Mice Would be Nice

While I am impressing you with my mad photography skills and aversion to touching things, I have another fun thing to show you.

During our quest for Chalk Ink at Michaels, the kids and I picked up this little kit from Martha Stewart for about 4 bucks. It took about 2 minutes to put them up with the sticky dots provided.

Before:

Here’s my blurry little mouse at the top of the stairs.



After:

Here’s the same staircase after we Halloweened it up a bit with these mouse (rat???) silhouettes.




They haven’t freaked any of us out yet.

Pumpkins, bad lighting, and dog hair optional.

Product Shout Out: Chalk Ink; OR, I Have Issues

I love the look of chalkboard paint and chalk, but the thought of actually touching a piece of chalk sets my teeth on edge. I know, I’m a little bit weird. Don’t even get me started about how the pages of certain books feel or how I love to read the newspaper, but touch one? Not so much.

Anyway, this post isn’t about my sensory issues so much as to introduce you to a product I discovered while cruising blogs instead of sleeping the other night.

Cool product = Chalk Ink.

Chalk Ink flows freely like a paint pen and can be used on any non-porous surface. Chalkboards? Check. Mirrors, Check. Counter tops? Check. But seriously, would you really want to risk it?

Chalk Ink is what Starbucks and other businesses use on their blackboards and on those clear plastic signs.

Anyway, I tried them out on the little sticky chalkboards I have on the pantry door. The result? Although my crappy photos don't begin to do it justice-- clear, vibrant, non-smudgy (or dusty!) words that will stay there until I wash them off with water. There’s a product website, but I bought them at Michael’s.






The best part? I don’t get the heebie jeebies when I pick them up to use them.

The Final Countdown

As our summer wound down, Jake said, “Mom, August is the Sunday of Summer.”

I wasn’t sure of what he meant, but he explained that rather than being able to enjoy August, the flurry of school supply shopping, haircuts, and general back to school angst generally put us into a funk, unable to savor a perfectly good month. Likewise, Sunday can be depressing because what a few hours before had been a weekend full of promise is now winding down all too quickly.

As a teacher, I could relate because I used to struggle mightily with both August and Sundays. Now that I have a “regular” job, I enjoy them both.

Here’s hoping you are able to live in the moment today, and that your Sunday doesn’t feel too much like “August.”

License to Spill?

So I opened my email at work and saw a note from the principal, subject line: “Jake.” Now if it said, “5th Grade Party” or “Tuition Overdue,” my heart would not have jumped into my throat the way it did when I saw “Jake.”

A kid’s name in the subject line? Never good.

Turns out during lunch he was bumped, or jostled, or startled, or breathed on, or looked askance at by his tablemate, spilling his Danimals drinkable yogurt on his shirt. Jake’s reaction? To pour the remainder of the yogurt on his friend’s shirt.

A sincere apology by Jake, a talking to by the principal, a clean shirt for the friend, an email to mom, and some time to “think about it” have cleared things up, but it got me thinking.

When I was packing Jake’s lunch and had just taken the Danimals out of the fridge, I had a fleeting oogy feeling. Now I know you know I get these feelings.

“What is it?” I thought. “Is the sugar going to make him hyper?” Since I didn’t think a tad more sugar would kill him, and never did I imagine the “pouring it down your neighbor’s shirt scenario,” I plunked it into the bag.

Which leads me to consider, in light of this oogy feeling, was Jake destined to commit this yogurt-fueled crime? You see, I am a Christian and I believe God knows the exact number of hairs on my frizzy head. I believe he knows each thought in my mind and feeling in my heart before a word ever reaches my lips.

So I wonder did God, through his Spirit, send me a divine nudge or feeling, akin to (insert booming voice here) “Put down the yogurt Anna, before your beloved son sends it flying?”

Whenever I have paid attention to the nudges I feel, I’ve been blessed. The outcomes vary from making a new friend, avoiding dangerous situations, having the opportunity to help someone going through a hard time, or getting the chance to talk to someone about God. These nudges have often led to little miracles.

But Danimals?

I just don’t know. In addition to being a Christian, I was raised Presbyterian. Although we barely ever discuss it, Presbyterian doctrine has this whole predestination thing going on.

Sooooooo I ask you, was Jake predestined to chuck his Danimal? If so, why would God give me the oogy feeling in the first place? Was it so I could stop him, by replacing it with a nice, nearly solid Yoplait Thick and Creamy? And where does Jake’s free will, in this case the will to overreact and hurl food, come into play?

Has this post given anyone but me a headache yet?

I believe I am predestined to eat a pie tonight. Might as well get it over with.

Good Thing I Have High Self Esteem

So I went to the dentist on Friday and she opened my mouth and said, “I guess you’ve never had any orthodontic work done.” To which I replied that yes, I had braces as a teen. Her response? “Oh, they must not have used retainers BACK THEN.”

Ouch.

After that, my crooked teeth and I went to the mall to get my bushy eyebrows threaded. By the way, if you haven’t had this done before, let me tell you, it is brutal. The dentist poking my gums until I bled like a stuck pig hurt less.

I knew the threader was at a kiosk which meant running the gauntlet between the other chichi overpriced vendors… and one in particular. I tried to dodge it by going up a flight of stairs and taking the elevator down, but NO, the brow lady was in direct line of sight of the flat-iron kiosk.

You could almost see them rubbing their hands together when they saw my frizz a-coming. They could use me as an example. People would flock. People would oooh and aaah. People would buy. The sales team converged on me like bees to honey. “No, no thank you, no.” I said, walking briskly, my hand partially shielding the frizz. “I have your product. This is what I look like WITH your product.”

When I got home to let myself disappear into the blogosphere for a few minutes (or an hour) with the help of a friend I’ll call Little Debbie, my comment word verification was:

“Flabi.”

Thanks, world.

Quick Question

If you could choose, which of course you can't...

Would you rather have a kid who behaves perfectly at school, yet gives YOU a run for your money in the privacy of your own home...

OR

A kid who is relatively mild-mannered at home, but who gets in trouble at school. A lot?

Decisions, decisions. Well, I guess I couldn't make up my mind, so God gave me one of each.

Yay.

Heirloom Party/ When to Say Goodbye

I'm participating in an Heirloom Party at Emma Calls Me Mama. My house is full of family treasures including a family Bible from the 1800's, dishes, furniture, and old family photos. I am blessed. Today I'm taking a different approach and writing about letting go when the time comes...

I recently had a yard sale, and now I’m looking around the house for other things to get rid of. The breathing room is lovely. After all, who needs fancy stuff when you can have a regulation sized air hockey table in the basement?

I am finally ready to part with a broken down, yet lovely Victorian settee and armchair that belonged to my grandparents.

I used the chair for about 10 years, but left the settee in storage because it needed major repairs and because I had no space for it. Check out the back. That's the bottom falling out, too, and it looks like it just popped out a plastic Easter egg.




You may find it interesting that I love to spray paint and fix up random stuff I find by the side of the road, yet I am willing to part with things my dear grandparents owned without fixing them.

I think it’s because although I like stuff—the finding, the fixing, learning the provenance something-- I don’t hold anything too close.

My grandparents and my mother were the same way. The hunt was fun, as was finding the perfect spot, but there was also some freedom found in the giving away.

For me, these two pieces don't remind me of my grandparents at all, and I think that will make it easier to let go.

Not holding stuff too closely helped my mom, who had the decorating bug, stay up late painting our 1830’s farmhouse the colors of the day, not being hemmed in by what would be historically accurate. She felt free to spray paint or decoupage without fretting about resale value or what others would think. She mixed high and low, and although she refused to let me drag stuff in from the curb (maybe that’s why I love it so much now!), her decorating style suited mine quite well...except for putting contact paper on the fridge, but that's the the topic for another post.

As for the chair and settee, and a few other things I’m hoping to find new homes for, it is time to let go. I have other pieces from my grandparents that fit in better with my house and my lifestyle.

...Such as this chair that was the springboard for my bedroom’s color palette. Do you like my shoe in the corner of the pic? Classy.

Or this china cabinet that used to hold pots and pans in my grandparents’ kitchen and is now in my dining room.



I think it’s a matter of owning things, but not letting things own us. When having something around elicits feelings of pressure or stress, it may be time to let go.

In the case of this settee and chair, I feel guilty about the space they take up and the fact that I am not willing to put the money in to fixing them and using them, when they could be something spectacular. Can't you just picture how cute they would be with a little bit of spray paint? But I digress... I hope I can find someone who will transform them and enjoy them, making them part of their own family's memories.

Meanwhile, I will hold onto the great memories of my childhood, with all four of my wonderful grandparents, memories triggered by sights and smells and photos and precious heirlooms which I intend to hold close.

p.s. I also think "down-sizing" will make my husband happy. He came into this marriage with exactly one possession-- a New England Patriots' trashcan.