Obsessions

Not much to report here lately. I came down with some sort of food poisoning Friday and just had my first meal since Thursday night. I was not amused. And neither was Freddie. She and I battled it out on the couch all day Friday and Saturday. I think it's down to a split decision on exactly who the winner was. She fights pretty dirty. Aside from the kicks in the head I received, she was also just pretty sly about flat out telling me "you snooze you lose" everytime I got up from the couch. Inevitably when I returned, she would either have stretched out to the entire length of the couch or she would be on my side of the couch on top of my pillow. I'd like to declare myself the winner since I fought a clean fight. Minus the couple of times I set my alarm off on my phone so that she would think someone was ringing the door bell and get up to check things out. But I only used that as a last resort. Promise.

Anyway, back to the swing of things. I have recently been obsessed with these:

1. Kal Barteski's Custom YOU-ARE-AWESOME posters. I read her blog daily and am pretty obsessed with/jealous of her artwork. I own two of her prints and can't wait to frame them and put them up in my craft room/guest room. Her work is inspirational and empowering. I have the same theory she shares on her blog - that there is just something special about seeing your name in print. Especially when you have a name like mine that isn't exactly going to be printed all over every souvenir shop item in the world. In her words:

I have this theory that seeing your name in print - makes you feel special. Seeing your name in print - gives you an inner confidence to take up space in the world. Seeing your name in print - whether you can read or not - is a powerful way to convey an important message. You are awesome. Or You are Beautiful. Or You are loved + adored. Or you are Hardcore. Or you are Long awaited. Or YOU are kick-ass. You. ARE.


I bought some for my nephews and can't wait to get them and frame them. I stole Penn's (K. Barteski's daughter) line and put on all of them "YOU ARE DESTINED FOR GREATNESS." I was going to give them as part of their birthday presents but I don't think I can wait that long so they just might be apart of their Easter baskets. I hope they will one day appreciate what it says.

2. Amy Butler's Lucky Flowers Stationary. In the words of the great Rachel Zoe, I DIE!

3. The Butterfly Project by LollyChops. Need I say more? Must. Buy. Punches. Now. How awesome would that be to make/give? As well as just being flat out eco-friendly. Recycle, Reuse!! Don't be surprised to see some of these in my home and in a gift box with your name on it. I've already got some pages torn out of catalogs that I've saved over the years simply because I loved the colors in it as well as a plethora of shadow boxes in my storage unit, er, third bedroom. (See, Mom! There is a method to my madness!!)

4. This Vogue pattern.

I walked into Hancock Fabrics and fell in love. I knew it was meant to be because the pattern was on sale for $3.89 AND I found some BEAUTIFUL fabric that happened to be 30% off (that never happens to me) AND all notions - zippers, thread, etc. - were 50% off that day. So, I basically got a new dress for $30.00. Talk about meant to be!! I know it's all wrong for my body type, but I will make it work, dammit. Love. Love. Love it. I've got all the pieces cut. Just got to start sewing. :)

5. Sara Bareilles - (Sittin' On) The Dock of the Bay [Acoustic] - Live at the Fillmore DVD. I stole this obsession from another blogger I love. She said it reminds her of her dad. I got all teary-eyed when I read that because it reminds me of my dad, too. I always have flashbacks of my sister and I as toddlers with my dad - he'd pile us into his truck and we'd start driving. He always had the oldies or classic country music playing on the radio. Except back then it wasn't "classic". Ha. That was also back when seatbelts and carseats were an option. But I always remember looking up at my dad with my sister next to me. Just driving. So this song reminds me of my dad. Driving.

My dad's always been a driver. Always behind the wheel. For some reason, my sister's college always started a week earlier than mine and her finals ended a week after mine so for the first few semesters my dad and I would drive up there and back to help her move in/out. We'd jam out to the oldies and sing together with the windows rolled down in his truck . Elvis was always a fave and since Elvis' death was in August, the oldies station almost always had some sort of tribute going on when we were moving my sister in. I'd eventually get tired of singing but he'd still keep on. Just a little more softly. Not that my dad has an American Idol voice, but there is something so comforting about hearing him sing. I guess because, if you know my dad, it's out of character for him. But, I guess that's why I love to hear him sing. Because when I do hear him sing, it feels like it's just for me.

6. And, lastly, this version of Britney's Hit Me Baby One More Time. My closest friends know how much I despise the late Britney (I am not completely won over by her so-called comeback), but over Christmas, a family friend sung this acoustic version of her song for us during a wild and crazy night of SingStar for the PS3. It was too cool. I almost like his version better than Travis', but probably because the person that sang it is just pretty darn cool.

Alright. Heading out. Got lots of things to catch up around here. It's amazing how much stuff builds up around here when you don't do anything for 3 days. Ugh.

It. Is. Finished.

In seven days, God created the earth. In 21, we created a closet.

The closet is finished. Well, pretty much. It ain't no Mariah Carey, but it will do! I love it. All the late nights, blood, sweat, tears, fighting, purging, donating, trashing, hanging.....it was all worth it. OK, there was no blood and only a few tears. Hey, I get emotional when I am overwhelmed. :)

I have so much room now. Mr. B has slightly less. Well, less than me, but it's not too much less than he had before. Don't judge. It's all he needs. :) If you take out all the t-shirts he had hung, the ones with holes in it even, then you fold them and put them in drawers....then he has plenty of room for his clothes. The ones he wears and the ones he doesn't. And that's all that matters. That, and the fact that all my clothes are now in the closet. :)

I told my co-worker, Don, that I was done with my closet. He said, "So he's gonna let you stay?" Ha.

I have one major room in the house to organize and then I will be done with my house. I have a few more areas I need to re-do, too, but I am not counting those. Those can be done in a couple of hours vs. the madness of that last room. But, I am done for 2008. No more.

Now, it's Christmas decorations. I am so behind on that. It's not Christmas without the decorations. So, who cares if they are only up for 2 weeks?? I don't. I won't.

I will post pics of my closet tomorrow. We are off to College Station right now. Mr. B's cousins are graduating from Texas A&M (WHOOP!). Whoever heard of a Friday afternoon graduation?? Oh well. I have the day off and that is something I AM NOT COMPLAINING ABOUT.

Happy Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving!

Sorry for the short hiatus. We have been steadily working on our house, namely the closet. I finally convinced Mr. Bean that even after giving away practically a truckload of clothes, that my clothes will not fit in that closet. Whoever designed that closet needs to be burned at the stake in front of Containter Store. So, hello, elfa!! We wanted the IKEA closet system, but that would not work in our space. I looked at Lowe's, but they have a few more years to get caught up with the options that Container Store offers. So, we used our Holiday Shopping card and went all out. It is exciting. I really should get better about taking pictures, but I will blame that on not having a good camera (the one I bought Mr. B several years ago is pretty much trash).

Anyway, we have removed all our clothes and ironically enough, the brand new couch is now a clothes hanger. :) We ripped out the old closet, patched, and painted. We are taking today off, but will start installing the elfa closet system tomorrow!!! It feels soooo good to get organized! I still have one major room to tackle that has a bunch of my stuff that I moved in. But, I will focus on what I have accomplished vs. what I have left to finish. :)

Happy Thanksgiving!!

Halloween.

I forgot to post this pic. I made these cupcakes for my nephews and for Mr. Bean to take to his co-workers. I got it from Martha Stewart. They don't look as good as hers, but, hey, I never said I was Martha. :)

Our New Addition

The day has finally come. My sectional is here. After second, third, fourth, and fifth guessing, I was a little weirded out by the fact that it is strangely perfect for that space. I guess I thought there'd be more drama to it all since I really thought it'd be too big and we'd have to return it, blah blah blah. But, it's BEAUTIFUL. I think by making me wait, Mr. Bean has insured that I will forever love this sectional. I'll have to post pics later when I get a good shot of it. I think Mr. Bean was pretty excited about it as well since he's also agreed to me getting a new console table and bench. We figure we will single-handedly bring the economy back. Wish us luck.

Not much else to report here. I've slowly been working on getting rid of a bunch of my old stuff. I have a HUGE box of clothes to donate and I haven't been thru half of my clothes yet. It feels good to get rid of stuff, but it's also very overwhelming. Where do you draw the line? I am a self proclaimed packrat. I've gotten a lot better about it, but there are just some things I can't seem to let go of, but it doesn't fit in the "vision" for my house that I have in my head. (I am quoting Peter Walsh here.) Bottom line? I am just not motivated right now. There are boxes everywhere so I feel like there is no end. There. Is. No. End. I'd. Rather. Be. Sewing. As it stands, I can't reach my sewing machine because of all the boxes around it. UGH.

Ugh.

One of those days. My brain is fried right now.

My car was keyed last night. I hate people right now. I would never, ever do that to someone's car. I would never do that to anyone's anything. I don't see why people take pleasure to ruining other people's things. Especially something that you know someone must work hard for. I don't understand.

My dad took a look at it and said it's not that bad. He said to take it to get it professionally buffed. I guess they have machines. Maybe it's just the clear coat. UGH. I hate people right now.

Undecided.

I went to see David Sedaris tonight as part of one of my book clubs. He happened to be here the night of the month we meet for October. It was inevitable that someone would pick his latest book, so we made a night of it. He is on his book tour for When You are Engulfed in Flames. He was awesome as usual. There is something about hearing him read his own work that makes it even funnier. Anyway, here is an article he wrote for The New Yorker on undecided voters. I thought I'd post it in light of the upcoming election. The link for it can be found here.

Undecided
by David Sedaris

October 27, 2008

I don’t know that it was always this way, but, for as long as I can remember, just as we move into the final weeks of the Presidential campaign the focus shifts to the undecided voters. “Who are they?” the news anchors ask. “And how might they determine the outcome of this election?”
Then you’ll see this man or woman— someone, I always think, who looks very happy to be on TV. “Well, Charlie,” they say, “I’ve gone back and forth on the issues and whatnot, but I just can’t seem to make up my mind!” Some insist that there’s very little difference between candidate A and candidate B. Others claim that they’re with A on defense and health care but are leaning toward B when it comes to the economy.
I look at these people and can’t quite believe that they exist. Are they professional actors? I wonder. Or are they simply laymen who want a lot of attention?
To put them in perspective, I think of being on an airplane. The flight attendant comes down the aisle with her food cart and, eventually, parks it beside my seat. “Can I interest you in the chicken?” she asks. “Or would you prefer the platter of shit with bits of broken glass in it?”
To be undecided in this election is to pause for a moment and then ask how the chicken is cooked.
I mean, really, what’s to be confused about?
When doubting that anyone could not know whom they’re voting for, I inevitably think back to November, 1968. Hubert Humphrey was running against Richard Nixon, and when my mother couldn’t choose between them she had me do it for her. It was crazy. One minute I was eating potato chips in front of the TV, and the next I was at the fire station, waiting with people whose kids I went to school with. When it was our turn, we were led by a woman wearing a sash to one of a half-dozen booths, the curtain of which closed after we entered.
“Go ahead,” my mother said. “Flick a switch, any switch.”
I looked at the panel in front of me.
“Start on the judges or whatever and we’ll be here all day, so just pick a President and make it fast. We’ve wasted enough time already.”
“Which one do you think is best?” I asked.
“I don’t have an opinion,” she told me. “That’s why I’m letting you do it. Come on, now, vote.”
I put my finger on Hubert Humphrey and then on Richard Nixon, neither of whom meant anything to me. What I most liked about democracy, at least so far, was the booth—its quiet civility, its atmosphere of importance. “Hmm,” I said, wondering how long we could stay before someone came and kicked us out.
Ideally, my mother would have waited outside, but, as she said, there was no way an unescorted eleven-year-old would be allowed to vote, or even hang out, seeing as the lines were long and the polls were open for only one day. “Will you please hurry it up?” she hissed.
“Wouldn’t it be nice to have something like this in our living room?” I asked. “Maybe we could use the same curtains we have on the windows.”
“All right, that’s it.” My mother reached for Humphrey but I beat her to it, and cast our vote for Richard Nixon, who had the same last name as a man at our church. I assumed that the two were related, and only discovered afterward that I was wrong. Richard Nixon had always been Nixon, while the man at my church had shortened his name from something funnier but considerably less poster-friendly—Nickapopapopolis, maybe.
“Oh, well,” I said.
We drove back home, and when asked by my father whom she had voted for, my mother said that it was none of his business.
“What do you mean, ‘none of my business’?” he said. “I told you to vote Republican.”
“Well, maybe I did and maybe I didn’t.”
“You’re not telling me you voted for Humphrey.” He said this as if she had marched through the streets with a pan on her head.
“No,” she said. “I’m not telling you that. I’m not telling you anything. It’s private—all right? My political opinions are none of your concern.”
“What political opinions?” he said. “I’m the one who took you down to register. You didn’t even know there was an election until I told you.”
“Well, thanks for telling me.”
She turned to open a can of mushroom soup. This would be poured over pork chops and noodles and served as our dinner, casserole style. Once we’d taken our seats at the table, my parents would stop fighting directly, and continue their argument through my sisters and me. Lisa might tell a story about her day at school and, if my father said it was interesting, my mother would laugh.
“What’s so funny?” he’d say.
“Nothing. It’s just that, well, I suppose everyone has a different standard. That’s all.”
When told by my father that I was holding my fork wrong, my mother would say that I was holding it right, or right in “certain circles.”
“We don’t know how people eat the world over,” she’d say, not to him but to the buffet or the picture window, as if the statement had nothing to do with any of us.
I wasn’t looking forward to that kind of evening, and so I told my father that I had voted. “She let me,” I said. “And I picked Nixon.”
“Well, at least someone in the family has some brains.” He patted me on the shoulder and as my mother turned away I understood that I had chosen the wrong person.
I didn’t vote again until 1976, when I was nineteen and legally registered. Because I was at college out of state, I sent my ballot through the mail. The choice that year was between Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford. Most of my friends were going for Carter, but, as an art major, I identified myself as a maverick. “That means an original,” I told my roommate. “Someone who lets the chips fall where they may.” Because I made my own rules and didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought of them, I decided to write in the name of Jerry Brown, who, it was rumored, liked to smoke pot. This was an issue very close to my heart—too close, obviously, as it amounted to a complete waste. Still, though, it taught me a valuable lesson: calling yourself a maverick is a sure sign that you’re not one.
I wonder if, in the end, the undecideds aren’t the biggest pessimists of all. Here they could order the airline chicken, but, then again, hmm. “Isn’t that adding an extra step?” they ask themselves. “If it’s all going to be chewed up and swallowed, why not cut to the chase, and go with the platter of shit?”
Ah, though, that’s where the broken glass comes in. ♦