to you
You live in Vancouver,
But you love Brooklyn, too.
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday to you
You drove me to Richmond,
Which was a nice thing to do.
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday to you
I love you, my friend,
And your taste in great shoes.
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday dear Richelle,
Happy Birthday to you!
Happy Birthday to you
You live in Vancouver,
But you love Brooklyn, too.
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday to you
You drove me to Richmond,
Which was a nice thing to do.
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday to you
I love you, my friend,
And your taste in great shoes.
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday dear Richelle,
Happy Birthday to you!
Labels: friends, we are family, you say it's your birthday
So you might as well have a good time
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Blogging is a interesting way of writing. There is always the choice to write it straight or to tell a story. Do I write the bare bones, or do I take the path through the woods? Who am I writing for, anyway? Does it matter?
I admire bloggers who can write it out straight and not sound pedantic. I admire those who never lose sight of who they write for. I admire those who tell you what you are waiting for, the ones who hit the right note. I admire those whose paths are clear enough for me to follow.
I write because I forget. I write because I want to capture the moments, commit them to my memory, tell the story of them. I write because I have whole days I'd like to put in a box and keep - the funny, the sad, the tense, the silly, the sublime. All of it.
But my shame is that I forget it all.
Maybe the writing helps. Maybe it's just a poor substitute for my memories of my life. All this time, for probably the last 30 years or so, for as long as I can remember, I have liked fiction more than reality. I have liked the stories I told and retold, the words I fashioned. I have liked my view of myself, very much so.
Last night, in Vancouver, we went to see the band Cake. They have a song called "Sheep Go to Heaven" and the line in it I love is, "As soon as you're born you start dying, so you might as well have a good time".
This sentiment resonates, and it's why I book plane tickets to go see friends. I have lots of imperfections in my life, in myself. I hope that one of them isn't failure to love properly. That would be nearly unforgivable. Debt and bitchiness and fervent opinions can be moved past, but not to grab onto what you have is sheer stupidity.
So I can tell you that we went to Steveston the first day and ate fish and chips. That we went to Stanley Park and the Aquarium, that I saw Beluga whales for the first time. That we ate hot Montreal meat and satay and sushi and spotted prawns and Canadian wheat berry. That we drank beers I'd never heard of, and lots of champagne. That Richelle was surprised and pleased and Rob was so excited to see us. That we made new friends and walked across a scary bridge and survived many a heated discussion. That Richelle drove me to Richmond for a bag when I already had one, and that we went to the No.5 Orange and that yes, Vancouver is a beautiful city and so green.
Or I could just say that I have discovered I like reality, in all its harshness and imperfection. I like it very much so. And I like remembering, because when your reality looks like this and the pictures bring it all back, what's not to like? Maybe, this time, the only story that needs to be told is the one we aren't done living yet.
I would be absolutely remiss if I didn't thank my beloved friends Rob and Richelle for the last five days. I love you both.
I admire bloggers who can write it out straight and not sound pedantic. I admire those who never lose sight of who they write for. I admire those who tell you what you are waiting for, the ones who hit the right note. I admire those whose paths are clear enough for me to follow.
I write because I forget. I write because I want to capture the moments, commit them to my memory, tell the story of them. I write because I have whole days I'd like to put in a box and keep - the funny, the sad, the tense, the silly, the sublime. All of it.
But my shame is that I forget it all.
Maybe the writing helps. Maybe it's just a poor substitute for my memories of my life. All this time, for probably the last 30 years or so, for as long as I can remember, I have liked fiction more than reality. I have liked the stories I told and retold, the words I fashioned. I have liked my view of myself, very much so.
Last night, in Vancouver, we went to see the band Cake. They have a song called "Sheep Go to Heaven" and the line in it I love is, "As soon as you're born you start dying, so you might as well have a good time".
This sentiment resonates, and it's why I book plane tickets to go see friends. I have lots of imperfections in my life, in myself. I hope that one of them isn't failure to love properly. That would be nearly unforgivable. Debt and bitchiness and fervent opinions can be moved past, but not to grab onto what you have is sheer stupidity.
So I can tell you that we went to Steveston the first day and ate fish and chips. That we went to Stanley Park and the Aquarium, that I saw Beluga whales for the first time. That we ate hot Montreal meat and satay and sushi and spotted prawns and Canadian wheat berry. That we drank beers I'd never heard of, and lots of champagne. That Richelle was surprised and pleased and Rob was so excited to see us. That we made new friends and walked across a scary bridge and survived many a heated discussion. That Richelle drove me to Richmond for a bag when I already had one, and that we went to the No.5 Orange and that yes, Vancouver is a beautiful city and so green.
Or I could just say that I have discovered I like reality, in all its harshness and imperfection. I like it very much so. And I like remembering, because when your reality looks like this and the pictures bring it all back, what's not to like? Maybe, this time, the only story that needs to be told is the one we aren't done living yet.
I would be absolutely remiss if I didn't thank my beloved friends Rob and Richelle for the last five days. I love you both.
Labels: blogging, even better than the real thing, friends, life, light enough to travel, we are family, writing
The Khyber Pass to Vancouver's lights
Sunday, May 11, 2008
I'm not here.
Nope, not here at all. In fact, I am several thousand miles away from my home, which isn't this computer, exactly, but still.
A week or so ago I told Richelle we were coming to Vancouver in August. I lied. I know it's wrong to lie, especially to your friends who are apt not to trust you after that, but lie I did. We are not coming to Vancouver in August. We are in Vancouver this very minute.
This was a surprise for Richelle, and I hope it went well.
Pictures to follow!
Nope, not here at all. In fact, I am several thousand miles away from my home, which isn't this computer, exactly, but still.
A week or so ago I told Richelle we were coming to Vancouver in August. I lied. I know it's wrong to lie, especially to your friends who are apt not to trust you after that, but lie I did. We are not coming to Vancouver in August. We are in Vancouver this very minute.
This was a surprise for Richelle, and I hope it went well.
Pictures to follow!
Labels: friends, light enough to travel, the things we do for love
We're trying to see beyond the fences in our own backyards
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
When you think of a woman's club, chances are you think old, stodgy, wealthy, and very possibly, inconsequential. Outdated. Relics of the past.
You could not be more wrong.
In May of 2006 I attended the induction of Mary Pat Marcello, the New Jersey State Federation of Women's Clubs President 2006-2008. I was there not because of my involvement in women's clubs, which was non-existent. I have never been a member of a women's club, and I never knew anyone who was before I met my mother-in-law. No, I was there because my mother in law is best friends with Mary Pat. I have written about MP before on this blog, referenced her, really, in the stories of my life.
For the past 12 years, she has been part of my celebrations, big and small. We spend Christmas Eve together, we often vacation together, and for three years we worked together. In those three years, Mary Pat went from being my mother in law's best friend and part of my husband's universe, to being my friend.
It's quite remarkable, the transformation. Often the people in the lives of your people are respected and loved, but not known for themselves. They are mostly seen through the filter of their friend, their child, or their friend's child. Happily, Mary Pat and I transcended that, and while I will always know her through her best friend, her daughter, and my husband to whom she was another mother, I also know her as a woman and a friend.
For the past 30 years, she has been a Federated woman, a role she embraced, a role that brought her challenges, leadership, a resume to die for, and of course, friends. Last night was the convention, and the end of her administration, so many of us went to show our support as many years of working towards this position came to an end. But in doing so, I learned, again, about the power of women and the absolute relevance and need for women's clubs today.
For the past two years, the national and thus the state agenda has focused on domestic violence awareness. To this end, members used all the resources at their disposal, from legislation to education to reaching out to victims in their own communities. The power of this organization on a national level is astounding. Last night, at the NJ State Convention, the efforts of 200 clubs statewide were celebrated. It was a big reveal, done in sobering tone - for every number that represented a dollar amount raised, a fact was read. Statistics on dating violence against teen girls, number of domestic violence deaths in NJ in a year, and number of incidents were shocking. The most frightening was the number of women who have been abused by their husbands...1 in 3.
But, at the end, a sign of hope...the amount of money raised in two years to help victims of domestic violence in NJ.
$607, 433.15. In two years. A remarkable accomplishment.
Mary Pat was close to tears are she thanked the women in the room for giving a voice to the voiceless. I was close to tears at the power of these women who gave of their time, talents, and selves to help women and children.
GFWC has a proud history of service, as does NJFWC. I have touched on only a small part of what they do, and mentioned nothing about their vast opportunities for women, the different types of membership, or what they accomplish on local, state, and national levels. They are not a cookie cutter of ages, races, or economic status, as I had incorrectly assumed so many years ago. They are diverse, and their diversity is their strength. They are survivors, too, of breast cancer, of domestic violence, of every single thing they work to change. They give hope knowing what it is to feel hopeless, strength knowing what is is to feel weak, and financial assistance knowing what it is to feel the pinch.
So next time you think women's clubs are outdated bastions for snobs and old biddies, think again. They are, on the contrary, some of the most accomplished and caring women you could ever hope to meet, and I am proud to include my friend Mary Pat in the sweeping, broad generalization.
And now for more pictures!
Madame President, her husband, daughter, and son-in-law:
Madame President's daughter and Moi:
The rest are here. Thanks for reading.
You could not be more wrong.
In May of 2006 I attended the induction of Mary Pat Marcello, the New Jersey State Federation of Women's Clubs President 2006-2008. I was there not because of my involvement in women's clubs, which was non-existent. I have never been a member of a women's club, and I never knew anyone who was before I met my mother-in-law. No, I was there because my mother in law is best friends with Mary Pat. I have written about MP before on this blog, referenced her, really, in the stories of my life.
For the past 12 years, she has been part of my celebrations, big and small. We spend Christmas Eve together, we often vacation together, and for three years we worked together. In those three years, Mary Pat went from being my mother in law's best friend and part of my husband's universe, to being my friend.
It's quite remarkable, the transformation. Often the people in the lives of your people are respected and loved, but not known for themselves. They are mostly seen through the filter of their friend, their child, or their friend's child. Happily, Mary Pat and I transcended that, and while I will always know her through her best friend, her daughter, and my husband to whom she was another mother, I also know her as a woman and a friend.
For the past 30 years, she has been a Federated woman, a role she embraced, a role that brought her challenges, leadership, a resume to die for, and of course, friends. Last night was the convention, and the end of her administration, so many of us went to show our support as many years of working towards this position came to an end. But in doing so, I learned, again, about the power of women and the absolute relevance and need for women's clubs today.
For the past two years, the national and thus the state agenda has focused on domestic violence awareness. To this end, members used all the resources at their disposal, from legislation to education to reaching out to victims in their own communities. The power of this organization on a national level is astounding. Last night, at the NJ State Convention, the efforts of 200 clubs statewide were celebrated. It was a big reveal, done in sobering tone - for every number that represented a dollar amount raised, a fact was read. Statistics on dating violence against teen girls, number of domestic violence deaths in NJ in a year, and number of incidents were shocking. The most frightening was the number of women who have been abused by their husbands...1 in 3.
But, at the end, a sign of hope...the amount of money raised in two years to help victims of domestic violence in NJ.
$607, 433.15. In two years. A remarkable accomplishment.
Mary Pat was close to tears are she thanked the women in the room for giving a voice to the voiceless. I was close to tears at the power of these women who gave of their time, talents, and selves to help women and children.
GFWC has a proud history of service, as does NJFWC. I have touched on only a small part of what they do, and mentioned nothing about their vast opportunities for women, the different types of membership, or what they accomplish on local, state, and national levels. They are not a cookie cutter of ages, races, or economic status, as I had incorrectly assumed so many years ago. They are diverse, and their diversity is their strength. They are survivors, too, of breast cancer, of domestic violence, of every single thing they work to change. They give hope knowing what it is to feel hopeless, strength knowing what is is to feel weak, and financial assistance knowing what it is to feel the pinch.
So next time you think women's clubs are outdated bastions for snobs and old biddies, think again. They are, on the contrary, some of the most accomplished and caring women you could ever hope to meet, and I am proud to include my friend Mary Pat in the sweeping, broad generalization.
And now for more pictures!
Madame President, her husband, daughter, and son-in-law:
Madame President's daughter and Moi:
The rest are here. Thanks for reading.
Labels: friends, the art of being a woman, we are family
A change will do you good
Thursday, May 01, 2008
We are in the process of getting the kitchen/dining area walls ready for painting. Nick sanded last night, and dust is everywhere. There is no obvious attempt at containment of any sort, and he's lucky he's in NYC today and not home tonight, because I wanted to kill him when I found dust in my living room, dust all over the napkins.
It's dusty here. Did I mention that? This life of dust (Did I mention it's all over some work I was doing? Like, work for money? Money that pays for sanders and paint!) lead me to reflect on the story of painting my daughter's room, just a few short months ago.
The weekend in question was harmonious to the nth degree. Never a good sign. Nick loves to rearrange furniture, so when I suggested we move Emily's bed, he was all over it. Then we took down the world's worst shelves ever, that he has hated since we first put them up. I made noises about painting the room and Nick disappeared, only to reappear with spackle. Man, we were rocking.
I should mention that this is how we embark on every not-so-major project. If it's not expensive, we dive in. Ask questions later. It works for us. It works very well. So we headed to the local home improvement store. We found a great border and some accessories. Even better, they were on clearance, so the $15 border was only $2.44! Score! Add that to the gift certificate in our hot little hands and we were money, baby, money.
Emily loved her new nightlight and slept great in her new room configuration. We were ready to paint! Sunday we did some lovely little family things, spent some time with Nick's dad, and even ate Nick's favorite fast food. Then we went to the paint store.
I am a pro at picking out paint. I'm adventurous, confident, and don't second-guess. I am amazing! I was with Nick, however, and I like to include him in some decisions. Nick's color-blind, kids. Nick can draw you a map of any place he's ever been, but he's not Mr. Color Wheel. Shit, he wakes me up to ask me if his clothes "go".
Well, we splurge on the good paint, the kind we've used before and loved. We go with the bolder color. We go home. Nick paints. I run some errands with Emily and once home, run upstairs to see how it looks.
It looks like a rave. It looks like I was on Esctasy, had some Pepto, and puked it up on the walls. Let me show you:
If it looks slightly normal in the photo, let me assure you it was anything but in person. I felt like going insane even standing in that room. There's no way Emily could sleep in it. So what do I do? Freak out, of course. Then head back out to get rescue paint. I spent far too long waiting for assistance in the local home improvement store, but was rewarded by two employees who seem to be somewhat charmed with me and my predicament, especially when I explain the crack-E-Pepto part to them.
We installed Emily downstairs, on her sleeping bag princess bed, and Nick went to work on the primer. White walls are good.
The primer takes years to dry. I get older, Nick gets older, time passes, it's like Rip Van Winkle. Emily doesn't fall asleep, of course.
We paint it the rescue color. It looks pretty. It looks nice. When it's dry, I go in and hold up the paint chip and the border. They don't match. They don't kind of not match, they are completely wrong. I call Nick. He grabs the paint can. And the bastards at the local home improvement store, they have given me the wrong paint.
I kid you not.
I live with it for a day. It's nice, but it doesn't match. It's not what I want. I demand satisfaction! (50 points if you start singing "Glove slap, I don't take crap." 25 if you know where that's from.)
I go back to the local home improvement chain I now hate. I tell them they gave me the wrong paint. They don't seem surprised. They give me the paint I wanted in the first (second?) place. I go home. I waver. I decide it needs to be done. Nick paints the room for the third time, not counting the primer coat.
Finally, a room for Emily:
So I guess the moral of this story is, things will work out despite the dust I have to wipe off my clients' documents, the dust we have to remove before we have a simple sandwich, the dust that is going to end up on my dear husband's pillow to greet him when he comes home tonight. Also, if you sand and get dust everywhere, make tracks. Post haste. If you are lucky, by the time you come home your wife will have gotten her extreme annoyance at you out in a blog post, where it can live forever on the Internet. But on the plus side, you get to keep all your limbs.
It's dusty here. Did I mention that? This life of dust (Did I mention it's all over some work I was doing? Like, work for money? Money that pays for sanders and paint!) lead me to reflect on the story of painting my daughter's room, just a few short months ago.
The weekend in question was harmonious to the nth degree. Never a good sign. Nick loves to rearrange furniture, so when I suggested we move Emily's bed, he was all over it. Then we took down the world's worst shelves ever, that he has hated since we first put them up. I made noises about painting the room and Nick disappeared, only to reappear with spackle. Man, we were rocking.
I should mention that this is how we embark on every not-so-major project. If it's not expensive, we dive in. Ask questions later. It works for us. It works very well. So we headed to the local home improvement store. We found a great border and some accessories. Even better, they were on clearance, so the $15 border was only $2.44! Score! Add that to the gift certificate in our hot little hands and we were money, baby, money.
Emily loved her new nightlight and slept great in her new room configuration. We were ready to paint! Sunday we did some lovely little family things, spent some time with Nick's dad, and even ate Nick's favorite fast food. Then we went to the paint store.
I am a pro at picking out paint. I'm adventurous, confident, and don't second-guess. I am amazing! I was with Nick, however, and I like to include him in some decisions. Nick's color-blind, kids. Nick can draw you a map of any place he's ever been, but he's not Mr. Color Wheel. Shit, he wakes me up to ask me if his clothes "go".
Well, we splurge on the good paint, the kind we've used before and loved. We go with the bolder color. We go home. Nick paints. I run some errands with Emily and once home, run upstairs to see how it looks.
It looks like a rave. It looks like I was on Esctasy, had some Pepto, and puked it up on the walls. Let me show you:
If it looks slightly normal in the photo, let me assure you it was anything but in person. I felt like going insane even standing in that room. There's no way Emily could sleep in it. So what do I do? Freak out, of course. Then head back out to get rescue paint. I spent far too long waiting for assistance in the local home improvement store, but was rewarded by two employees who seem to be somewhat charmed with me and my predicament, especially when I explain the crack-E-Pepto part to them.
We installed Emily downstairs, on her sleeping bag princess bed, and Nick went to work on the primer. White walls are good.
The primer takes years to dry. I get older, Nick gets older, time passes, it's like Rip Van Winkle. Emily doesn't fall asleep, of course.
We paint it the rescue color. It looks pretty. It looks nice. When it's dry, I go in and hold up the paint chip and the border. They don't match. They don't kind of not match, they are completely wrong. I call Nick. He grabs the paint can. And the bastards at the local home improvement store, they have given me the wrong paint.
I kid you not.
I live with it for a day. It's nice, but it doesn't match. It's not what I want. I demand satisfaction! (50 points if you start singing "Glove slap, I don't take crap." 25 if you know where that's from.)
I go back to the local home improvement chain I now hate. I tell them they gave me the wrong paint. They don't seem surprised. They give me the paint I wanted in the first (second?) place. I go home. I waver. I decide it needs to be done. Nick paints the room for the third time, not counting the primer coat.
Finally, a room for Emily:
So I guess the moral of this story is, things will work out despite the dust I have to wipe off my clients' documents, the dust we have to remove before we have a simple sandwich, the dust that is going to end up on my dear husband's pillow to greet him when he comes home tonight. Also, if you sand and get dust everywhere, make tracks. Post haste. If you are lucky, by the time you come home your wife will have gotten her extreme annoyance at you out in a blog post, where it can live forever on the Internet. But on the plus side, you get to keep all your limbs.
Labels: Emily, family, home, marriage, the things we do for love
I know just when to face the truth
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Thanks to Patrick and his latest post for inspiring me, such as it is.
There is no one who loves cheesy music like I do.
Believe me, my husband can barely stand to know me sometimes, when I say things like, "I love Journey." There is no amount of my personal hotness that makes that okay. I think he just goes into his happy place and pretends the rest of the time that I never said such a thing. Much like I pretend he's not actually expecting me to answer the question, "How did Reyes get on base?" because nowhere in our marriage contract did it state that I would do anything but tune out baseball on TV.
But I digress.
I love cheesy music. I know it's cheesy. I'm not trying to defend it. I know it's ridiculous and those people needed haircuts and normal clothes, but I love it.
I once sang out "The Best of Times" by Styx with my friend Kathy, and every time I hear that song I think of her. It's a great memory, because that's pretty much how our friendship started. Jodi and I have been known to sit in the car, belting out "Weekend in New England" by Barry Manilow, waiting for the song to end before we get out and go shopping.
And now we come to my worst offense to decency, Air Supply. There is nothing more embarrassing than liking Air Supply. It is the absolute most embarrassing, least redeeming band or song I could like. I have no argument for this. I can swing a pretty fair discourse on Barry. Neil Diamond is easier. Tom Jones is simple. I can even justify Journey. But there is no case for Air Supply.
This is my favorite Air Supply song, the only one that keeps them in my Cheesy-But-I-Love-Them category. It might be enough, coupled with the promise of beers, to make me go see them. Might. Because, honestly, I'm so easy I went to see Nickelback! ("You say 'Nickel', I say 'Back'. "Nickel'. 'Back.'")
It is, without question, the worse video I have ever seen. I apologize for putting it on my blog. But it does give you the entire song without having to spend, say, your cousin's hard-earned money via an iTunes gift card. Still. Watch with caution.
And just to wipe that out of your head, let me show you another cheesy song I love. The truth is, I like those other cheesy songs, but I do really love Barry. So this one's for you, wherever you are.
Forgive me?
OMG, when I make a horrible mistake and confuse "Don't Stop Believing" with "Don't Stop (Thinking About Tomorrow)" someone please, for the love of all that is holy, correct my ass.
There is no one who loves cheesy music like I do.
Believe me, my husband can barely stand to know me sometimes, when I say things like, "I love Journey." There is no amount of my personal hotness that makes that okay. I think he just goes into his happy place and pretends the rest of the time that I never said such a thing. Much like I pretend he's not actually expecting me to answer the question, "How did Reyes get on base?" because nowhere in our marriage contract did it state that I would do anything but tune out baseball on TV.
But I digress.
I love cheesy music. I know it's cheesy. I'm not trying to defend it. I know it's ridiculous and those people needed haircuts and normal clothes, but I love it.
I once sang out "The Best of Times" by Styx with my friend Kathy, and every time I hear that song I think of her. It's a great memory, because that's pretty much how our friendship started. Jodi and I have been known to sit in the car, belting out "Weekend in New England" by Barry Manilow, waiting for the song to end before we get out and go shopping.
And now we come to my worst offense to decency, Air Supply. There is nothing more embarrassing than liking Air Supply. It is the absolute most embarrassing, least redeeming band or song I could like. I have no argument for this. I can swing a pretty fair discourse on Barry. Neil Diamond is easier. Tom Jones is simple. I can even justify Journey. But there is no case for Air Supply.
This is my favorite Air Supply song, the only one that keeps them in my Cheesy-But-I-Love-Them category. It might be enough, coupled with the promise of beers, to make me go see them. Might. Because, honestly, I'm so easy I went to see Nickelback! ("You say 'Nickel', I say 'Back'. "Nickel'. 'Back.'")
It is, without question, the worse video I have ever seen. I apologize for putting it on my blog. But it does give you the entire song without having to spend, say, your cousin's hard-earned money via an iTunes gift card. Still. Watch with caution.
And just to wipe that out of your head, let me show you another cheesy song I love. The truth is, I like those other cheesy songs, but I do really love Barry. So this one's for you, wherever you are.
Forgive me?
OMG, when I make a horrible mistake and confuse "Don't Stop Believing" with "Don't Stop (Thinking About Tomorrow)" someone please, for the love of all that is holy, correct my ass.
Labels: cheesy-o-rama, it's only rock and roll but I like it, music and passion
Head like a hole
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Guess who's still sick?
I think Karen was right. Maybe I was pushing it with the yeah! cold! attitude. But, still, it's good to be done with sickness, right? If only I was done with it.
Right now I am ensconced on the couch, working on something for a client, with tissues nearby and sporting my glasses, a pair of Wonder Woman pants, and an old college tshirt. Pretty, no? I'd take a picture, if only to show you how well I clean up. Instead, I'll share some pictures from this weekend. We had that sex toys party, during which I fully intended to take lots and lots of pictures of friends holding dildos...but didn't. Blame the Diet Coke and mixers theme we had going - I chose Malibu, because while I am loving vanilla vodka and seltzer as my drink de l'année, women and Friday and sex toys screams Malibu.
Here's what I did get pictures of...
Jodi, with a cucumber:
Me, on the way there...I had a really cute outfit on, but alas, this is all I've got as evidence of it:
One of the other fun things we decided to do was rip the wallpaper off the dining room walls, thus rendering a formerly put-together room a disaster. This is what it looked like before we went all scraper on it:
And after:
Scary, no? Spackling will take place post-haste, and I have high hopes for a coat of paint actually going up on the walls this week. And after that it will look lovely, I am sure, but right now it is a nightmare. But not nearly as scary a nightmare as I had last night, about finding a secret passage under Space Mountain in Disney World. I blame the Nyquil.
Okay, back to work. I think my clients will appreciate that!
I think Karen was right. Maybe I was pushing it with the yeah! cold! attitude. But, still, it's good to be done with sickness, right? If only I was done with it.
Right now I am ensconced on the couch, working on something for a client, with tissues nearby and sporting my glasses, a pair of Wonder Woman pants, and an old college tshirt. Pretty, no? I'd take a picture, if only to show you how well I clean up. Instead, I'll share some pictures from this weekend. We had that sex toys party, during which I fully intended to take lots and lots of pictures of friends holding dildos...but didn't. Blame the Diet Coke and mixers theme we had going - I chose Malibu, because while I am loving vanilla vodka and seltzer as my drink de l'année, women and Friday and sex toys screams Malibu.
Here's what I did get pictures of...
Jodi, with a cucumber:
Me, on the way there...I had a really cute outfit on, but alas, this is all I've got as evidence of it:
One of the other fun things we decided to do was rip the wallpaper off the dining room walls, thus rendering a formerly put-together room a disaster. This is what it looked like before we went all scraper on it:
And after:
Scary, no? Spackling will take place post-haste, and I have high hopes for a coat of paint actually going up on the walls this week. And after that it will look lovely, I am sure, but right now it is a nightmare. But not nearly as scary a nightmare as I had last night, about finding a secret passage under Space Mountain in Disney World. I blame the Nyquil.
Okay, back to work. I think my clients will appreciate that!
I always have a book by my side, and frequently walk and read at the same time. I am addicted to TIVO and watch too much TV and I'm not ashamed of it. I enjoy going to movies, talking about books and tv and movies, going see bands play, shopping with my friends, being alone with my husband, watching my daughter play, going out to dinner, and getting a nice pedicure. I appreciate good food and get excited by unexpected eating opportunities. I sing songs in the car. I must dance if there's music. I get easily drunk on wine. I try not to be critical, but it's difficult. I respect faith, but do not understand intolerance. I love passionate people. I'll always stay for one more drink and take the fork in the road. In my ideal world, radio stations play good music and people still read books.
