Category: The Happy Jar
One of the last conversations my husband had with our dear friend Patrick Blessing was about a glass of water. Dan visited Pat in the hospital, and Pat told Dan that one thing he really, really wanted was to drink a glass of ice water from a real glass. Not a paper cup, not a plastic hospital mug. Just a plain old glass of water.
Such a small thing. This struck a chord with Dan, and so he shared it with me. Pat was never one to take the little things for granted. That’s part of his legacy and something that Pat taught many of us. But this simple wish for water in a glass, in particular, has stuck with me.
I didn’t accompany Dan on that visit. I was home with our baby and didn’t think I could get away. Or I thought I’d have another chance.
So I wasn’t there, and I don’t know if Pat got his water. I hope he did.
To this day, every time I stand in my kitchen and fill a mason jar with ice cubes and tap water, I give a silent toast to Pat. And I appreciate my water. I experience it more fully because of him.
And when I’m not home, I usually drink my water from a glass water bottle. Because Pat was right. Water really does taste better when it is housed in glass. I have tried all sorts of reusable plastic water bottles – infusion water bottles, Nalgene bottles, what have you. But I always found myself abandoning them. After a few uses, they never really seemed to come clean, they smelled funky, and they were relegated to the back of my cabinet. However, once I began using glass water bottles, I found I actually (sometimes) achieved that elusive daily goal of consuming half my body weight in water.
Last weekend, I accidentally left my water bottle at the ballpark. This might have had something to do with the fact that I was juggling two baseball equipment bags and both of my children’s water bottles, plus the obligatory post-game team snacks and juice boxes. Sometimes I feel like more of a pack mule than a mother. In any event, it was suddenly time for a new water bottle. So I hopped on Amazon and ordered this baby up, and it just arrived. And I love it.
What is your favorite water bottle? Do you ever buy bottled water?
Categories
I Scream, You Scream
My silver lining this week is ice cream. See, I’m kind of like a kid who just had her tonsils removed. Actually, I was that kid once upon a time. I can’t remember if I was allowed to eat unlimited popsicles post-procedure, but I’m betting I probably was.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have a tonsillectomy this week. (Wow – that’s a sentence you don’t see often.) This week I underwent oral surgery…. to have my front tooth removed.
A little backstory: Almost 20 years ago, I tangled with a Mack truck on the highway. It won. My car (or actually my mother’s Camry) was totaled. I remember bits and pieces of the event. As in, I have flashes of sitting strapped in the driver’s seat, unable to move, as the EMTs attempted to speak to me and then extract me. I vaguely recall staring at the ceiling of an ambulance and babbling about Italy to no one in particular. Then I remember lying on a table in a hospital somewhere, with lots of bright light and activity swirling around me. I found out later that the rush of activity was the trauma team doing their thing.
I was incredibly lucky. Apart from some lacerations, bruising and a fair amount of soreness, I was okay. I still have some scarring on my chin and right arm, but, overall, no permanent injuries.
Except for my front tooth.
During the accident, my rear view mirror had flown off the windshield and hit me in the mouth. There were no immediately apparent effects, but, a week or so after the accident, I began to experience unbearable pain in my tooth. I would double over whenever I took a breath.
By that time, I had already moved halfway across the country to San Diego (because why not move to California with no prospects or plan while still recovering from a major car accident, right?) and was just trying to find a job and figure out which way was up. I ended up at an emergency dental clinic, where they told me my tooth was cracked. They would have to do a root canal and give me a crown on my front tooth. Since I needed to be able to breathe without falling down in pain, there wasn’t much choice in the matter.
Over the succeeding 20 years, my crown and I came to have a love-hate relationship. Or maybe it was more of a toleration-hate relationship. Having the crown was better than no tooth at all. But I never loved the way it looked, and it had a habit of falling out at the most inopportune times. On my first weekend getaway to Vegas with my then-boyfriend, now-husband. In the middle of a lecture at a continuing legal education event in D.C. Eventually, it was falling out several times each year.
This situation didn’t work for me, because I can’t pull off the “hockey player chic” look. I just don’t have that swagger. When the tooth falls out, I more closely resemble the witch from Snow White. You know, the one that pushes the poison apple. It’s not a good look.
Recently, the dentist informed me the tooth needed to come out entirely, to be replaced with an implant and brand-new tooth. Seeing as I need a tooth that is apt to stay in my mouth, there wasn’t much way around this, either.
I didn’t realize how attached I was to the remains of my front tooth until I reclined in the chair in the surgeon’s office, about to lose it entirely. My trepidation was a bit irrational, and wholly vanity-based. Nonetheless, the event was surprisingly traumatic.
They sent me home with some gauze and antibiotics and this clear retainer-type thing that is supposed to make it appear that I have a front tooth. And it does. Sort of. But it also makes it nearly impossible for me to chew.
Down the road in this six-month process, there will be other options for temporary teeth. But for these first few weeks, I can either slurp soup and Jello, or I can remove my retainer and chew real food. Seeing as the surgeon warned me that removing the retainer for too long in the first week might mean that my gums would swell to the point that I wouldn’t be able to reinsert it, I am not inclined to remove the retainer any more than is absolutely necessary. Also, my tooth, or lack thereof, is still sore enough that chewing doesn’t sound like a particularly good time. And I really don’t want to traumatize my children. (Remember: the witch from Snow White.)
So, that leaves me with food fit for babies and the denture-wearing crowd. And there is only so much oatmeal one can stomach. While these limitations might be good for the diet, they are kind of a bummer. Sort of a kick-me-while-I’m-down situation.
Then, day 2 post-surgery, I thought: “Ice cream!” If ever there was a situation where one could eat ice cream for breakfast, this is it. I headed to Festival Foods (Side note: I love Festival. So much.) and went on a serious ice-cream shopping spree. Do you guys even know how many different types of ice cream are out there these days? There are endless possibilities of frozen goodness. And I put many of them in my cart. Granted, I stuck to sorbet, frozen yogurt, and that Halo Top protein-based stuff. But still, ICE CREAM! And, best of all, it all tastes amazingly guilt-free.
It’s not exactly a balanced diet. It’s not a long-term nutrition plan. But for a couple of weeks, it is my silver lining. And I’ll take it.
Categories
So Many Books, So Little Time
“The world was hers for the reading.” – Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
Certain books remind me of certain people. They are like songs in that way. Maybe a friend introduced me to a particular novel, or maybe he or she resembles a character in the book.
And books are also like people, in that some make more of an impression on you than others. Some are only in your life for a short while, some stick with you for the long haul, and others you find yourself returning to again and again. Some change you forever.
I could not possibly overstate my love for books. I am forever grateful to all the writers who have laid their words and their hearts on the page and given us books to fill our shelves and our minds.
For me, it all began with The Little Engine That Could. I soon progressed to Judy Blume. Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret is a perennial fave, but my favorite Blume book has to be Tiger Eyes. I must have read that one 20 times. Jacob Have I Loved was introduced to me by my fifth-grade teacher, Ms. Paille. Great book, even greater teacher. I also devoured the entire Sweet Valley High series, and, no, I’m not ashamed to say that. Book choices are a judgment-free zone. I might be guilty of judging people on occasion, but never for their literary, or not-so-literary, choices. After all, no two people will experience a book in exactly the same way.
My parents always said they would buy me all the books I could read. I had to save my allowance for that Rainbow Brite doll I wanted, but books were a freebie. And I took full advantage of that offer, reading nearly nonstop. I had a little TV in my bedroom, but I rarely watched it, because I spent most of my time with my nose stuck in a book. Although I did a lot of reading in my room, my favorite place to read was on the landing of the stairs. Just sitting on the ground. (This is actually a great place to read. You should try it. No joke.)
I developed an eclectic taste in literature. I seek different things from books at different times. Sometimes escape, sometimes information, sometimes inspiration. I’m no book snob. I don’t necessarily read what is “cool,” obscure, or high-brow. I just read what I like. And/or what’s in front of me. Heck, I would happily read the back of a cereal box if that was all that was available.
In high school, there was Gone With the Wind. That one reminds me of an old friend. Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. Our Town. I’ll never forget that play because I missed a pop quiz on it the one and only day I ever cut a class. (It was a beautiful spring day, so Lindsay and I hopped in her car after lunch and picked up some Dairy Queen. Then we actually came back to campus and sat on the track to chat. We were real rebels.) The next day, I earned a perfect score on the make-up quiz, but when the teacher found out I had ditched school, that 100% became a big ole zero. That didn’t diminish my love for the play, though.
College was The Alchemist. A boy I only knew for a few weeks gave me his copy. I couldn’t tell you his name, but his book is still on my shelf. Antigone. On the Road. Tuesdays With Morrie. Lonesome Dove. Beach Music. Hawaii. Bridget Jones’ Diary. I was studying abroad in Italy when the first Harry Potter book was released. I paid an arm and a leg for it at the English bookstore in Florence.
Bel Canto was in law school. So was The Time Traveler’s Wife. Since then I have met Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. Looking for Alaska. What to Say Next. Wild. Upstairs at the White House. The Fault in Our Stars. Go the F**k to Sleep. Eleanor & Park. More recently I made the acquaintance of Capital Gaines and The Great Alone.
I’ve read other books, of course. More than I could recount here. There were the classics from English class and various “great books” lists. The last-minute airport bookstore picks. But the books listed above are some that have stuck with me, for one reason or another. Maybe they made me laugh, or they made me think, or they just allowed my brain to be comfortable for a bit.
During certain periods of my life, it has been harder to find time to read. This has turned me into a multi-tasking reader. I have found that if I download books onto my phone, I will have them with me at all times. Although this is a sad commentary on my addiction to my iPhone, it also means I can read whenever a small pocket of time presents itself. I read while drying my hair, standing in line at the grocery store, folding laundry…
Still, I prefer actual, paper-and-ink books. Paperback or hardcover, I’m not picky. I appreciate the tactile experience of book-reading. My husband insisted on having built-in shelves installed in my office because he knew I had always wanted them. And I love them. I love having my favorite friends nearby (…with a few randoms mixed in. I’m not sure when I was planning to run a marathon, but I have a book instructing me how to do so, should I ever feel inspired!). I lost a good chunk of my book collection through my many moves, so my shelves hold more Lego creations and clay pinch pots than novels. But I managed to hold on to the best of the best.
I have tried to impart my love for reading to my kids. I read Muddy Paws and Road Work Ahead to Baylor so many times when he was a toddler that I memorized both books from cover to cover. “Hello, Grandma, here we come! You’re making oatmeal cookies? Yum! Road work ahead. Move over, go slow. Jackhammers crack. Look at them go….” Later, I found the copy of The Complete Tales of Winnie-the-Pooh that my Aunt Pat gave to me on my 4th birthday, and I read it to both kiddos. Baylor loved when I read aloud from The Voyages of Doctor Dolittle, too. Right now, though, my son is all about the second-grade series books (think Dragon Masters and Eerie Elementary) which is just not my area of expertise. Although his teacher tells me he is a voracious reader at school, I sometimes struggle to find books he wants to read at home.
Ryan, on the other hand, is just like me. She will read anything and everything. She most recently breezed through the entire Mo Willems collection and all of the “If You Give a _________ a ______________” books by Laura Numeroff. I have a feeling she will be raiding my bookshelf soon. 🙂
What about you guys? Do you use e-readers now, or do you still like “real” books? Do you have any recommendations for me or the kids?
Categories
I Heart Winter….sort of
I am grateful for winter. Granted, it’s much easier to own this sentiment now that we have very nearly escaped winter’s icy grasp for yet another year. (I mean, I see the piles of snow on the ground, but we did just “spring” forward an hour. It has to be over soon. Right?)
Alright, maybe I don’t exactly love winter. It can be pretty, but it gets a little long, especially in Wisconsin. I don’t ski or own a snowmobile, so, really, after Christmas, the white stuff is of little use to me. And I cannot stand to be cold.
So, um, why live in Wisconsin, you might ask. Fair enough. I ask myself the same question all winter long. In fact, I have often questioned why the first settlers ever stopped here in the first place. I can only imagine that their covered wagons arrived in summer.
Summer in Wisconsin is glorious. I swear, nowhere is the sky bluer nor the trees a more vibrant green than in Wisconsin in summer. The whole world seems to sparkle. For about a minute and a half.
But the truth is, I have claimed Wisconsin as my year-round home, and I will continue to suck it up and deal with the bitter cold and slippery sidewalks, followed by the slushy mud and general ugliness that reveals itself as the snow finally recedes at the end of the season.
I will do this because I simply cannot imagine living any place else – at least until I chuck it all and move to a deserted island after the kids are grown. (Actually, who are we kidding? My kids are true Wisconsinites, and if you listen to my parents, grandkids are way better than kids, so I likely won’t be going anywhere. Ever. Sigh.)
And even though I don’t love winter, I am truly thankful for it. Winter helps me appreciate spring, summer, and fall. If Wisconsin winters weren’t so brutal, 45 degrees wouldn’t feel so balmy come spring (not that I’m one of the crazies who breaks out their shorts as soon as the mercury rises above freezing, but I do get where they are coming from). Without winter, I would not stop quite so often in summer just to soak up the feeling of the sun on my face. And if winter wasn’t looming, we wouldn’t appreciate fall’s fleeting beauty as we pick apples and cheer on the Packers like we do.
I’m not only thankful for winter, but I actually need it. What? Why would I possibly say something like that? Well, I’ll tell you a story. Once upon a time, after graduating from the University of Wisconsin, I packed up my car and moved to San Diego. The weather there is nearly always perfect – 75 degrees and sunny year round. There was no winter. There was no spring. There was no fall. And it slowly drove me nuts. My brain didn’t understand how to mark the passage of time without the change in seasons.
See, in my head, each year is like a big circle, and each season is a quadrant (Kudos to Ryan for the spot-on depiction of the inner workings of her mama’s mind!) That’s us in the little yellow car, moving around the circle with the passing of each day. When I lived in San Diego, where the weather didn’t change, it was as though my car got stuck in summer. Except it was a burgundy Saturn instead of a yellow Game of Life car.
It was my own personal Groundhog Day (the fabulous movie, not the ridiculous holiday). It literally felt like time wasn’t passing. It made me so crazy that I actually applied to law school and fled across the country to New York City after just a year of Southern Cali living. I suppose maybe I could have gone to Maine to put even more distance between myself and San Diego, but then again Maine didn’t have any law schools that interested me.
Well, as much as NYC has to offer, it turned out my heart was in Wisconsin. So I eventually landed back in the frozen tundra, right where I started. And I’m so very thankful for that.
Almost as thankful as I am that it’s nearly spring. 🙂
Categories
And That’s What It’s All About!
It’s that time of year again. Pictures are splashed all over Facebook from friends near and far, showing dads in button-down shirts, kneeling next to little girls in twirl-ready dresses and wide, often toothless, smiles.
I love the annual Daddy-Daughter Dance for several reasons. Of course, I enjoy seeing the posts from all of my Facebook friends.
I also love that the dance gives my husband and my daughter precious time together. While our family is good at spending quality time as a foursome, we aren’t as diligent about carving out one-on-one time with each kiddo. So I appreciate the nudge in that direction.
And the dance gives Ryan a chance to dress up and do her hair and nails, which makes her happy. But, even more importantly, the dance gives my daughter an opportunity to experience how she should be treated by a date. I hope she learns that she deserves kindness and respect. This will be useful to her once she turns 30 and is actually allowed to date. 🙂
Another reason I love the Daddy-Daughter Dance is that it gave me a chance to get my butt kicked in Monopoly by my 8-year-old son. I used to be able to hold my own, but those days have apparently passed. Baylor usually beats me at Connect 4, too. Come to think of it, he wins at just about any game I pull out of the toy closet. I think it’s time to move on to Trivial Pursuit: Totally 80s Edition. That should give me a leg up.
This year, Baylor and I had originally planned to go out for a night of laser tag while Dan and Ryan were off doing the hokey-pokey, but the family entertainment center that houses the laser tag course was bedlam, complete with screeching children and blinking lights. Upon entering the madhouse, Baylor and I looked at each other in mild panic, then quickly retreated. We grabbed some dinner at the drive-through (KFC for the big man and Qdoba for me), and we hightailed it home for a board-game date. Ahhh, much better.
Baylor and I both prefer a quiet night at home, all things being equal. However, we did attend the Mother-Son Dance put on by our local YMCA when Baylor was 5 and again when he was 6, and we had a good time both years. Sadly, he informs me that he is already over that. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. It goes sooo fast.
Speaking of the YMCA, they also put together an overnight camping event for moms and sons a few years ago. As in “put-up-your-own-tent, build-your-own-fire, don’t-forget-the-bug-spray” camping. Baylor was too young to go at the time, but he is really hoping they hold the campout again this year. I am, too. Really. I swear.
Categories
Stop and Smell the Coffee
I thought I could live without it. I gave it up 9 years ago, for Pete’s sake. Surely if one can go almost a decade without something, they need not return to it. Yes, it had gotten me through some tough times. But I had ended our relationship, and I hadn’t looked back since.
Then, last fall, there was no green tea at my continuing education seminar. Hot tea, specifically of the green variety, has been my drink of choice for the past several years.
Sure, water and soda had been set out at the beverage station next to the registration table. But there was also coffee. Life-giving, glorious coffee. I evaluated my chances of making it through four hours of an ethics lecture in a semi-darkened auditorium without a hot beverage and decided that it was time for a change.
I started with a half-caf. After all, I had dutifully stopped drinking coffee all those years ago based on the supposed ill effects of caffeine. I had been pregnant at the time, and the smell of coffee made me sick anyway. However, even after the baby chapter of my life had closed, I had found I couldn’t stomach a Starbucks, as much as I wanted to. The caffeine jolt made me nauseous the few times I tried a post-baby cup of joe. And so I had basically written it off. Expunged it from my life. Forgotten all the pleasure that bitter black beverage had brought to my younger years. Forgotten the late nights when coffee had helped me study during finals. Forgotten a few hung-over mornings when coffee had stopped the pounding in my head.
I sat in the conference room in my sensible blazer and sipped from my steaming paper cup, and it all came rushing back. The times spent sitting in George Webb for hours over a bottomless cup of coffee, chatting with a friend, solving the world’s problems. The cross-country road trips for spring break or no reason at all, fueled by gas station coffee. Rainy days curled up on the couch with a good book and a cup of coffee. By the time my first cup was empty, I had experienced a double reawakening: I was wide awake and I had rediscovered my love of java.
I had always been a purist. I drank my coffee black. And I find that I still do. Pumpkin spice and whipped cream belong nowhere near my caffeine. But I’m also not a coffee snob. I happily stop at Kwik Trip after dropping my kids at school to pick up a large House Blend, and I am just as satisfied with that as I am with a venti Pike Place Roast from the local Starbucks. Well, almost. 🙂
Like many folks, I have significantly curtailed my vices since I procreated. So adding coffee back into the mix doesn’t feel so wrong. I deserve a little pick-me-up in the morning. Don’t we all?
And I wonder….how in the heck did I make it this long without it? How did I get through the baby years, the terrible twos, potty training and even the first day of kindergarten, all without a cup of coffee? What was I thinking? Perhaps it was temporary insanity brought on by lack of sleep.
Now, I’m a full-fledged coffee drinker again. I even made it official – I brought coffee back into our house. Just a couple of weeks ago, I pulled out the hand-me-down Keurig kept in the pantry for overnight guests and picked up some K-cups on my Target run. And they weren’t even half-caf.
Does this mean I have to give up my green tea? My virtuous green tea? After all, when you look around, it seems the world is split into groups according to beverage preference. There are coffee drinkers, tea drinkers, soda drinkers, etc. And the lines don’t often blur. My mom drinks coffee. My mother-in-law loves her Diet Mountain Dew. My husband is a reformed coffee drinker – he turned to tea with me. What will my defection do to him? Serious questions, folks!
I hope I can maintain my relationship with tea. It’s been good to me, too. It didn’t help me through law school, but it did stick by my side through the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse years. I would hate to lose it.
How about you guys? Team Coffee, Team Tea, or none of the above?
First off, sorry for the title of this blog post, but I had to do it. How could I not, right?
So, I have been trying to focus each post on just one thing for which I am thankful, and that is still my intent. But this week, coming off of an anniversary trip to Jamaica, I am grateful for so many things that I cannot confine it to one, or even to a handful.
First off, I am grateful for in-flight entertainment. I am not a good flyer. Haven’t been since 9/11. My knuckles turn white at the slightest hint of turbulence. So if I can distract myself with some mile-high “Dirty Dancing,” I’m all for it.
I am thankful for quirky resorts with room names, instead of room numbers. The Caves, in Negril, is such a cool little place. I didn’t count the rooms, but it surely has fewer than 15. Each room is its own standalone (or duplex) building, complete with a stocked fridge and a free library (Yay, I read 3 books while there!), but no TVs. The grounds are full of little nooks and crannies carved out of the cliffs facing the ocean. Before arriving, I was afraid I might miss the beach, the TV, or the convenience of the anytime buffets you find at “super resorts,” but I did not. Not at all.
Here’s a biggie. I am thankful for this man.
My cribbage opponent, my partner in crime, my husband of 10 years. We collected so many inside jokes over the week, played countless games of cards, explored the grounds and found our own little favorite spots. Honestly, I have no doubt we could have amused ourselves at a Super 8 in Podunk, but Jamaica was so much better. We had such fun together, we just about forgot to partake of any Red Stripe (pictorial evidence aside!). Full disclosure, we did discover a little drink called a Ting-aling-aling, though, and it was pretty darn tasty. And at The Caves, when their bartender is off duty, they encourage you to step behind the bar and just help yourself!
These snorkel masks. Oh, my. These things are amazing, and we took full advantage of them. (Thanks, Steve and Mary Ellen!) You could just hop right off your perch anywhere in the resort and snorkel away. One day, the resort’s guide, Paul, showed us the ropes. He led us into a labyrinth of caves, where we swam under rock walls to navigate to connecting spaces; he pointed out stingrays and sea snakes and a huge variety of fish. He retrieved sea urchins and starfish from the ocean floor for us to hold. Dan did get stung by a jellyfish, but that didn’t stop us from jumping back in the water each of the next several days with no further incidents.
The sunsets. Appreciating the sunrise and sunset each day is a big thing for Dan, and now for me. In Negril, though, it’s really all about the sunset. And it was reliably beautiful. We did both say that the Negril sunsets didn’t have anything on our sunset views at home. But, then again…Negril did have about 50 degrees Fahrenheit on Wisconsin. So there is that.
We didn’t make it down to Rick’s for a sunset, although we could see the bar from our resort. I was just way too relaxed to force myself to leave my cozy tropical enclave and go party it up Spring Break style down the road. Or maybe I am just getting old. Probably both.
Here’s another biggie. I am so thankful for my family. Specifically, I am thankful for my parents. Without them moving in for the week to take care of the kids and Pearl, there is no way we could have gone on this trip. I know my folks and my kids had a great time while we were away, and I had zero worries about Baylor and Ryan, knowing they were in good hands.
Last, but certainly not least, I am so grateful that I get to be Mama to my two beautiful kiddos. Dan and I had never been away from them for such a long stretch, and we were both missing them mightily by the time we got home (aaaand, maybe also for a few days before that). It’s nice to go away sometimes, but there is nothing better than coming home.
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Meet Pearl
My husband and I each brought a dog into our marriage – his Golden Retriever, Nalla, and my Yorkie Poo, Jack. We posed as a foursome for our engagement photos. They helped us weather multiple moves, job changes, losses and the births of both our children. They were sweet companions with large personalities. And last year, within the space of 6 months, they both passed away.
It was a huge blow to our family. The kids didn’t know life without Nalla and Jack. I didn’t know Dan before Nalla. Those two dogs left a gaping void in our family when they made their journey to the Rainbow Bridge.
Thank goodness for Pearl. Not that one pet can replace another, because they certainly cannot. But if this dog doesn’t make you smile, there is something wrong with you.
It was a case of love at first sight. My husband was really pushing to get another dog, and I was hesitant. I am a dog person, but one with an allergy to dogs, and I found there was something to be said for breathing easily. And then as I scrolled Facebook one evening, there she was on my Newsfeed. The breeder called her “Miss Purple,” and Miss Purple and her brothers and sisters (Miss Pink, Mr. Orange, etc.) were an adorable heap of puppy goodness. But she stood out to me instantly.
I showed the picture to my husband, and, a few days later, he walked into our house with a tiny puppy tucked into his jacket. I will never forget the screams of delight from our children when Pearl popped her little head out of Dan’s coat.
Dan named Pearl in honor of one of our best friends, but I will save you the story of the circuitous connections that get us to “Pearl.” What you really need to know about Pearl is that she thinks she is a person. She is intuitive, wild and dear. And adorable. Totally, incontrovertibly adorable. And I can’t forget entertaining. She regularly chases, and catches, her own tail, after which she will proceed to gnaw on it. She is not above catching her back leg, either.
She is a Golden Doodle, but as we always explain, she’s more Golden than Doodle. This means she has a Golden’s sweet disposition and straight hair, and it also means that hair ends up all over our floors. And furniture. And clothing. Lint roller, anyone?
But the most important thing about Pearl is that she brings us lots of smiles, laughs and cuddles. She definitely belongs in the happy jar, and you will hear a lot more about her if you stick around here!
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Home is Where the Signs Are
We recently built a new home, and we wanted it to be open-concept (because we are original like that). We took it to the extreme, though, and ended up with one big area. One big, loud area. The bedrooms and bathrooms are closed off, but that’s about it. And noise bounces around that cavernous space like nobody’s business. My husband has a particular aversion to the echoing, and he finally asked me to decorate our new space in hopes of absorbing some of “that damn noise!” Um, yes. Challenge accepted.
I stocked up on pillows and rugs and table coverings. Then I turned to the walls. I tried to find mostly textiles or canvases, since I figured they would do a better job of cutting down on the echoing than glass or metal frames. It’s still a work in progress, but it’s coming together. And then, a few weeks ago, I was surveying our space and I realized that our new decor requires a heck of a lot of reading!
Now, as you may or may not know, I love to read. But I have imposed my affinity for words on everyone who enters our house, with signs proclaiming everything from “We Should Probably Cuddle” to “Be Nice or Leave.”
There are instructions to “Eat” and “Laugh.”
My favorite is “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called Life.” Or maybe it’s “Let’s stay in.” I don’t know. The point is, I can’t seem to buy any decorations for our walls unless they speak to me. Literally. With words.
So I made an attempt to diversify. I browsed my favorite stores, and I ended up buying a sign for the laundry room telling me to cherish my kids’ dirty socks. Gah!
In the end, though, I realized that it’s our house, and if people don’t want to read, well, then, maybe they should stay home.
By the way, I decided on my favorite sign – it’s “Not to spoil the ending, but everything is going to be okay”! 🙂
