look

Today I grabbed my camera and looked at life through the lens. Look:

Mr. G pretends he is a wild animal and last night he told me all kinds of details about Ash Wednesday because he's nervous about people rubbing ash on foreheads. Last summer he stuck his hand in fire ash when his friend J was over and burned his fingers, so the thought of Father Dave and Deacon Greg smearing ash on folks worried him, but he thinks they burned everything two days ago and after sprinkling it with holy water, the ash shouldn't hurt anyone. I had no comment since I'm not Catholic and never participated in Ash Wednesday. In fact, I don't think he'll get to participate either, but no matter--he's pretty cute regardless of whether they smudge him or not this morning. Today he growled and rolled around the floor wrapped in blankets.


Mr. B survives on a diet of apples, milk and Nutella sandwiches. I wish I could tell you eats a more balanced diet, but alas, he really does not. I used threats to make him eat asparagus last night. Sometimes he'll eat peanut butter. I never get enough of that kid's smile. The other night while watching Animal Planet he said, "I wish they'd just find Bigfoot already and solve this mystery!"


Mr. T, on the other hand, enjoys a hearty breakfast of Cheerios. Honey Nut or Peanut Butter. He's big into karate once more, and it's nice to have him back in the dojo. His bo staff complex is actually quite good. I'm constantly amazed at how old he is, how mature he can behave, how reasonable he can act. All of my kids wear blankets over their shoulders in the morning, huddled like old peasants around the table while they eat porridge. I kid. I make them eat gruel. Or oatmeal or cereal or toast or granola. You'd think my house was freezing the way these kids wrap up, but it's really not.


I cut forsythia branches so I could force them to bloom and add some color to my table. Sadly, I did this too late for them to bloom for Book Club tomorrow night. So I have a centerpiece of sticks.


My bedside table--I'm reading The Founding Foodies, which is really fascinating. It's about presidents and history and food. A trifecta of good topics presented in a brisk, chronological (important in history books) and conversational way. I'm also slogging through The Old Devils by Kingsley Amis. I hate it. It's about a bunch of middle aged people who spend all their time getting sauced. It won the Booker Prize and people, I've had mixed experiences with Booker Prize-winning books. Sometimes they're amazing, other times they're perfectly dreadful. But then I wonder if I'm not sophisticated or intellectual enough to appreciate their brilliance, because Gee whiz, they won the Booker Prize! And then I think, so what? At the bottom of the stack is my bible where I'm currently bookmarked in the middle of Job.


The project that got moved again. My dear friend A has bequeathed to me all of her vacation slides. I will look at them and cull the good ones. I will, I will. But that stack is daunting. But my love for A is bigger than that stack, so one of these days I will set up that slide projector and start viewing. Pinky-promise.


And speaking of Ash Wednesday, I better look in the cupboard and make sure I have a can of tuna fish for Mr. D to eat tonight...no meat for him today, am I right?

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if you give a green girl a paint chip

She'll decide to paint her living room walls.

The point where two colors meet is where a giant shark bares its teeth.

Which will in turn make the kitchen walls look shabby. So she'll get those painted, too. And she'll add in new hardware, rugs and a picture.

New rug on super-clean floor. She might eat off of that floor later.

Then she'll notice how grungy her floors look against the freshly painted walls, so she'll begin scrubbing the grout (on her hands and knees like a scullery maid from Downton Abbey) with a bucket of soapy water and a brush. Her shoulders will ache but her heart will swell with pride as her efforts make the floor look brand new once more. But now the bathroom tiles look grungy, so the Green Girl feels compelled to scrub that grout as well.

Damn, that's some clean grout. Damn, do her shoulders ache.

Does it stop here?

No, it does not.

The door of her freshly painted kitchen leads to the laundry room. Now the Green Girl realizes that her laundry room looks dismal--it needs another coat of paint, the edge by the ceiling was never done properly, really the whole room should get emptied out and re-set.

She ran out of paint and quit mid-project about 2 years ago. The shame of it.

She'll need more hooks.

Estimated Dust Bunny Population: 4,243

And maybe a bench with storage.

All she thinks is "What a mess" every time she walks through this room.

Some of this stuff needs to disappear. She wonders if there's a hitman service for clutter--some kind of mafia that could come in and clean house--eliminate this for a fee so she doesn't have to get her hands dirty.

The grout and the rugs are crying out for soap and water.

And she wonders, if she finishes the laundry room, where will it lead her next?
Spill it, reader. What project did you start only to find it never seemed to end?

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a dress

Much of the speculation about tomorrow has to do with the dress. It's overwhelming, the pressure of being a bride--satisfying relatives (did you invite your cousins? your great-aunt Sue? WHY NOT?), choosing a low-cost spread (family style or buffet line? broasted chicken or beef tips?) and selecting bridesmaids (you want how many groomsmen to stand up? Crap, I have to find someone else so the numbers match up--you're sure we can't just have an extra usher?). On top of it all you have to look good.

Actually, better than good.

When I got married, I was kind of stunned because I hadn't exactly planned for the event my whole single life. Unlike many of my friends who subscribed to Bride and Bridal Monthly and Bride Vogue since high school, I had no preconceived notions for my big day (hence the God-awful dresses I foisted on my poor bridesmaids, among other tasteless and ill-considered choices). In retrospect, the only things I like about my wedding were the flowers, the string quartet and my dress. And the groom. He turned out pretty good, too. My hair, the centerpieces, the colors, the decorations, the bridesmaids' dresses, the dinner, the cake, the photography are all things I wish I'd done differently. Bygones, right?

Back to the dress--naturally Princess Diana set me up for some really high expectations of how to look on the Big Day. But I'd been to lots of weddings by the time Mr. D and I got engaged and bore witness to some terrible dresses, clearly designed by 5-year old girls with Bedazzlers and unlimited supplies of ruffles, lace and tulle. When I was a bartender back in the Olden Days, I saw some pretty gaudy brides come through on their ritual bar-hop between church and reception hall. Most memorable was the Saturday afternoon when one bridal party came through the front entrance of the bar and another walked in through the back. The brides? Were wearing the same dress. No kidding. Of course everyone noticed and the two brides looked put out that they didn't look special. The moment stuck with me--right up to a few months before my wedding when I went to a dress shop.

In the dressing room I pulled on the first dress. At this shop, wedding dresses came off the rack a standard size 10 and got altered to fit. I'm a standard size 4. I couldn't tell what any of the dresses would even look like on me because they gaped and hung and fell and slid and generally looked like huge poufy, satiny piles of nothing special.

I tried on exactly two dresses before leaving the shop.

Then I did what any reasonable woman about to get married would do in 1995: I took a 1988 copy of Bride Magazine from a friend's house and paged through it. I circled the bodice, neckline, sleeves and skirts that I liked. Then I called a dressmaker, gave her the torn out photos and chose a fabric. She measured me this way, that way, up, down, across and around and promised to call with an estimate. For two weeks I held my breath--I had a tight wedding budget and prayed I could afford the custom-made dress of my dreams.

She called me back with the numbers: $220 for the dress of my dreams. Way less than anything I'd find in a store, and made to order. For an extra $30 she made me a veil.


Aside from the string quartet that played during the ceremony (they sounded lovely--I might be terrible at choosing decorations, but my taste in classical music is unparalleled), the one thing I got the most complements on that day was my dress. Waltz-length, without a train, I danced all night without tripping on the hem or dragging it through spilled beer. The bodice fit me like a glove, the neckline flattered my shoulders and the detailing was simple and pretty. I looked good in that dress.

The giant bow on the back of my teased-up, sprayed down helmet of a hairdo? I didn't say I looked good from the neck up, reader.

Somehow I bet Ms. Middleton will look just fine from the top of her head to the bottom of her feet tomorrow.

Spill it, reader--what was your best dress? The Easter dress of your childhood? Prom? Wedding? Do tell!

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little bits

* Just finished volunteering in Mr. G's Kindergarten classroom. His teacher is so amazing--I need to nominate her for a Kohl fellowship. Every. Single. Day. she brings her A Game. Just impressive as heck.

* Am reading Andre Dubus III's memoir Townie which is compelling and gritty. Am reading Nancy Mitford's Love in a Cold Climate as a palate cleanser before I fall asleep. She's like Jane Austen between the two World Wars. Wickedly witty.

* Could be related, but my dreams are vividly weird lately. Plus I'm awake half the night listening to the sump pump and enduring mild panic attacks about all the things I have to do.

* As a consequence of that, I wake up with puffy eyes. I've tried to remember to use the eye creme Mr. D gave me for Christmas. (The gift package included neck cream. There is a message to be read here, I'm sure of it.) Arbonne helpfully (NOT!) packages the creams and cleansers and toners and serums in similarly shaped and colored bottles, adding to my general confusion about what to use, when to use it and why. I slapped a little cream on my eyes the other night and the stinging! Fifteen minutes later, after soaking my face with cold washcloths and tears, my vision cleared and I looked at the bottle--I'd doused my lids and lashes with the SPF 15 Daytime Moisturizer. A concoction not intended for use near the eyes.
* I've tested some paint on two walls in our living room. I'm not entirely sold--the sample walls look kind of dark and I'm afraid that at night and on overcast days the room will feel too gloomy. Plus we've got Maple trim and it's tricky to balance warm and cool tones. I need to read up on decorating and figure out which walls I should paint darker and which should be lighter.

* Happily, when I went to the store to pick up swatches and a sample, I learned all the gallons are 40% off through the weekend. Lucky me! (If I can reach a decision quickly.)

* And I bought silver dress shoes. I tried on some strappy sandals, I need something to wear with summer dresses--but they showed too much of my ugly feet. I spent 30 minutes mulling over my choices, but after bringing home a pair of pumps and trying them on with 5 different dresses I think I did well. One of my longstanding wardrobe malfunctions has always been footwear. Basically, I need to make an effort. I'm horribly lazy on this count, but I know it and am committed to working through my fashion faux pas(es). (Or is the plural fashion faux pai?)

* I have a staff meeting on Saturday. A staff meeting!

Spill it, reader, in little bits. What's new?

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holiday home tour '09

Tis the season to be jolly, and that jolly Jen on the Edge has devised Holiday Home Tour '09. Welcome to Chez Green Girl, friends!

Our countdown began Dec. 1st--Mr. G faithfully puts a new ornament on the tree each day--in perfect order because he is a fastidious boy when it comes to things like this.

I never met a snowman I didn't like--especially the homemade kind.

I really really like snowmen.

Really, really, really.

I like shepherds too. You can read more about them at The Women's Colony.

Our Christmas cards displayed for everyone to read.

We decorate our tree with all kinds of ornaments--the only rhyme or reason is that our favorites were made by people we love.

To the uninitiated, that would seem like a lot of tinsel. To Mr. D, that's not tinsel-y enough and he'd happily gob on another 2 boxes of the stuff. When it comes to tinsel, there seems to be no happy medium. It's more polarizing than Sarah Palin. But let's not talk politics. There's more to see!

Mr. D saw this KMart commercial where the lady and her mom decorated the house for the holidays--with a LOT of glass and swag and other fussy ribbony/shiny/breakable stuff. He wanted me to do that to our house. After I finished guffawing, I gave him this centerpiece--glass balls in a decorative bowl his sister gave me years ago. It seemed to please him enough that I could stop there with the faux greenery and glass decorations. Not that there's anything wrong with that look, it's just so breakable and we live with 3 boys who break everything.

Yes, yes we have many pinecones.

I have a box full of the kids' Christmas craft projects, collected over the years. This year I decided to display them above the French doors going into the library. A length of ribbon, two nails and many clothespins did the trick pretty well.

I hung MORE kid crafts above the playroom entrance. I'm happy to report that Team Testosterone is busy making EVEN MORE holiday art at school as I type this.

The view from up here is my favorite.

Merry Christmas!

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setting matters: a writing question

When Mr. D and I built our house, we didn't build a "study" or "computer room," the logic being that our kids will best navigate the internet and avoid online dangers if the computer is in a central location. Also, our kids do homework at the dining room table while I prepare dinner--this means I'm at their beck and call for support. The desk area we built into the kitchen plan was intended to be Central Station--and with three kids and the accompanying paperwork from school and our various activities as a family, it has indeed become just that.


The above is my desk--but also the family's desk. Cub Scout handbook, the boys' Awana books and Bibles, coupons, schedules, permission slips, incoming and outgoing paperwork and mail, phone, messages, party invitations, school projects and assignments--it all is dumped on this space measuring 4 feet by 2 feet--and up the wall. I'm great with how the space is used. The trouble is this: my family has crowded me out.

As a writer I often have manuscripts that need editing, lists of characters, plot points hastily scribbled onto pieces of paper, rejection letters, tips on writing markets/opportunities and other important stuff that takes up space. In the current set up I have NO space for essential tools like a thesaurus and dictionary. I'm cramped and crowded with no room to lay out my projects--and if I do, I have to gather it all back together and stash it away before Team Testosterone comes through the door by 3:00 every afternoon to command the space for their own needs once more.
I need my own space. A room of one's own, so to speak. I want an armoire desk where I can hook up the family laptop when I want to write and I can use that armoire to stash all my necessary writing supplies, clearing out Central Station a little while allowing My things to sit undisturbed. The perfect spot would be in my library--there's a spot along a wall between two windows that let in awesome light and a great view of the front garden. My dictionary and thesaurus are already located there--as are most of my books so reference work would be literally within arm's reach. The room was built for reflection and intellectual pursuit, setting my writing in the library makes perfect sense.

To find such a piece of furniture is the work of one afternoon--we have several used furniture shops in the area, no doubt one would sell exactly the piece I desire. But what would I do with this?


That, friends, is a gorgous piano in need of repair and tuning. But I love it--irrationally and passionately--like I love Neil Patrick Harris (Secret Gay Boyfriend). This monster takes up the whole wall and there's no other reasonable spot in the house for it. Keeping the piano is impractical and pointless. Replacing it with an armoire desk makes perfect sense. The trouble is, no one else wants this beautiful piano. It's worthless. It's heavy. Realistically, it is garbage and should be disposed of and I haven't the heart.

So what's a girl to do? I can't keep hacking it out in this tiny spot where my family squeezes me out a litte more every year. The library is where my writing belongs. Do I settle for a tiny, ladylike desk and "make do" because anything will be better than the status quo--or do I shove that behemoth piano out the front door and down the slope to the fire pit and stake my claim in a grand and meaningful way?

Reader: Which setting shall I aspire to write in?

or

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double-yuck

Yesterday I ran downstairs to check on how the astroturf is drying out since the Great Sewer Pump Debacle of '09. A soaked floor greeted me--and a steady stream of liquid pouring out of a cracked pipe connector leading from our new sewer lift pump. I said bad words. I called the plumber. He came immediately and fixed it.

Before I go again to the basement to deal with sewer water, I simply must put on my Ranty-Pants and share:

Things I think are yucky:

Sewer water
Wet socks
Licorice
Howard Stern
Grits
Marigolds
My complexion when I wear orange or even the slightly wrong shade of red
Light beer
"chicken" nuggets (yeah, I'm talking to you, too, soy substitutes!)

and

Tinsel. Actually, tinsel isn't so much yucky as it is tacky. And Mr. D loves it. He sweetly asked a week ago if, now that the boys are older and not inclined to put Christmas ornaments in their mouths, can we have tinsel, please? I caved like a California mudslide. He asks for so little. I've used the "child safety" excuse for over a decade to avoid tinsel on my tree. Sure, honey, this once we can do it for the sake of your nostalgia.

I bought him a box of tinsel and he added it to our tree last night. Then he mentioned that we really needed 3 boxes to make it look right. Which is why I think tinsel is tacky--it COVERS all the decorating on your tree--especially the way he and his kin are prone to using it. Gobbing it on in huge clumps that hide everything beneath and behind--I mean, what's the point?

But I love him. Tacky tinsel and all.

Spill it, reader. What's on your Yuck List?

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Craftacular!

I've mentioned Mr. B's Halloween themed birthday party--mostly homemade, Old School Scariness. The party? Was a HUGE success. Flush with our Family Fun/Martha Stewart/Ladies Home Journal/Good Housekeeping DIY achievement, we're packing up the handmade bats, spiders and rats for future Halloween Parties. Everything turned out that well.

Our report begins with the cake, for which I can take no credit. A local restaurant totally understood the theme and the resulting (delicious!) cake matched the "Spooky Graveyard" theme perfectly.


The trip to the basement was creepy with spiders, cobwebs, rats and a little gravestone on the landing.

One hallway was hung with crepe paper and bats. Lots of black balloons on the floor provided the boys with something to do while everyone arrived.
Forbidden closets were totally closed off with lots of cobwebs and spiders. Those big spiders are egg carton cups painted black and threaded through with black pipecleaners.

The cobwebs were from my free range herd of sheep--their pasture-fed wool hand spun on my antique spinning wheel into slender silken threads. Nah, I'm kidding. I'm Green Girl, but that's your run-of-the-mill cobwebs sold by the bag at any store between here and China. Cheap and atmospheric.
The Spooky Graveyard was constructed out of cardboard boxes, spray paint and Sharpie Markers. One tombstone read "R.I.P. 6," the header on the invitations. Battery operated candles flickered through the mist created by a fog machine and the lights in our basement are on a dimmer switch...very scary scene!
The long view...ghosts hang from the ceiling between bats, cobwebs, spiderwebs and crepe paper.
We served a punch bowl full of "Swamp Juice" and party favors made by Sarah.

We hung 3 dozen bats--egg cartons cut, spray painted black and decorated with googley eyes. All the things dropping from the ceiling made it feel like we were outside, not in a basement.

Here's one of three homemade pinatas. They turned out perfectly. Each boy had lots of chances to whack them since I split them into 3 teams. They also played Candy Corn Catch, Rat Race, Musical Scares,
Skeleton Scramble,
and Mummy Wrap--here's Mr. B next to his mummy. Mr. D and I have two huge bags full of unwound toilet paper in our bathroom. Enough to last us for 5 months.
What really put our party over the top was the fog machine. Aside from setting off every smoke detector in our house--shrill beeping that lasted until Mr. D unplugged and dismantled each one, the fog machine filled the basement with a chilling mist. The mist thickened into fog. The fog thickened into such a heavy haze that visibility was reduced to three feet. The kids thought that was really cool. They played a dangerous game of indoor tag, blindly knocking heads and crashing into walls.

After games and pizza, cake and presents, horsing around and kicking balloons, we kicked the Power Rangers, football player, 2 ghouls, 2 skeletons, biker dude, vampire, and superheroes outside to play until rides arrived. The sun peered out, the rain stopped, the ground was dry (enough) for running through the woods and playing in the backyard for an hour.

Team Testosterone agreed it was the best birthday party ever. Can we save everything and do it again? You betcha.

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holiday open house

Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light

Rockin' around the Christmas tree

Oh Christmas tree, how lovely are your branches


Joy to the World! The Lord is Come! Let Earth proclaim her King!

Faithful friends who are dear to us, gather near to us once more

Baby, it's cold outside

In the lane, snow is drifting

Here we come a caroling among the leaves so green

Thanks for stopping by on Jen's Holiday Homes Tour! I'll follow you out--I'm on my way to Little Miss Sunshine State's!

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