Watching Paint Dry

I've been painting recently.

Samples, to be exact.  For our kitchen wall.  On our kitchen wall.  On three different parts.  You know, to check them out in different lighting.

Three different colors.  Havana Cream, Banana Cream, and Hawthorne Yellow. 

They're all basically shades of yellow.  I can't tell the difference between Havana and Banana; I just know the latter has a better name.  Actually, it might be more cream than yellow.

Hawthorne Yellow looks like the yellow of our adjoining family room.  Pretty much.  Almost.  I can't quite say for sure, 'cause I'm still just working with samples.  I don't know if that's good or bad.  Or neither.

I think I like the Hawthorne best.  Maybe.  Sometimes I still like that Banana Havana.  Except when it looks a bit washed out.  But only on one wall, mostly.  Hard to say.

I keep telling myself: it's paint.  There's not really a right or wrong answer here.  Just pick one.

I like yellow in kitchens.  I think they look cheery.  Plus, I can pretend I'm at Panera Bread or something.  Minus someone serving me drinks and sandwiches.  I'd say I can pretend I'm at Starbucks, but they seem to be going green subway tile these days.

My favorite color is blue, by the way.  Sky blue.  I like the color the sky. 

Favorite colors are very important to children. 

My son is very confused as to why I am not painting the kitchen blue.  Or turquoise.  (I did paint the laundry room a light blue.  Okay, technically, my husband painted it.)  I spend a lot of time in the laundry room.

I understand my son's confusion.  Why would I not pick my favorite color for our kitchen?  Or, for that matter, everything?  Shoes, cars, clothes...the exterior of houses...maybe only eat foods that are my favorite color?  (All I can think of is blueberries and candy, so I bet I'd be malnourished.)

He wants the kitchen to be about 10 million different colors, all bright and fun.

Maybe this would be called Acid Trip Everything.

I'll pick some yellow.  Havana or Banana or Hawthorne. 

Maybe adults are just really boring.

Update: I've bought a gallon of Benjamin Moore's Hawthorne Yellow.  I've edged out the kitchen (quite nicely, if I might add!)  I'm still driving myself crazy: Is it looking a rich, funky café golden yellow...or is it too mustard-y?  I like it now--now I'm not sure.  Is it the light?  Am I looking at it too hard?  Will I have a better idea when I'm done?  I thought "color consultant" was some made-up, b.s. type of job.  Now I'm not so sure.  I may be both boring and insane. 

I know...you're dying for a photo:)

Lookin' Beautiful

It's that time of year again: People Magazine has put out it's 50 Most Beautiful publication, and Gwyneth Paltrow has taken top billing. 

Apparently, the internet is all a-twitter about this.  Ms. Paltrow is, it turns out, as reviled as she is pretty. When stories (and maybe a cookbook?) about how you only eat non-dairy, gluten-free, grass-fed bark fill cyberspace, and you're already rich, thin, and blonde, well...haters are gonna hate.  Still, if Chris Martin wants to show up at my house and tap out the opening measures of Clocks whilst Gwennie and I sit atop the baby grand and braid each other's hair, I won't stop it.  Hey, we all have our fantasies.  Let me have mine.

My problem isn't that Gwennie is rockin' this year's People's Most Beautiful cover.  It's that, once again, they didn't pick me.  Yes, me. 

You may not know this about me, but I'm beautiful...so stunning, that if I uploaded a picture of mine to prove it, my computer would likely crash, imploding on itself like a hardware Trojan Wars.  Or, maybe I don't post 'cause I can't actually find a good pic of myself.  Let's not get hung up on technicalities.

Mostly, I'd love to be picked by People magazine so that they could interview me about my beauty regime.  Nobody ever asks me about it.  Ever.  Shocking, I know.

So, here it is:

I look like shit most of the time.  Then, when I do clean up, it's such a stark difference, people notice.

Consider the logic: assuming I'm not one of those young, freshly pretty faces than pull of anything--like a messy "top knot" and oversized coveralls--and still look adorable as opposed to borderline insane, this strategy is perfect.  I don't wake at 5 a.m. to shower and "coif" my hair and "put on my face."  Last time I woke at 5 a.m., it was to feed a baby, and you bet your bottom dollar I crawled my ass back into bed after that.  Heck, with my colicky first-born, 5 a.m. until about 9 a.m. was about the only time I could maybe catch some uninterruped zzz's.  I sure as hell wasn't going to use that time to put on an anchorwoman's face for a being who couldn't registered clear images beyond 12 inches.  Or for the grocery store cashier, who bless her minimum wage heart, probably isn't going through this routine, either.  (An exception may be this tall, thin, African American woman who works at the Target by my house, who should so just go on America's Next Top Model and be done with it.)

I know, stay-at-home moms are fodder for fashion show make-overs and what not, but I really don't have a problem looking like crap once in a while.  Grubby looking people are like Tina Fey's bitches: We get stuff done.  I'm much more likely to do things like work out, tend a sick child, put together a casserole, or clean a toilet when I'm un-done.  Sure, none of this is glamorous, but guess what?  It's life, and someone's gotta do it.  If I gussy myself up 8 a.m., no merry maid or nanny is gonna strut in 5 minutes later just to allow me to sit pretty for the rest of the day.  If I want to get anything done, it's practically imperative that I keep on my hobo clothes.  (And for the record, I can write just as well in yoga pants as in dress pants.)  Then I get to take my shower and apply some makeup, the latter of which is a total gift since the kiddos are now in school.  (When kids are constantly underfoot, showering in itself becomes questionable.)

So what's my point?  Ouch, it suddenly seems like I have one, when I really just wanted to toss out that Coldplay fantasy.  So I guess it's this: beauty, style, all that...it really is skin deep.   Don't go all martyr-y and forgo getting yourself a decent haircut or whatever, but if you really think life is some constant fashion show, then I ask you this: What model do you think will be changing your bedpan someday?

Beauty, after all, should be from the inside.  In which case, obviously, Katie Couric should be on the cover, because I hear she has a great colon.

Then again, I bet Gwenyth has a great colon, what with all that detoxing she does, in which case, okay People, you made the right call.

Lake Rules

Happy Friday!  While I haven't actually decided on a particular date or time or quantity of posting, today feels good for that. 

I don't know if other bloggers do this--or writers, for that matter--but I often go through the day "writing" things in my head.  Yeah, yeah--I know this ultimately counts for nada unless I actually get pen to paper (or keyboard to Word, or whatever.)  The problem with this is that sometimes I think I have good ideas, and then by the time I sit down, everything fizzles.  Also, as an aside, I wonder if other people think this way.  I have a friend whose dad is a mathematician, and apparently he would go through the day thinking through math problems.  So maybe not.

Either way, I figure my blog title is already a misnomer: What (a) Debbie Does.  What I actually do is typically pretty boring.  But I have this crazy notion that if I, I don't know, put something out there that I might actually try doing--I'm thinking one of those "out of my comfort zone" ideas--I might feel commited to actually going through with it, so I don't look like an idiot.

Yeah, still waiting to be gutsy over here.

In the meantime, my mom visited this week.  By visited, I mean she only lives 30 minutes away, and it was a short stay.  She was supposed to stay for her grandchild's music concert, but apparently some music teacher was busy heaving her guts out, and so it was cancelled.  Bummer.  But my mom got to do her favorite visiting thing: Use my computer! 

I remember watching her periodically type things when I was a child.  I really don't recall it being the  slow, painful, typo-backspace process that it is today.  But damn, seems like she's all opposable thumbs on the keyboard these days.  (She was never some Joan Harris secretary type.)  And what was she so busy typing?  Why, "Rules for the Lake!"

(Okay, Mom, what can I say: I immediately feel like parodying your rules.  I do love you, I mean no disrespect, but I just can't look a blogging gift-horse in the mouth. 

Also, "the Lake" would be a summer home that just transferred from my grandparents to my mom this fall.  She's in a tizzy about it.  Re-written rules should help, though.)

Here's the original:

• Windows and blinds closed.
• Dishwasher empty
• Waste baskets and trash empty. Trash at the road Sunday night.  Pick up on Monday.
• Refrigerater- perishables taken home
• Tidy up . If needed vacuum and mop floors.
• Towels and sheets washed as needed.
• Bathrooms- wipe sink, floor, shower with Pinesol or Bathroom cleaner.
• Beach towels drying in garage or put in basket in garage if dried.
• Lock up.  Hope everyone had fun.

Pretty basic stuff; Mom included a bunch of white space, in case we're reading them tipsy.  But let's consider this spiffed up version:

• Close the windows and blinds when you leave.  You should be done enjoying the breeze and spying on the neighbors by then.
• Don't leave the dishwasher full of dirty, nasty dishes.  While you're at it, don't leave stinky beer cans around.  I didn't raise you in a barn, and all that.
• Ditto with garbage...no barn raising, etc.
• Food: if you're going to leave it, please put everything in smaller containers.  I really like that.  Special bonus points if you repackage liquor in Tupperware! Also, leave crackers and cookies poorly sealed; stale snacks are a tradition around here. 
• You might not vacuum much at home, but guess what: these are Mom rules!  Use the vacuum. 
• Strip the beds and wash them if you've had crazy, nasty sex in them.  So what if they've "only been slept in once."
• Make sure you don't leave ugly globs of toothpaste in the sink.  "Dab" the room with Pinesol so it smells all clean.
• Leave dry beach towels in the garage.  Be gentle with them; they're vintage.
• Lock up--you all had fun, right?

 

Thank you's (and other balls-y things)

Well...
Now here's that awkward blog I write where I freak out that I actually shared this with a few folks.  Well, thank you.  Thank you if you read, and thank you if you commented.  Even if the comments weren't very nice.  Although they were.  Even if the comments were things like "I won't read this unless for some reason I know you've posted," (err...annoying self promotion on facebook? Some sort of subscription button somewhere?) or "I'd comment, but it's frickin' confusing...it tells me I need a freaky Google profile or PhD or something."  Yes, I know.  My technical skills right now are waaaay lacking...probably worse than my proofreading.  (Dan Draper?  It's Don Draper.)  However, I did dork around a bit with the comments section, so maybe it's easier for lay people.  Or spammers.  We'll see.

Yep, now that I think someone might actually read this, I'm wondering if it's worth writing several paragraphs about how cake pops are the killjoy of cake balls.  I'm thinking not.  It's obvious: anything with the word "balls" in it is funny, especially if Alec Baldwin is doing the talking.  Pop a stick in it, and you've just turned it into some sort of suburban mommy birthday project.  And trust me, I now know a little bit about this.  And no, I am not the neighborhood vasectomy go-to gal.

But as we're talking about birthdays, mine is coming.  It's the big 4-0.  Yeah me.  And now I will steal a little trick from Pam at Starbucks and post a bit from an essay I wrote recently that was once published, well, nowhere.  So I'm giving it to you for free!  Yes, free!  You can thank me later.


Reflections as 40 Approaches...

 

 I remember my mom turning 40, and I remember her acting like it was some big deal, and me finding this rather random.  Why was 40 so important?  Hmm.  Why not 25?  Or 30?  Or 50—that’s a nice round half a century, after all. 

 But she seemed set on 40 being important, and my dad played along.  He bought her a TV for her bedroom.  It had a remote, so Mom could watch shows right from bed without having to get out!  Woot woot!

 Although one might suppose increased life-expectancies would adjust how we feel about alleged “milestone” birthdays, 40 seems to have stuck.  It still seems random.  At 18, we can vote.  At 21, we can legally drink.  At 35, we get more testing if we become pregnant.  We might get an AARP card or something when we turn 50—not there yet--and it’s still a nice half-a-century number. 

 I’m not sure what you get at 40.  A mammogram? 

 Not only does it still seem to be some “big deal” of an age, it actually seems to be a bigger deal.  A generation ago, you got to chill out in bed with a remote; now I have to be “fabulous.”  I know that sounds like a good thing, but it also sounds like a lot of effort.  What’s fabulous enough?  My husband takes me to dinner?  A few friends at the bar?  A backyard extravaganza replete with hothouse flowers and twinkly lights?  Taking a pole dancing class in heels and posting this photo on Facebook?

  Am I supposed to have a “midlife crisis,” or am I supposed to have achieved a bunch of brag-worthy feathers in my cap, like having a book on a best-seller list, or being a founder of something-or-other?  I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to have my living room furnished by now, but it’s still a toy-strewn warzone with a desk that used to be my grandma’s.

 Am I supposed to be “mentoring” someone?  When I was 20, I had this fantasy that a successful, warm, loving 40 year old would take me “under her wing” and “show me the ropes.”  Actually, I think I just wanted somebody to hand me some fantasy job with a smile.  But 40 year old women—oh, hell, even successful 30 year olds if they were tall with shiny bobs and wore black pantsuits—scared the hell out of me.  When they passed me in the hall, they rarely smiled, and if they were “successful”, they had a reputation for being bitchy and snappy and never stopping to chat.  They were probably actually just really, really busy, but I didn’t have children at the time, so I had a minimal understanding of what “busy” meant.  I had lots of time to mull over situations.  I was Taylor Swift, wondering why they weren’t helping me, and they were Tina Fey, passing me briskly and thinking “Um, why are you bothering me? I’m just doing my job, and now I need to call my nanny and figure out if my child is stranded someplace, or has a ride back from daycare.  Will I miss taking little Phoebe to her swim lesson and have to send her with the neighbor again—oh God, I’m such an awful mom!” 

Ultimately, I had kids, and didn’t go the working mom route—no thanks to you, non-helping, non-existent 40 year old mentor lady!—so this has saved me the guilt route.  This does seem to put some pressure on me to somehow be an extraordinary stay-at-home mom and homemaker, thereby forcing me to channel “success” through my children, and, worse yet, even use the word “homemaker” in this sentence.  I feel like I fell asleep during some feminist movement.  Sorry about that, bra burning ladies; babies make you tired!

 I hear 40 actually is the new 20—or something like that.  Does this make 60 the new 40?  Will I have to be sexy at 60, or something?  Do I need to find a successful, warm, loving 60 year old to take me under her wing?  Am I supposed to take a 20 year old under mine?  What am I supposed to show her?  And if 40 is the new 20, what does that make 20?  And who is inventing this crazy new math, anyhow?

 No wonder my mom just wanted a TV.

 Pass me the remote.

What do you think about this fabulous and 40 business?  Or, alternately, cake pops and balls?

The Lazy Song

It looks like I'm relaunching my blogging efforts: I've recruited a reader.  I think.  After shoving this blog-thing aside sometime back in January, when life was about to divert me in other ways (or, possibly, I just got lazy), I decided to mention this to some live human beings.  Enter Pam, over from Soul Searching at Starbucks.  She's written "you could start a blog" a few times in the margins of essays we submit back-and-forth in a little writers' group, acknowledging that the local-get-your-essay-in-print market is lookin' a little dry these days.  (Or, again, maybe I'm just lazy.)

Speaking of lazy, that's how I feel today.  Monday is typically a highly motivating day for me (yes, I know it's now Wednesday...yo, actually posting is hard, dog!) I scoot the kiddos off to school, and with the home alone, I get to business.  I work out; I prep meals; I grocery shop; I launder and clean; I do spy-espionage toy bagging; I clear out cupboards and drawers of mystery goods!  Oh, I'm such a sparkly good domestic goddess on Mondays!

Or that's the plan.

Something usually knocks me off this plan, like a surprise visit from my mom, who brings me a new bedspread and valance and says "let's put it up now!" and then makes some comment about how I need to "insist" my tall husband scrunch the high-up valance just-so, because "that's what makes a house homey."  Right-O.  'Cause I thought is was having some clean laundry and clearing the floor of Legos. 

Rather than blame my mom (although this is entirely what people of my generation do, for cryin' out loud!), I should admit that I am either too ambitious on Mondays, or too drawn to fun distractions like internet surfing and slow-pokey grocery shopping.  To be fair, I think I was this way in the actual paid work force; I remember writing a crisp to-do list on Mondays, thinking I'd knock through it in one day, only to scratch off one or two things by 5 o'clock.  By Friday, I'd often adopted a f___ it attitude.

Today, I seem to have adopted it early.  I mean, I feel like I now have one reader to take care of!  So of course I'm leaving the groceries just hanging-out on the kitchen counter.  (Except for the perishable ones; I'm lazy, not crazy!)

I'll make a real "to-do" list tomorrow. 

And then I'll probably ignore it.

Why Blogs (and blogging) Freaks Me Out

Okay, since I just professed my love for reading blogs, I've decided to take a look at the flip side: why blogs freak me out a bit.  This will likely be shorter.

1.  I feel like I'm stalking someone.
I mean, isn't it weird to feel like you "know" someone simply because you read their blog?  Why am I reading stuff about someone I don't even (technically) know.  That's just weird.  Right?  Except that I know tons of people must do it--that or some bloggers have a lot of friends.  Like 100's, based on comments. 

Conversely, reading a book never feels weird of freaky or stalky.  Even if it's a really personal memoir.  Go figure.

(I think--and perhaps this is obvious--it's the fact that you can't do all that commenting stuff.)

2.  I feel like I'm wasting time.
Probably because I am.  But I swear I'll only check it out really quickly!

3.  What if I become some weird, out of touch with reality person?  You know, because I'm ignoring real people while I check out what someone else is making their family for dinner.

...that's on the reading side.  From the writing angle:

1.  Umm...why am I letting complete strangers know things about me?  Seriously, I'm kind of private. 

2.  What if I sound like a twit?

3.  Self-promotion is weird and uncomfy.  I'd love for someone to actually read and comment and--gasp!--follow, but, see point "2" above.

4.  What if someone starts stalking me?  That's why I'm totally on board with people who never name their husbands, children, or pets by name.  I also try to refrain from mentioning these things:  my longitude and latitude, references to eating carbs (just in case I live in the last state which still does this), where anyone in my family works (or doesn't), the weather, political ongoings, non-chain restaurants, my mother's maiden name, the name of my first pet, my porn star name, my first car, my car I drive right now, or any sort of trendy exercises I may do.  You know, if I happen to exercise at all.

Wait, did I totally give it away with that carbs thing?  Hmm...maybe I don't eat carbs.  A little mystery is a good thing.

..

Blogs I Like

I like blogs.  That could be why I've attempted to start my own...a few times.  I like blogs because I like reading, and blogs are much, much better than your average magazine article.  Some magazine articles are fine, but most have the following problems:

a) They basically don't exist.  The magazine is all ads.  (In an aside, I actually have my MBA, which means I've sat in business classes.  I knew I was a big ol' misfit that one day when the prof asked "why do magazines exist?"  Some other student promptly answered "to seel advertising."  My thought: What?!?!?  They are not for nice little writers to write nice little articles?)

b) They are way, way too short and trite.

or

c) They are way too serious and earnest.  This is absolutely fine if the topic is serious and earnest, and the writer truly cares.  But most are serious and earnest and pretty in a "look how pulled together I am" way that is dishonest.  (Mostly in parenting magazines.  Ugg.)  Blogs don't seem to role this way, or at least the ones I like to read.

So, without further ado, blogs I like to waste time reading:

A Little Pregant:  http://www.alittlepregnant.com
Written by someone named Julie, whom I've never met, and I suspect I never will.  She's a biggy in the mommy blogosphere.  I found her back when I was "trying" (to have kids) and it wasn't happening as quickly as sex-ed teachers had led us to believe.  She's the real deal in infertility, and her brilliance is how incredibly honest, vulnerable, and funny she is at the same time.   I rarely check her blog out anymore, but it's a good one. 

Smitten Kitchen:  http://smittenkitchen.com/
You'd think because I read this I'm actually awesome in the kitchen.  I'm not.  Cold day in hell I'llbe making my own goldfish crackers.  But somehow, because the blogger--Deb Pearlman--is honest and passionate and humorously self-depreciating, it works.  So I read it.  And drool.

Soul Searching at Starbucks:  http://soulsearchingatstarbucks.blogspot.com/
I read this because I actually know Pam.  I've even met up with her at Starbucks!  That kind of makes us awesome, doesn't it?  And her writing is fun and witty, and I promise she'll respond to your comments...at least until she goes totally viral and gets a million followers, then I'm not so sure.  But that will make me all the cooler for having Starbucked it with her.  (That's a verb, right?)

Parenting: Illustrated with Crappy Pictures:  http://crappypictures.com/
The title says it all.  Simple, funny, brilliant.  I wish I had thought of it first. 

Jason Good: http://jasongood.net/
He also does stand-up, but his pieces are sharp, insightful, funny.  Crappy pictures led me over to him.

People I Want to Punch in the Throat:  http://www.peopleiwanttopunchinthethroat.com/
OMG...she just posted today about the Golden Globes.  Must rush over and waste more time...Again, Crappy Pictures led me here.  Notice a pattern?  Curse you, Crappy Pictures!

Hooked on Houses.  http://hookedonhouses.net/  Apparently, I have some sort of nesty/house-wifey streak in me, as in conjuction with "Smitten Kitchen", you'd think I have a lovely, well-tended home and tasty, homemade meals all the time.  As if.  Man, is this one a fun time waster for a person who would rather look at nice homes than clean their own.  Honestly, I think I found this so I wouldn't get addicted to Pinterest, but I'm really not coming out ahead.


If there is a uniting theme among these blogs, it's this: the people write them with passion.  Most also have a theme or focus, however loose it may be, and have developed a nice "voice."  None of these bloggers take themselves too serious, even if they are seriously passionate about homes or food or their families or writing.  Many have hit it  "big", but I don' think most of them ever thought they would, so they still feel "real." 

And that's why I love blogs.

Perhaps next, I'll write about "Why Blogs Kind of Freak Me Out."