Apartment update

A week ago I went on a painting rampage. As usual, the paint was white. I don't know why, but I just love white, and nothing else seems to make me happy.

For instance, this white slipcover. Considering that it's supposed to protect the couch, it probably doesn't stand much of a chance. One week into its job and it already has chocolate and hair all over it. Oh well.

All whiteness in the living room is countered by the extremely colorful kitchen. Note the peacock picture: I am obsessed. We saw some male peacocks at the Willow Park Zoo and I was completely mesmerized. I've seen them before but I find it spectacular that nature created something with such magnificent color. I was drinking them in and trying to figure out how I could replicate Peacock blue and emerald green in my home, but unfortunately I have not yet found a way.

Everything is still white.

Someday.

A Beautiful Bed

Lisa, who is extremely handy with power tools and crafting alike helped us build a headboard for our bed.

Here is the finished product:

A cozy bed for all.

Wednesday Winston: Joining the 3-D craze

He just doesn't know what he's missing.

Fun and Games. Really.

Growing up I always loved games.
I remember wandering around my house, begging someone-- anyone-- to play Bernstein Bear's Nature Walk with me, or Sorry! or 13 Dead End Drive. "No, no...not now," my mom would say to me, shooing me out of the kitchen as she prepared dinner. I often played Uno with Koseli, but she always won every game, and would grin wickedly at me from across the table. My constant losses instilled in me a sense of deepening shame-- play? No. Win? I must!
In sixth grade I went through a small obsession with the game of chess, of which both my father and my best friend Kathy indulged me. My dad was good, but because Kathy and my skills were identically poor, neither of us were able to put the other's king in checkmate. Foolishly, we once embarked on a game played solely by our kings, the futility of which took us much longer than it should have to realize.
Because of my limited experience with games, they began to evolve into a hated thing-- the dreaded culmination to a single's ward party. An interminable evening spent in misery and boredom at the bottom of the food chain in Scum. The cheerily shouted words, "Let's play a game!" were inevitably followed by a sinking feeling in my stomach. Though I immediately liked Jason's family, it frightened me when I realized they are connoisseurs of games. My family simply never played them. I had no practice, and I absolutely refuse to try anything I'm bad at.

My first time playing a card game with Jason's family was with his grandparents. I was on a team with Jason's grandma, and it didn't take long for me to realize how unmatched I was with my partner. My cards were flopping around every which way. My shuffling was a catastrophe. Without her whispered instructions, I would have been utterly lost. She insisted that I use a card holder-- a little plastic contraption designed for small children or very inexperienced players to keep their cards straight-- because I wasn't holding mine right. Nevertheless, both Jason and his grandparents were incredibly kind, and I found myself laughing while we played. The allure of games began to unveil itself to me.

Jason loves seeing his brothers because they understand worlds more about games than I do-- worlds, that is, that are crawling with ninjas, assassins, orcs and super-soldiers. While I don't mind watching a video game in progress, I have never had enough guts to actually play one. When Jason bought the game Oblivion I spent an hour carefully crafting my character to look as much like me as possible. By the time I was finished choosing her eyebrow width and outfit I was so emotionally invested in the thing I could barely stand to play the game. A giant rat attacked me in the first five minutes and instead of punching the thing in the face, which is what you're supposed to do, I sat on the couch and screamed, my hands clutching my cheeks in horror as the rat bit out great chunks of my character's flesh. While in the past I have frowned darkly on video games, I realize that these, like all hobbies, require a certain amount of talent that I do not posses. Jason has honed his talent into a fine art, on top of which is some kind of deep and unbreakable connection shared by his brothers. No matter where their lives may take them, they will buy Mass Effect 3 when it comes out this year, and it will give them something else to discuss in short sentences over text. Perhaps it's not a deep connection, but when I think on it, it isn't any different than my sisters' shared interest in decorative pillows and small animals, which I consider at times to be quite profound.
During our last couple visits to Jason's parents', we have played only one game, Ticket to Ride. I'm not sure if it's the company, the game itself, or both, but since my sixth grade experimentation with Chess this is the first game I have truly enjoyed. I always come in last, though after a few games my point values have gone from the weight of an incredibly large cat to a baby tiger. I still have a hard time controlling my competitiveness-- swift kicks under the table are evidence to this-- but overall I like to believe that maybe I've grown up. It is only the beginning, but I am starting to understand the subtle harmony between competitiveness and having fun-- the very heart of the reason why people play games. And I'm beginning to suspect it has less to do with winning than I imagined.

Litterbox Coup

The smell of stinky cats filled our kitchen. I sniffed suspiciously. Catching Winston roughly up in my arms I began to inspect his fluffy-cotton paws for remnants of his litterbox.  Horrible images drifted in and out of my mind's eye, the paramount vision  involving my white couch, rug, and bed splattered in poopy pawprints. As helpless as an  un-diapered baby, Winston twisted in my hands and squeaked for freedom. There was nothing. Puzzling over the mysterious stench, I looked up to see Jason raising a shaking finger past my left arm, his face filled with horror. There, plastered to the bottom of the oven was a whole, unsmeared and perfectly intact poop. It levitated several inches above the ground, perched ominously and disgustingly in plain view.
Mouth gaping, the questions in my mind switched lightning quick from how? to why???
Winston officially had his first real accident. But was it an accident? Revenge? Surge of evilness? A plot to undermine my authority? We'll never know.
All I know is that it didn't work.

The whole kitchen got a bath, and so did Winston.

Springy state of mind

As spring begins to slowly unearth itself, I find myself wanting to deep clean-- to delve into closets, take out the garbage, and scrub the bathtub and windows until they sparkle. Unfortunately for me, twenty year's worth of  filmy, gray residue has permeated the porcelain of our bathroom, rendering  the work  not only back-breaking, but also extremely unsatisfying. However, there are a few bright spots in my home that can still usher in the spring.
First, this fabulous dish towel from Anthropologie, that I since have converted into a pillow cover.

It is simply too pretty to dry dishes with.

Another spark of brightness comes from these adorable tuxedo ruffle pillows that are now adorning the couch.

There isn't much room to sit, but it's the softest spot in the house.

On the subject of dishtowels, I've also fallen in love with this sweet little cake design slung over the door of my china cabinet.



I have always adored mint green, and so I am also deeply obsessed with this white vintage-style lamp coupled with a mint green shade.

Meanwhile, I am also embarking on a failing quest to grow my own lavender.

So far, nothing.

Anyone else itching for spring?

What do you do to get your home ready for the changing seasons?





Wednesday Winston: Sleeping in weird positions/ Date-confusion syndrome.

About once every year I have a severe memory lapse and experience spurts of great confusion concerning the days of the week. Last year I begged Jason to take me to Taco Tuesday, took all the wrong pills, and nearly overslept my Wednesday classes. I was convinced-- absolutely certain-- that it was Tuesday.
Wednesdays always somehow manage to allude me.
For instance, yesterday.
As the alarm went off I rolled over in bed thinking, Boy, am I glad it's Thursday! Because Thursday is the day I get to sleep in. Unfortunately for me, the chaos only worsened. After learning that his almost-finished essay was due on Friday I told the student I was tutoring, "Oh wow! So you only have one day to work on it?" and I bestowed on the undeserving boy my most stony and disapproving frown. At the hospital, too, I seemed to be all out of sorts, cheerily confirming all of Friday's appointments and calling out to a woman who had scheduled her appointment on Saturday morning, "See you tomorrow!"
The worst part about date-confusion is that no one seems to understand. With my pronouncement that I was relieved Friday was the next day, my fellow-student looked at me with a mixture of pity and disgust. I checked the mirror to see if I had food in my teeth or anything, and realized later that she had reacted rather negatively to my date-confusion syndrome. I don't know if anyone else experiences these temporary bouts of madness, but today Wednesday Winston has a new twist: it's appearing for the first time on a Thursday.
Cheers. Here's to the end of another week!

Wednesday Winston: One of these things is not like the others.

Winston is unfailingly curious at all times.

Even for a cat.

He does stupid things, and then we take pictures of him.

Like this.

 

Wednesday Winston: Biting to Survive

Winston fell asleep biting my finger.

 

Here's to never going down without a fight!

Petticoats for Chairs

Recently I've been looking for slipcovers. I hadn't found anything that was substantial for my distinctly girly taste until I stumbled across this Texas interior designer's home.

All I can say is this: I wish I could sew. Really sew. It's probably a good thing I can't-- I would put ruffles on EVERYTHING.
Sorry, Jason.

I've always loved slipcovers, but these pictures have opened up a whole new world in my heart and mind. Why should furniture not have the right to be dressed up? Why can't the bed, the chairs and the sofa sport tufted flounces and layers of petticoat?
Furniture need not be naked anymore! Don't get me wrong-- I like clean lines. But there's nothing that tugs at my heart strings like a well-crafted ruffle.
Sigh.

Let there be light...

...In the form of this fabulous $25 chandelier I bought at the local Hobby Lobby.

I have always loved--adored--chandeliers, and so I was delighted to find one so enchantingly cheap. The ceiling in our living room is a little too high in proportion to this little light, so I decided to hang it in what can easily be seen as the least glamorous room in the house-- the kitchen.
At the same time as this, I was getting a little tired of my yellow slipcover, so I fashioned this one out of curtains.

I mean, you can probably tell it's a curtain. But the pattern is cute.

 

And so, here is to illumination, creativity, and conference weekend!

Wednesday Winston: A close-up of cuteness

Wednesday Winston: frightful freaks

In honor of the living dead, I give you...



ZOMBIE KITTY



Wednesday Winston: The ultimate threat

 

This is something Winston does often but has been almost impossible to catch on film. We think it's his way of showing his dominance-- a pose that, seemingly to him, threatens immediate danger. I don't love it because he looks scary, however. 

I love it because he just looks stupid.

Enjoy!

Up!

I saw this on Design Mom and was instantly filled with joy.

Apparently, just this past week National Geographic created a real floating house with 300 brightly colored weather balloons. It flew 10,000 feet high for about an hour.
Incredible!

 I have never soared through the sky in a small yellow house, but I imagine I would not be anywhere near a window. 
I would be on my knees, begging for a safe landing.

It cheers me to think that the most scientific minds can also be the most fantastical.
It also cheers me that my house stays on the ground.

Mondegreen Madness

It was close to midnight.
I sat in the back seat of my parent's car, my head leaning against the window. The bright lights of Salt Lake City whizzed past- a perpetual blur of reds and distant yellows. The stately capital building. The luxurious Grande America Hotel. The darkness closed in around me and I felt a little sleepy. Softly, from the radio I heard Elton John sing,
...Ballerina, you must have seen her dancing in the sand...
Across the seat was Koseli. She was wide awake, tapping her fingers on the door and humming the tune.
I smiled.
Koseli has an incredible disregard for lyrics. We're not sure how it happens, but she can listen to a song hundreds of times and still never know what the artist is saying. When she sings, it comes out as an indistinguishable mesh of words, in which she usually catches the tail-end of the syllable.
"hmm...hmmm----ina.....hmmmmmm..... ahhnnnnd."
This is something for which I have always ruthlessly teased Koseli. How? How could  she NOT know the lyrics to a song we've both heard so many times? I have always prided myself on my supreme ability to memorize all things, worthwhile or not. When I was young, I memorized an audio tape my family owned recounting the tales of Ali Baba and the 40 Thieves and Sinbad the Sailor. My mom would tell any stranger who sat still long enough that I was great at memorizing words, and, unlike the stranger, I was always deeply impressed with myself. 
I laughed. She scowled.
""Well, at least I'm not getting the words wrong," she said. "I knew someone who thought Elton John was saying Tony Danza!"
This delighted me incredibly, and we rejoined for the chorus, changing the words to

"Hold me closer Tony Danza... and count the headlights on the highway..."
Chuckling to myself and feeling infinitely superior to the fool who had thought Elton John was feeling romantic inclinations toward the star of Taxi, I settled back into my seat. But it wasn't long before I began to think of my own lyrical shortcomings.
With a tinge of embarrassment, I pictured myself, several years earlier, watching Mrs. Doubtfire at a friend's house. There's a scene in this movie that features Aerosmith's "Dude Looks Like a Lady." For years, I thought the song said "do it like a lady."
An honest mistake, I thought.
Then my mind quickly jumped to the misheard songs from my newly acquired Beatles craze. There was "Get Back," in which I thought the first line was "Jo Jo was a man before he was a woman" when in fact the proper lyric is "who thought he was a loner." Once again, I was lucky not to be caught singing this before I had looked the lyrics up on the internet. Unfortunately, this Beatle's song brought up another mondegreen in my mind. "When I'm Sixty-Four" begins, "When I get older, losing my hair" but for almost a full year I sang this "head." My friend corrected me, but then admitted that she had a similar problem distinguishing these two words. In the end, we decided both lyrics made sense, and so were basically interchangeable. Even from this experience, I still have no idea what is being said in "Michelle" and "Sun King" and the worst part is that I have looked up the lyrics multiple times. I just sing them as they sound, hoping that if anyone happens to be present they won't notice. "Michelle, my belle, someday monkeys four trays bean on song, trays bean on song!" I sing joyfully in the shower. Or, "Here comes the sun….. Scoobie-doobie..." Or even worse, "I get high" in the chorus of "I Want to Hold Your Hand." I would interchange this with the real lyric, "I can't hide" but for years I was honestly unsure which one was correct, considering the reputation of the '60's.
As I thought, I quickly began to realize that perhaps my memorization skills weren't so fantastic. Maybe I just memorize sounds instead of actual logical thought. I suppose I just always assume that if it's music, it doesn't have to make sense.
In middle school, if someone had walked into my lonely room while I listened to Sarah McLaughlan, they might have heard me say, "You are pulled from the pillage by your silent referee..." Or to Radiohead's "Creep," "When you're on the phone... I can look you in the eye." Most of the misheard and wrongly-memorized song lyrics in my repertoire aren't even identifiable in English. They consist, like Koseli, of muttering vowels and consonants that sound like words but really aren't. I might consider these embarrassing confessions, but everybody has some. These were the most comforting to me.

• "'Scuse me while I kiss this guy" (from a lyric in the song "Purple Haze", by Jimi Hendrix: "'Scuse me while I kiss the sky").
• "Oh Mandy, well you came and you're gay and that's faking" (from Barry Manilow's "Mandy": "Well you came and you gave without taking").
• "My Cherie Amour, pretty little wombat I adore, you're the only one my heart beats for..."(Stevie Wonder's My Cherie Amour-- an absolute classic. The real lyrics read "My Cherie Amour, pretty little one that I adore, you're the only girl my heart beats for...").

There's something beautiful about misheard song lyrics. I like to imagine that the singers and song writers have a greater sense of humor than they probably actually have. With my cheek pressed against the window, I pictured  Jimi Hendrix,  his guitar raised high above his head, ready to smash it-- and then turning to give the drummer a quick peck on the cheek. Then I distinctly saw a train of monkeys carrying bean-laden trays to a stately woman. As I felt myself drifting into sleep, my last and most wonderful vision of all featured Stevie Wonder, singing passionately to a small furry rodent wearing a red beret, stationed on the top of his black piano.

 

 

 

Wednesday Winston: Natural Stockin's

Winston's legs are my favorite.
Here's why.

He is always wearing socks and stockings.
He's fashion forward-- the natural way.

Spring break wrap-up

I drove to school today under a light, misty rain.

Yesterday was glorious.

Spring is coming. I can feel it. Smell it. Taste it.

I can't wait.

My weeklong break has brought me many things, some good and some bad.
I had time to arrange things.

I had time to make glorious cake plates and felt crafty for the first time in my life.

I had time to spend with Jason.

Time to read The Book Thief. Time to take Winston on a walk, and paint the mirror in my bedroom. Time to fix a roast. Time to visit my parents.
Time, time time.

But I also had time to get a cold-- a terrible cold-- the kind that wracks your body with violent coughing in the middle of the night, makes the outside of your nostrils bleed  from incessant nose blowing, and forces the victim to carry toilet paper around everywhere. For the last four and a half days, I've been appalling strangers with my mind-blowing sneezes and the subsequent honking noise that comes from my nose. No one seems too keen on getting close to me these days, but it's okay. Thanks to spring break, I slept when my head hurt. And if I didn't want to be seen in my red nose and paint-splattered pajamas, I could stay in because I had nowhere to go and no obligations.
Most significantly, I ate a whole pot of soup all by myself.
Conversely, Winston's recent surgery didn't seem to slow him down too much. In fact, though still loopy and unable to maintain his balance, he was nearly bouncing off the walls only an hour or so after we brought him home.
I was sorely disappointed.
Despite this, Winston is an excellent napping buddy. Once we get him to settle down (usually by putting him in what Jason lovingly refers to as "the cave"-- which consists of one or both of us piling blankets on his head and then lying on top of him) he can sleep soundly for hours on end. It begins as a struggle; a mad tangle of hands holding him down and loud purring. It ends with the entirely limp body of a cat occassionally punctuated with twitches-- a sure sign that he is sleeping and not smothered to death.
After spring break it might be appropriate for most people to say that they are returning to the grindstone of school, but, as my one class can hardly constitute as such, I will say "dang it!" to the end of the break in traditional form, but not really. The curse is only halfhearted. I may not be quite as lazy this week as I was last, but Winston and I will continue to take naps when my head hurts; after the struggle, our arms interlocked in an eternal embrace.