How to annoy me

Turn my grocery bags into a game of "what doesn't belong?" Let's see if you can spot the misfit. Or two.
Bag 1: bread, Vicks Vapo-rub, Children's Motrin, candy, panyhose
Bag 2: raisin bran, Kelloggs Pop-Tarts, block of cheddar, eight pots of lipgloss
Bag 3: bratwurst, yogurt
Bag 4: potato chips, chuck roast
Bag 5: mushrooms, plums, bananas, toothpaste, can of tuna, hair conditioner, avocado

Seriously people!? Bread goes by itself! Okay, maybe with the chips, but then the chips cannot, should not go in a sack with RAW MEAT. Ditto for the yogurt. I even arrange the items on the conveyor belt in the order they should be bagged. This is not rocket science.

Question I have no idea how to answer

Mommy, do you think God and Santa are friends?  I mean, they both watch the world...

Inspire me - Purple and Gold

One of the great things about moving is the opportunity to decorate. I am not one of those lucky beings who managed to get herself into an apartment complex that encourages free color expression on their walls.  No, no, I am one of those sad sad little people forced to live with beige walls.  Contractor beige.  Even better, some of the touch up paint between us and the previous tenant was done using a single coat of flat contractor beige.

But, I like a challenge. I've turned my attention to our "study" where we need some curtains in a pretty bad way.  First, the windows are kind of drafty so the extra layer would be nice.  Second, the walls are beige and the floor-to-ceiling bookcases are espresso so we pretty much have a brown and beige room with draft windows.  Doesn't that sound delightful? I am leaning toward brightening the space with curtains in a spring green, but a recent post by Amy has stuck me with purple on the brain. That might explain why I am suddenly drawn to these updated uses for the Mardi Gras color scheme:

and

Both photos can be found at Apartment Therapy. What about you?  How would you add a little something to a brown and beige room?

How to charm me

Let's say you are my stoic husband and I forward you a piece of mail addressed to both of us. The following is just about the best reply:
Heh...it says Mr. and Mrs. Bear on it. Yay us.

Yeah, I'm pretty much yours forever now, mister.

I go out walking after midnight, out in the moonlight

Oh memory lane. Let me roll my eyes while they get misty. Then I'll laugh at my hair.

I've been scrapbooking the way back time (senior year). See, I finished doing Band Banquet:

  

It's okay, you can laugh too. Sausage curls are never really a good choice. Ever. Really.

At this particular dance I received the best kiss I'd ever had.  I think he felt it too. Not much ever came of it. I mean, not much outside of normal teenage turmoil. It was one of the first events held at the new Rec Center. My mom came to see...actually I'm not sure what she was there for. I didn't receive an award or anything, but I know she came and I was happy about it. It was, in general, your typical high school awards banquet and dance.It was a good time, but it didn't really end anything and it didn't really start anything.

And then ten years went by and it started a walk down memory lane several after midnights in a row. See, shortly after my senior year Band Banquet, Jesse and I started dating. We got married. We bought a house. I started blogging. All those blog posts are still archived right here on this very blog.  This has actually been a subject about which I am consistently of two minds. On one hand, I have a different life with a different man in a different state. Do I really want all those earlier events floating around so close to the story I want to tell today?  On the other hand, life happened. All the stuff that happened eight years ago and five years ago, in 2006 and last Tuesday act like my opening credits.  It's my story.  Do I want to act like it was all just stuff to be put in a box and stored somewhere out of the light?  Memories are funny things.  They change with time.  The stuff I write keeps each memory intact even if I can't relate to the author anymore. So, they stay.

That's kind of a lot of mileage for one night in sausage curls. On the very bright side, I still fit into that banquet dress ten years later.

How to annoy me

Add an S to a proper noun for no apparent reason. It is Victoria's Secret, not Victoria Secrets; Barnes and Noble, not Barnes and Nobles; New Braunfels, not New Bronze-fuls. Ugh.

Emily!

The other night after homework but before dinner, Emily and I went camping on the beach but near a jungle.  Into our tent (kitchen table) Emily managed to fit herself, me, four blankets, two pillows, her bear chair, 15 stuffed animals and a dry erase board.

"Hurry!" she says to me. "Get covered with the blanket! The volcano is going to interrupt soon!"
"Em, I'm not sure a blanket is going to do much to protect us from lava."
"Mo-om, when the fire gets to us blankets will get hotted and we will not."
"Oh. Of course."

If I were a painter, I would paint my reverie

In December dear, sweet Amy at Botanical Brouhaha did a post about the inspiring fuchsia and teal tones of the following photos from the Blush Floral Design Blog:

 

Well, Amy wasn't the only one who found herself inspired. I too love that color palette, but I live in an unpaintable apartment. With a man. A man who loves reds and deep blues. Don;t get me wrong, that boy of mine does more to make me happy than I am willing to admit, but I just can't ask him to live in tea party heaven. Yet.  Now the one who has no desire to decorate for my pleasure would be little Miss Emily. Her room is her room. Mo-om. So much for that avenue to living my pink-tinted dreams.  Oh well.

Luckily, or unluckily, my favorite silk skirt from the way back time when I went to high school finally kaputted.  I've repaired it so many times it threatened to strangle me if I didn't let it retire.  I couldn't give it up, though. Hey, I bought that skirt with my first pay check! And it is so pretty.

So there are Amy/Blush's photos, a spare skirt and my button collection...

Viola!

Hmmm. Well that was kind of a long build up for a poorly taken photograph. Perhaps a close-up.

Well, despite the amateur photography, I was really pleased with my little A. It felt great to put that color palette to good use and find another way to get mileage out of that skirt!  I think I know someone who else who can find a way to enjoy it as well.

Hair

I have long known that I feel worse on any given bad hair day than on a day when I have, say, PMS, the flu, a grumpy kid or any combination of other funk-inducing maladies.  It is, therefore, imperative that we discuss my hair.

I currently have the longest hair ever sported by my head.  It now falls past my collar bone and I can do long-craved hair moves such as flipping it over my shoulder, gathering it all to one side, and pulling it out of my collar when I put on a shirt.  All of these are dreams come true for a once seven-year old with perpetually bobbed hair. It is gloriously long! Well, for me, anyway.

Then, all of a sudden it developed a funk. Or a film. Or something indescribably groddy. The hair just above my ears and all the hair in back starting about two inches from my scalp feels like it needs to be washed. All. The. Time. There is some sort of residue there and it is gro-o-o-o-ss. I have done everything to make it stop.  I washed my hair with baking soda.  I rinsed with vinegar.  I used a clarifying shampoo.  I stopped washing it every day and, therefore, spent about four days a week looking not unlike a bag lady.  I switched to washing it one day and then only rinsing it the next. I gave up all styling products. And still: groddy.

I am not in the habit of photographing the back of my head because I evidently took it for granted that it would always look decent back there. Shame on me! Now, I cannot provide great pictorial proof of my formerly bouncy, shiny, clean hair. But take my word for it, I have generally had pretty good hair. But lately my finally long hair has to spend time trapped in bobby pins and a pony tail holder as I desperately try to hide the fact that it looks and feels like this:

Help me!

Emily!

E: Mama, why does that sign say "no skating?"
J: Probably because that ice is thin and if someone skated on it they might get sick or hurt.
E: OR, maybe it was already broken and somebody taped it and if anybody skated there it would break again and nobody wants to have to tape things twice.

True story, Emily. Nobody wants to have to tape something twice.

Thinking

Whenever Googlemaps tells you you will need to make a U-turn to reach your destination it should include a rating that indicates how likely you are to die while making a U-turn at that particular intersection.

Thinking

Do animals worry? Last night on Planet Earth there was big grass fire that wiped out miles worth of food for a herd of antelope.  So, do the antelope worry?  Do they wake up and think, "how will I feed my kids this week?"

Emily's (never gonna happen) adventures in cooking

How to make the best muffin ever
By: Emily Dawn Gatlin
Age 5

1. Pour enough vanilla into a pitcher to cover the bottom.
2. Add one full cup of baking powder.
3. Put in some salt
4. and some sugar.
5. Add some strawberries with seeds removed.
6. The mix will bake in the pitcher.
7. Pour it all into a cup
8. and you'll be able to have one big muffin every morning for breakfast.
The End

Thinking

Making oneself go to bed is always harder when one is sleeping alone.

Like mother, like daughter

Oh world, you have no idea what you are in for!

Emily! and the postal worker

It snowed here on Saturday. Actually, it SNOWED here. I have to start off by embarking on a short tangent to point out that people will do crazy things for love. I, for instance, have gone back on my resolution to never live anywhere it snows. It snows here. I love Ben so I am here. The crazy part is that Ben is NOT here. See, crazy stuff for love has been done.

Anywhoodle, Emily was alternately enamored with and disgusted by the snow. Yea snow! Boo cold! Yea snowballs I can throw at Mommy! Boo snowballs thrown at me! Yea snow angels! Boo snow that has gotten into my rain boots and is slowly turning my legs into goose-bump covered, red, ice stumps!  I think you get the picture.  She was also very sad that Ben is in the desert and would not see any of the glorious snow. We, therefore, scooped some snow into a Tupperware container and stuffed it into his latest box.

On Tuesday, schools were still closed, but work had to be attended to so Em was watched by the lovely and talented Lisa Swanner.  Our nine-year-old friends Kehli also joined the party. Emily very proudly pointed out our Ben-bound box containing the snow.  Kehli, so wise with his nine years, asked if the snow wouldn't be melted.  Emily raised an eyebrow, rolled her eyes and replied, "No-o. My mom put it in Tupperware so it would stay fresh!"

Wait, it gets better.

I relayed this same story to the postal worker examining my customs declaration sheet when I mailed the box.  She reached out a hand to feel if the box was cold and sincerely asked "Really?"