Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Animal Sacrifice Chic.

I've been trying to come up with a new theme for my home decor. I found this coffee table in the Anthropologie catalog and it really spoke to me.

Yes, those are stone dogs under glass.

Look into their eyes. They will eff you up. That dog is clearly communicating, "Don't even think about putting your cup on this table without a coaster."

Then I saw this side table and it seemed a little spare. It needed something beyond twine handles.

Yes. This. White ceramic animals. A Deer-Goat-Hare orgy can lend drama to an invisible table.

Once I discovered the animal orgy theme, I knew I needed to bring it into the bedroom. I thought this horse head would look nice on my husband's side of the bed. He loves The Godfather.

Admittedly, this chair is not from Anthropologie but I think it really ties the whole look together. Nothing says commitment to a design aesthetic like animal sacrifice.


Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Monday, February 27, 2012

If a Tree Falls in the Forest and Has the Stomach Flu...

My eight-year-old son threw up twice last night.

I was having a dinner party for friends. Of course. The first time he threw up was just as I was serving dinner to my guests. He puked right there on the kitchen floor. Splat.

"Bon appetit!" said my husband.

Hours later, as the poor boy rested in his bed and we the adults chatted downstairs, I heard the pitter patter of little feet thundering down the stairs. Just as I met up with him in the living room, he splattered the wood floor with his ginger ale.

"Thanks for coming!" said my husband as he ushered our guests out the door.

Later, I tucked my son into bed, stroked his forehead and put a bucket next to his bed.

"Why didn't you run to the bathroom when you felt sick?" I asked. I mean, he had to run past one bathroom and down an entire flight of stairs to reach (or in his case, "miss") the second bathroom.

"Because you can't hear me upstairs," he said.

Which leaves us with a question: If a boy throws up in the toilet upstairs and no one hears him, did he really throw up at all?

I'll leave that for all the eight-year-old philosophers to ponder.

Friday, February 17, 2012

Just Trying to Move My Fingers Across These Here Keys

I daresay I'm in the midst of another writer's slump. I started something fabulous and wonderful the other week but it's way too long for a blog. I don't know what to do with it. I suppose I could post it as a three-blog-post series. It's all about middle school. Who doesn't lo...athe middle school?

Blue Moving Boxes.

I've started a new job. I'm at the same ad agency but on a new account. I hate to even jinx it by admitting how much I love it. It's tough. It requires a lot of thought. It requires hard work and research. I have to absorb a ton of information and then let it sort of marinate in my brain before I can even attempt to write a headline. I love that I'm having to stretch and twist and agonize over the writing I get paid to do again.

I'm worried about family. I'll keep that part of my life as private as I can, out of respect for their privacy. But my family members seem to keep getting cancer and I know it's cliche to say, but I'm getting really sick of it and I'm confounded by it. It makes me angry and frustrated. The older I get the more precious I realize life is. It would terrify me if I really let myself think about how precarious this whole ride is.

Grace is really digging life.

Speaking of life, my children are bursting with it. My son just turned eight and he is getting to be quite the card. He makes me laugh on a daily basis. And he makes his baby sister belly laugh. She worships him above all others. His name is Max and she tries to call him "Maxie." It comes out as "Nassie." When he's not home, she runs around the house calling for him, "Nassie? Nassie? Nassie?" When she figures out he's not home, she asks, "Hockey?"

Don't tell his friends he watches The Wiggles with his sister.

She knows his schedule well. I haven't attempted the whole "He's at his dad's house," because she's only just shy of two and I don't think she'll get the fact that she and her brother don't have the same daddy. Though she sees him walk to his dad's house just two doors down from our house all the time. Perhaps she just thinks he's visiting the neighbors. It's all very normal to her.

I've also discovered that my daughter has a sweet tooth. She's only just started speaking in complete sentences. These are my favorite two sentences thus far — and they were both uttered immediately upon waking first thing in the morning:

"Dulce is awesome."

"Dulce is nummy."

Dulce is "sugar" or "sweet," if you don't speak Spanish. My daughter's babysitter speaks Spanish to her so she can be brilliant and bilingual. Of course that comes out as Spanglish. Half the time her father and I don't even know what she's saying. It may be babble. It may be Spanish. Who's to say?

I'm ready for my sugar. Fork it over, Lady.

My other favorite sentiment that my daughter has expressed in sentence form:

"Mama is funny."

See? It's clear she's insightful and smart. Or maybe she's just flattering me so I hand over the dulce?