"Neatness was not one of the things he aimed at in life."
— The Cricket in Times Square, George Selden, 1960
Confession: I still live at home. "Home" as in my parent's house. I'm a working girl who loves her job — and hates the loans that her college education accrued. It makes me sick that half of my income goes straight to pay those bills every month. But that's just the way things are. Hence the living at home.
This morning my dad (God love him) had words with me about how (to sum up) I don't put in my oar. Though I've been known to cook or bake for my family and friends, I don't put an equal amount of effort into tidying up after myself. He's right — it's true. It's a fault of mine. I've always been scattered — not mentally, but state-of-living-ly. Stemming the clutter-flow isn't easy for me. Somehow (and I can't explain it): clothes pile up, bobby pins are everywhere, papers stand in piles, and (Dad rightfully gripes) I just don't vacuum.
It's nothing personal. It's not an act of rebellion. It's not my parents' fault. Maybe them blame themselves for my lack of tidiness and that's part of the problem. But it's not their problem really — it's mine. Granted I live under their roof and must do better to play by their rules (especially as there aren't many rules to follow in the first place — my parents are saint-like). But how? I'm just not sure. Making a schedule and sticking to it? Remembering how awful Dad makes me feel when he calls me out on my lack-of-vacuum? Again, I'm not sure how to fix it, and that is the problem. But I will conquer this. (As I look about my office, strewn with papers, beads, and empty disposable coffee cups...)
Regardless, sure, I will do my best to turn over a new leaf for the sake of my loving father. However, I have to chuckle and pat myself on the back (and much more so, praise my wonderful parents). Despite how bad Dad made me feel this morning with his "it's a privilege you live here," this is his worst complaint of me? That I don't vacuum enough? Kels, I said to myself, you're gonna be alright. There are worse things in this life than being messy. If clutter is my downfall, so be it. After all, neatness is not one of the things I aim at in life.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Brouhaha
"Brouhaha (BROO-ha-ha) noun
A whole lot of uproar, confusion, or excitement.If you want
to save yourself a syllable, just say 'hubbub' instead."
No doubt there is a brouhaha in London today over The Royal Wedding. But I, for one, am waiting until after working hours are over to take part in the festivities. It's times like these that I thank the Lord above for good friends, "British" foodstuffs, and DVR. I put "British" in quotes because, as former-colonists, we're just doing our best to scrape together some semblance of English eats. On the menu? Scones (courtesy of moi), cucumber sandwiches, tea, fries (chips), and some sort of celebratory punch. We're all dressing in Kate Middleton-inspired looks and speaking in British accents from the moment we set foot in Erin's "flat."
All this chatter about life across the pond makes me miss my own time spent in Europe. I lived in France for 6 months in college, and although the French and British are akin to cats and dogs/baguettes and crumpets, I met a lot of lovely British folks during my stay. They were impeccably dressed, always offering to "put the kettle on," and taught us a myriad of UK phrases that I only pray I can recall when I'm old and grey. For example:
Pull it to = Closing the door, but keeping it slightly ajar.
Pudding = It's not the instant Jello stuff, but ALL desserts.
"Hi are you alright?" = "Hey what's up?" - - and they don't expect a real response.
Offhand, I'm having trouble recalling the others — memory isn't my strong suit. But lucky for me I showed a glimmer of intelligence during my stay in France: I wrote the entire experience down in a diary or two. Perhaps some day I will check back for reference and see what other British sayings I picked up (and then forgot). But for now I must say cheerio — Cheerio!
A whole lot of uproar, confusion, or excitement.If you want
to save yourself a syllable, just say 'hubbub' instead."
No doubt there is a brouhaha in London today over The Royal Wedding. But I, for one, am waiting until after working hours are over to take part in the festivities. It's times like these that I thank the Lord above for good friends, "British" foodstuffs, and DVR. I put "British" in quotes because, as former-colonists, we're just doing our best to scrape together some semblance of English eats. On the menu? Scones (courtesy of moi), cucumber sandwiches, tea, fries (chips), and some sort of celebratory punch. We're all dressing in Kate Middleton-inspired looks and speaking in British accents from the moment we set foot in Erin's "flat."
All this chatter about life across the pond makes me miss my own time spent in Europe. I lived in France for 6 months in college, and although the French and British are akin to cats and dogs/baguettes and crumpets, I met a lot of lovely British folks during my stay. They were impeccably dressed, always offering to "put the kettle on," and taught us a myriad of UK phrases that I only pray I can recall when I'm old and grey. For example:
Pull it to = Closing the door, but keeping it slightly ajar.
Pudding = It's not the instant Jello stuff, but ALL desserts.
"Hi are you alright?" = "Hey what's up?" - - and they don't expect a real response.
Offhand, I'm having trouble recalling the others — memory isn't my strong suit. But lucky for me I showed a glimmer of intelligence during my stay in France: I wrote the entire experience down in a diary or two. Perhaps some day I will check back for reference and see what other British sayings I picked up (and then forgot). But for now I must say cheerio — Cheerio!
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Abscond
"Abscond (ab-SKOND) verb
To disappear suddenly, usually to avoid getting in trouble.
A person who absconds is an absconder."
I don't wish I could abscond — I wish I could pull a Harry Potter and apparate to London-town. So much is happening in jolly ole England these days — namely royal weddings and "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2" trailers...
I'm not counting down the days 'til July 15th or anything. (Or am I?) But we've got a more immediate magical story on our hands: the aforementioned Royal Wedding. The bride is decorating Westminster Abbey with 20-foot high trees, meant to mimic the English countryside. What an exquisitely lovely idea, Miss Middleton! The world will be watching and waiting to see it all come together — a modern fairytale come true.
To disappear suddenly, usually to avoid getting in trouble.
A person who absconds is an absconder."
I don't wish I could abscond — I wish I could pull a Harry Potter and apparate to London-town. So much is happening in jolly ole England these days — namely royal weddings and "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2" trailers...
I'm not counting down the days 'til July 15th or anything. (Or am I?) But we've got a more immediate magical story on our hands: the aforementioned Royal Wedding. The bride is decorating Westminster Abbey with 20-foot high trees, meant to mimic the English countryside. What an exquisitely lovely idea, Miss Middleton! The world will be watching and waiting to see it all come together — a modern fairytale come true.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Whatchamacallits
"Whatchamacallit (WUH-chuh-muh-coll-it) noun
An object whose name you just can't remember. You know, a thingy, a thingamajig, a whatsit."
Once upon a time, while visiting my grandma in Florida, I stumbled upon a real humdinger of a book. It's called "L is for Lolly Gag," and I'm agog at the thought of including some of these "quirky words for a clever tongue" right here — since most of them truly are Stuff&Nonsense. Let's call my take on word-a-day "Whatchamacallits" and bring back madcap phraseology, one word at a time!
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Let them eat cake!
Today is my un-unbirthday. Thus far, it's been a delightful experience — I made a 3-layer coconut cake that turned out simply heavenly (if I do say so myself). I got a Hello Kitty note-card from Naomi with the sentiment "I hope you have a great hair day!" (Her gift to me? Super sexy texturizer for sexy, wavy, messy hair, and did I mention SEXY?) Mom splurged on a darling skirt from Anthropologie that is just begging for a sunshiney day and some brand new sandals.
Tonight ("No days more!"/"Three hours more!" to be exact) I'm seeing "Les Miserables" downtown with Mom and Dad — I can barely contain my excitement. But not before dining at Cafe Hollander, complete with a Belgian Framboise. And after the show? Potato skins and pitchers at O'Donoghue's in The Grove with two Dolans, two Pescis, and laughter enough to raise the roof. Post-O'D's? To Caitlin's new apartment for a slumber party — not to mention James McAvoy on the TV in a charming little flick, "Penelope." (Boy oh boy, can that fella kiss!)
I have to say, if only The Boyfriend wasn't across the Atlantic, this might be the best birthday since the proverbial sliced bread. I don't mean to brag, and I don't mean to jinx this wonderful day — but sometimes I think there's nothing wrong with shouting your joy from the rooftops. I'm sure that on some dreary Monday next January when I hear somebody chirping like a bird about how grand their life is, I will want nothing more than to rearrange their face. But let this be a reminder to my PMS-ing, dead-of-winter, "life sucks" self: It's okay to show the world your Happy — un-unbirthday or not.
Tonight ("No days more!"/"Three hours more!" to be exact) I'm seeing "Les Miserables" downtown with Mom and Dad — I can barely contain my excitement. But not before dining at Cafe Hollander, complete with a Belgian Framboise. And after the show? Potato skins and pitchers at O'Donoghue's in The Grove with two Dolans, two Pescis, and laughter enough to raise the roof. Post-O'D's? To Caitlin's new apartment for a slumber party — not to mention James McAvoy on the TV in a charming little flick, "Penelope." (Boy oh boy, can that fella kiss!)
I have to say, if only The Boyfriend wasn't across the Atlantic, this might be the best birthday since the proverbial sliced bread. I don't mean to brag, and I don't mean to jinx this wonderful day — but sometimes I think there's nothing wrong with shouting your joy from the rooftops. I'm sure that on some dreary Monday next January when I hear somebody chirping like a bird about how grand their life is, I will want nothing more than to rearrange their face. But let this be a reminder to my PMS-ing, dead-of-winter, "life sucks" self: It's okay to show the world your Happy — un-unbirthday or not.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Dog People
"I wish we had tails to wag," said Mr. Dearly.
— The 101 Dalmations, Dodie Smith, 1957
We've never been Dog People. Sure, I like dogs, but I've also been known to cozy up to a cat or two. Dog People don't understand cats — or Cat People. They're devious, loners, a mystery, and a fright. (Cats, that is — not Cat People.) I rarely hear that Cat People have an equal opinion of dogs and Dog People, but I can imagine their arguments against them...
They drool.
They chew.
They bark.
They poop.
They're man's best friend.
Or so we've all been told. My family will soon find out. Last night I ventured with Mom and Dad to the Milwaukee County Humane Society to have a look-see. My mom has had puppies pouncing through her daydreams for months now, and Dad finally caved. We ate a quick dinner and piled into the minivan — Dad moaned and groaned about traffic, roadwork, and the price at the pump... but once we arrived and saw all those darling little mugshots staring up at us, we were goners. "We're not coming home with a dog," my dad had said. "Wrong-o," I thought.
When we first saw Shmuley (that's right. Shmuley.), he was sleeping in his pillow-bed — and mostly lolling off one end. He eventually woke up and blinked in our direction, but no amount of coaxing or Altoid-rattling from beyond the glass could get him to venture to the door. We moved on to the next dog. And the next. Big dogs, little dogs, mixes, and mutts. A dog with one eye. A dog with caramel spots. A dog with bat-ears. We came back to Shmuley and asked for a meet-and-greet.
Shmuley cowered in the corner when we first walked through the door, but in minutes he had made the rounds from lap to lap — nuzzling my mom, licking my dad, and cuddling up to me. Did any of us even listen to the Humane Society expert give his little shpiel? Doubtful. But when our visit ended, we did take a moment to deliberate. Simply put: my parents were hooked. I left it up to them. As they were discussing the standard "it's a big responsibility...", a fellow-shopper stopped to ask which dog we were considering. "That one," we said, pointing at Shmuley. She paused, looked from us to the little dog, and said, "Your energies match up." I smiled (I love that "energy" stuff). "Don't take this the wrong way," she continued, "but you even look like each other." Mom chuckled, then said, "Really?"
"Really!," the lady exclaimed. "He belongs with you. I know, you think I'm the crazy lady — but I'm a Healer. I probably talk too much. But your energies... He's made for you!" The Healer was visibly thrilled at the thought of Shmuley belonging to us — the family with matching energies. Dad laughed and shot back, "They pay you to say that?" She mimicked his laughter, and apologized again for coming off crazy, then went on her way. "I love that 'energy' stuff," I said, backing the Healer up. But she didn't need backing up — not really. Because Shmuley was a done deal — Mom was smitten. Dad was sold.
Tonight I get to go home to a puppy. I get to find out what it's like to be one of the Dog People. Maybe Shmuley will drool. Maybe he'll chew or bark. He'll undoubtedly poop. But he might just become our new best friend. You said it just right, Mr. Dearly — I wish we all had tails to wag.
— The 101 Dalmations, Dodie Smith, 1957
We've never been Dog People. Sure, I like dogs, but I've also been known to cozy up to a cat or two. Dog People don't understand cats — or Cat People. They're devious, loners, a mystery, and a fright. (Cats, that is — not Cat People.) I rarely hear that Cat People have an equal opinion of dogs and Dog People, but I can imagine their arguments against them...
They drool.
They chew.
They bark.
They poop.
They're man's best friend.
Or so we've all been told. My family will soon find out. Last night I ventured with Mom and Dad to the Milwaukee County Humane Society to have a look-see. My mom has had puppies pouncing through her daydreams for months now, and Dad finally caved. We ate a quick dinner and piled into the minivan — Dad moaned and groaned about traffic, roadwork, and the price at the pump... but once we arrived and saw all those darling little mugshots staring up at us, we were goners. "We're not coming home with a dog," my dad had said. "Wrong-o," I thought.
When we first saw Shmuley (that's right. Shmuley.), he was sleeping in his pillow-bed — and mostly lolling off one end. He eventually woke up and blinked in our direction, but no amount of coaxing or Altoid-rattling from beyond the glass could get him to venture to the door. We moved on to the next dog. And the next. Big dogs, little dogs, mixes, and mutts. A dog with one eye. A dog with caramel spots. A dog with bat-ears. We came back to Shmuley and asked for a meet-and-greet.Shmuley cowered in the corner when we first walked through the door, but in minutes he had made the rounds from lap to lap — nuzzling my mom, licking my dad, and cuddling up to me. Did any of us even listen to the Humane Society expert give his little shpiel? Doubtful. But when our visit ended, we did take a moment to deliberate. Simply put: my parents were hooked. I left it up to them. As they were discussing the standard "it's a big responsibility...", a fellow-shopper stopped to ask which dog we were considering. "That one," we said, pointing at Shmuley. She paused, looked from us to the little dog, and said, "Your energies match up." I smiled (I love that "energy" stuff). "Don't take this the wrong way," she continued, "but you even look like each other." Mom chuckled, then said, "Really?"
"Really!," the lady exclaimed. "He belongs with you. I know, you think I'm the crazy lady — but I'm a Healer. I probably talk too much. But your energies... He's made for you!" The Healer was visibly thrilled at the thought of Shmuley belonging to us — the family with matching energies. Dad laughed and shot back, "They pay you to say that?" She mimicked his laughter, and apologized again for coming off crazy, then went on her way. "I love that 'energy' stuff," I said, backing the Healer up. But she didn't need backing up — not really. Because Shmuley was a done deal — Mom was smitten. Dad was sold.
Tonight I get to go home to a puppy. I get to find out what it's like to be one of the Dog People. Maybe Shmuley will drool. Maybe he'll chew or bark. He'll undoubtedly poop. But he might just become our new best friend. You said it just right, Mr. Dearly — I wish we all had tails to wag.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Color me colorful
Color makes my world go 'round. I call Wisconsin home, so we're blessed with the shifting shades of all four seasons — but for some reason the grey, wintry doldrums outweigh the rest. Perhaps it's just because we're slowly making our way from snowshoes to sundresses, but subzero listlessness still hovers ominously — despite today's 63 degrees. With our luck, it will snow by Saturday.
To keep my chin up and my sandals ready, I immerse myself in color — doldrums or not. I work for a how-to beading magazine that prides itself on being stylish year-round. The jewelry we create and showcase must be fashion-forward and in-season: golden reds, oranges, and coppers for fall — pastel pinks and fresh greens for spring. In my quest to string jewelry that is as fun to make as it is in vogue, I find that color (no matter the color) is never out of style. You really can make any palette work in a given season — though perhaps you'll have to take it from cool (i.e. mint green) to warm (i.e. lime green) tones, or vice-versa.
Cool tones tend toward a blue tint (better-suited for springtime), while warm tones have a hint of yellow (perfect for autumn). But in my opinion? Mix and match; have fun! A warm, peachy coral looks perfectly lovely next to a cool, minty green. A soft, pale pink very nicely accents a bright shade of lime. Even put all four of these warm and cools together for a palette with lots of dimension — an eclectic color scheme (be it for stringing jewelry, throwing a party, or dressing your bridesmaids) allows for more movement and delightful imperfections. Trying to match every shade perfectly? Talk about a headache! Go all out color in all seasons — warm or cool.
To keep my chin up and my sandals ready, I immerse myself in color — doldrums or not. I work for a how-to beading magazine that prides itself on being stylish year-round. The jewelry we create and showcase must be fashion-forward and in-season: golden reds, oranges, and coppers for fall — pastel pinks and fresh greens for spring. In my quest to string jewelry that is as fun to make as it is in vogue, I find that color (no matter the color) is never out of style. You really can make any palette work in a given season — though perhaps you'll have to take it from cool (i.e. mint green) to warm (i.e. lime green) tones, or vice-versa.
Cool tones tend toward a blue tint (better-suited for springtime), while warm tones have a hint of yellow (perfect for autumn). But in my opinion? Mix and match; have fun! A warm, peachy coral looks perfectly lovely next to a cool, minty green. A soft, pale pink very nicely accents a bright shade of lime. Even put all four of these warm and cools together for a palette with lots of dimension — an eclectic color scheme (be it for stringing jewelry, throwing a party, or dressing your bridesmaids) allows for more movement and delightful imperfections. Trying to match every shade perfectly? Talk about a headache! Go all out color in all seasons — warm or cool.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Oh! What a beautiful mornin'!
I've got The Happies. It's amazing how a night on the town with friends — swapping wardrobes, swigging High Life — can result in a most infectious disease. But this isn't about our drink-induced tomfoolery. This is about how life is composed of silver linings — in this case, a few extraordinary girls and our contagious Happies.
Surprisingly, it wasn't "shorty fire burning" on the dace floor that The Happies consumed me. It wasn't marching through the Frontier Airlines tunnel belting "Newsies" at 3 AM either. It wasn't even as we crowded around a bag of chips and (insufficient) guac, recapping the night and getting The Dizzies. No, it was early the next morning, maybe 7:00, that The Happies started setting up shop. I was sleeping snugly next to Erin in a twin-sized bed (such is the nature of the proverbial Crash Pad) when the sun peeked in through the canvas curtains. I moved from sleep to barely-awake and became aware of not only the sun, but that my blankets were twisted, my mouth was the Sahara, and "did I brush my teeth after last night's guac?" All this I felt, but my eyes were blind — scared to face the weakly sunlit apartment. So my ears switched on. Nothing but quiet, sleepy breathing from my three amigas. ("No snorers," I thought.) When from outside, there came a most glorious sound:
"Oh! What a beautiful mornin'!
Oh! What a beautiful day!
I've got a beautiful feeling
Everything's going my way!"
The voice was strong, fearless, joyful — and slightly out of tune. It resounded, amplified by the surrounding stone buildings. Excitement sprung up inside me, propelling me from sleep to sitting — eyes popped open, curtains thrust apart. Of course, you can't see the street from this studio apartment, so my ears sketched a picture: young man, perhaps still intoxicated. Arms splayed. Face turned sun-ward. Shameless. Brazen. With an acute knowledge of Rogers and Hammerstein and a severe case of The Happies. He sang the chorus twice. As the voice faded and sounds of Milwaukee in the morning took center stage, my senses had enough — I drifted back to sleep.
An hour-or-so later the girls stirred, and myself by extension. Erin sat up, pushing her sleep-mask onto her forehead. Caitlin peeled herself off the couch and stumbled to the kitchen sink for a tall glass of water. Colleen yawned, adjusted her sleeping bag, and flopped back onto her pillow, complaining of "the spins." What time is it? Is it hot outside? It's a sauna in here. How did we eat so much last night? Whatever. Anyone hungry?
"Did anyone hear Gordon MacRae this morning?," I asked. Caitlin had. The others asked what happened. We explained.
"He probs got laid last night," one of them said.
"Or maybe he's in love," said another.
"Yeah, maybe he found The One."
It was barely up for debate and we all agreed — love. It had to be love. As we reached our quick conclusion and I youtubed the song to our eardrums' delight, I felt an astounding, all-encompassing peace as so rarely fills me these days. There's always something. Some trial. Some tribulation. Something off. Something imperfect. But this moment was the silverest of linings. As Gordon's voice filled the studio apartment, I mused that only through pure, unbridled love for each other could four friends surmise that love (not lust, liquor, or lawlessness — as so often clouds our skies) was at the heart of one fellow's song. In that moment, I got The Happies. We all did. I hope they never find a cure.
Surprisingly, it wasn't "shorty fire burning" on the dace floor that The Happies consumed me. It wasn't marching through the Frontier Airlines tunnel belting "Newsies" at 3 AM either. It wasn't even as we crowded around a bag of chips and (insufficient) guac, recapping the night and getting The Dizzies. No, it was early the next morning, maybe 7:00, that The Happies started setting up shop. I was sleeping snugly next to Erin in a twin-sized bed (such is the nature of the proverbial Crash Pad) when the sun peeked in through the canvas curtains. I moved from sleep to barely-awake and became aware of not only the sun, but that my blankets were twisted, my mouth was the Sahara, and "did I brush my teeth after last night's guac?" All this I felt, but my eyes were blind — scared to face the weakly sunlit apartment. So my ears switched on. Nothing but quiet, sleepy breathing from my three amigas. ("No snorers," I thought.) When from outside, there came a most glorious sound:
"Oh! What a beautiful mornin'!
Oh! What a beautiful day!
I've got a beautiful feeling
Everything's going my way!"
The voice was strong, fearless, joyful — and slightly out of tune. It resounded, amplified by the surrounding stone buildings. Excitement sprung up inside me, propelling me from sleep to sitting — eyes popped open, curtains thrust apart. Of course, you can't see the street from this studio apartment, so my ears sketched a picture: young man, perhaps still intoxicated. Arms splayed. Face turned sun-ward. Shameless. Brazen. With an acute knowledge of Rogers and Hammerstein and a severe case of The Happies. He sang the chorus twice. As the voice faded and sounds of Milwaukee in the morning took center stage, my senses had enough — I drifted back to sleep.
An hour-or-so later the girls stirred, and myself by extension. Erin sat up, pushing her sleep-mask onto her forehead. Caitlin peeled herself off the couch and stumbled to the kitchen sink for a tall glass of water. Colleen yawned, adjusted her sleeping bag, and flopped back onto her pillow, complaining of "the spins." What time is it? Is it hot outside? It's a sauna in here. How did we eat so much last night? Whatever. Anyone hungry?
"Did anyone hear Gordon MacRae this morning?," I asked. Caitlin had. The others asked what happened. We explained.
"He probs got laid last night," one of them said.
"Or maybe he's in love," said another.
"Yeah, maybe he found The One."
It was barely up for debate and we all agreed — love. It had to be love. As we reached our quick conclusion and I youtubed the song to our eardrums' delight, I felt an astounding, all-encompassing peace as so rarely fills me these days. There's always something. Some trial. Some tribulation. Something off. Something imperfect. But this moment was the silverest of linings. As Gordon's voice filled the studio apartment, I mused that only through pure, unbridled love for each other could four friends surmise that love (not lust, liquor, or lawlessness — as so often clouds our skies) was at the heart of one fellow's song. In that moment, I got The Happies. We all did. I hope they never find a cure.
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