Mommy Needs a Minute

In 2002, I took a postwar German film class (yeah, I don’t get it now, either) where I noticed an incredibly tall boy with longish Pantene hair and a face that should have been carved into marble. His shirt was a tad too short for his tall frame, and his huge worn sneakers looked like they might dissolve from over-use at any second. Because he operated the film projector and came to class each week with nary a notebook, an assigned text, or a writing implement of any kind — not even a sheet of paper — I assumed he was a TA or postbac. student. I was in a relationship at the time, but I looked forward to seeing him once a week. Despite having friends in class, he seemed almost painfully shy. He rarely spoke in class discussions, but when he did, it was to say something substantive and insightful. I remember hurriedly jotting down a few of his comments in my notebook.

He wasn’t what girls would have called “cute” or “hot” or “fine” (or whatever the kids were saying in those days). He was beautiful. In fact, he was the most beautiful guy I had ever seen. I didn’t have a crush, per se; but I watched him fondly and picked him out of big crowds from time to time on campus. “Oh, look!” I’d think to myself. “It’s the prettiest boy alive, again. Bless his heart, his shirt has holes in it.”

About a year and a half later, dumped and stressed out over grad school, I decided one weekend to stop wallowing and accept an invite from my film-library coworkers to go out for beers. My boss, Tony, invited one of his colleagues from the university’s center for instructional technology and training. When I showed up at the bar, I immediately recognized the long, lanky form topped off with shiny black hair.

“Hey!” I said familiarly.

His eyes lit up, but there was a blankness behind them. I felt a little embarrassed, but remained friendly. I found out his name was Adam and, after copious a few beers, I got up the courage to remind him that we had taken a film class together. He said he knew, but I sensed that maybe he had recognized me earlier and couldn’t quite place me.

The night ended with pizza at a friend’s house, the consumption of more beer and possibly some psychotropic substances, a screening of MST3K, and no additional conversation between the two of us. As such, I was surprised the following week when Tony entered the film library and announced, “Oh shit, girl. I know someone who liiiikes you.”

“What? Who?”

“Let’s just say he’s gorgeous and brilliant. He’s got this like, crazy off-the-charts IQ and his father is a neurosurgeon. You can just go ahead and thank me now for the raven-haired, wicked smart neurosurgeon babies you’re going to have.”

Adam’s smart, but I have no verification on the IQ. And his father is a pathologist. Tony had a penchant for exaggeration and being stoned on the job. And wearing his hair in a bun.

For the next few weeks, Adam visited the media library at the same time every Tuesday, my regular shift. I checked out movies for him. We spoke nervously, nerdishly about his selections. Around his third or fourth visit, he asked if I’d like to go out sometime.

Only three months later, we were up at 4am engaging in one of our usual all-night talk sessions when he asked me how I “felt” about marriage. I responded that I, uh, approved of it.

“When do you see yourself being ready to marry.”

“I don’t know, I don’t have a time table. Just, when I’m ready.”

He nodded in casual agreement.

“Yeah, so, do you want to get married?”

I choked on the cheap jug wine we were drinking, but saw that he was totally serious. He explained firmly, confidently, that he was done. Decision made. He didn’t need to shop around, see what else was out there, or drive ‘er around the block one more time (ahem). He found what he was looking for. And I knew exactly what he meant. It felt weird to even formally label what we were to each other — girlfriend, boyfriend, fiancee, significant other. We’ve never been any of those, really. We were always simply each others home.

After three months of dating and with lips stained purple from cheap red wine, I said yes. We celebrated by unscrewing another jug of Carlo Rossi and he sat outside with me while I smoked a cigarette.

“Dude. We are totally going to get married.”

The rest, as they say, is history.

So, to celebrate five years with my Pantene-haired Greek statue, here are five things I know and love about Adam:

1. He will never — NEVER — iron an item of clothing. It is against his religion.
2. He has a mistress, and her name is Apple. Sometimes in his sleep, he calls her Steve Jobs.
3. He is, as Tony noted, wicked smart. He is exactly the person you want to have on hand for any IT emergency. We’ve attended more than one event where a technical problem has been announced, Adam has rolled his eyes and disappeared for five minutes, and upon his return the proceedings have restarted.
4. He is, as Tony noted, gorgeous. And he is totally unaware of it. Modesty isn’t a factor. He just doesn’t see it and doesn’t care to. In Adam’s universe, personal appearance is superficial and wholly unimportant (see item A).
5. If you ask him to put his discarded socks away, he will tie them around his ankles and walk around the house like that for the rest of the evening. Because this way, they aren’t on the floor annoying me and he doesn’t have to journey to the bedroom to put them away, which is, like, all the way over there.

And one more to grow on:

F. He is the best person I have ever known, hands down, and I am immensely proud to be his wife. Also, he is the fastest eater alive. Do not challenge him, you WILL get hurt.

I love you, Adam. Happy anniversary.

I love birthdays. Even at 30, birthdays still carry that “special day” cachet they had for me when I was turning 5 or 16. I’m not one to shy away from cutting myself some slack or using any excuse necessary to shirk responsibility and enjoy some much-needed “me time.” This lazy self-preservationist urge is in full effect on my birthday. It was hard to work today. I struggled to squelch the amped, giddy feeling of it being MY SPECIAL DAY and accomplish shit, like a six-year-old antsy to get home from school so she can open presents and eat birthday cake.

I have many friends who dread birthdays, particularly those of the monumental goodbye-20s-you’re-officially-not-a-kid-anymore nature. For some reason, the reality of getting older has never bothered me. More likely, it just hasn’t hit me yet. Sure, I see body parts sagging, under-eye circles darkening, varicose veins sprouting new tributaries and waterways. But these physical markers are simply eclipsed by the promise of PRESENTS and the warm fuzzy proof that you’re loved and appreciated because all of your friends told you so on Facebook.

Thank you, Facebook. If it weren’t for you, my birthday would be devoid of gems like this:

thanks for this, J.

In addition to my willful denial about the indignities of aging, I’ve particularly looked forward to turning 30. Something my mother once told me gave 30 a sheen that made its promised arrival an exciting one. She said that the ages of 30 to 35 were her favorite, because she finally felt at peace with herself. Thirty yielded a self-confidence and security she had not previously experienced. Sure, she wasn’t perfect and still looked at her life, her figure, her parenting critically. But she was finally easing up and cutting herself some much-deserved slack. I think everyone — particularly women — can understand the appeal of that.

For me, this is largely true. I’m getting better at refocusing my critical eye to see the sum of all the parts, the parts I usually obsess over and tinker to death in some Sisyphean quest for impossible perfection. When the camera zooms out, I see an awesome (awesome) husband who is my best and greatest friend; an adorable, nutty baby boy who delights and challenges me in ways that, I think, are actually making me a better person; a house that is warm and bright, not in terms of it’s design but in respect to its openness to friends and family, a stark distinction from the home I grew up in.

Then I think about what was going on in my mom’s life between the so-called glory years of 30 to 35. She had just remarried. Moved into a beautiful, huge home on the water. Quit her day job because her new, wonderful husband wouldn’t think of her working — didn’t she deserve a break? — and eagerly took on the role of happy homemaker and decorator. She bought antique pieces of furniture that she’d eyed for years and hoped one day to own. She picked out wallpaper and artwork and spent her days happily padding through the house in slippered feet rearranging furniture, adding to and editing the mantelpiece, crafting and curating artful tableaus.

It was a good time for her. She had rebounded from a failed marriage, reinvented herself from the abused and discarded child of an alcoholic to the wife of a successful stock broker, living on the bay in a cashmere cloud of finery, mother to a child who took horse-back riding lessons and responded to authority with yes sirs and no sirs.

That was the wide shot. A slight aperture adjustment revealed the fissures that would cut into gorges, impasses that eventually isolated her completely from those who wanted the best for her. Those who knew from the start that she was handing over too much in exchange for her imagined Home.

But in my giddy “yeah-happy-presents-day!” reverie, I’ll give her that image; honor where it came from and that, for a time, it was her reality. If I can continue ignoring my mortality and the fact that each year my mom recedes further and further into the rearview mirror, I can allow Mom of 23 years ago to enjoy her own candy-coated delusions. Because really, who could blame her?

Mom had a maddeningly optimistic zest for life. She used to get so excited over my birthdays that she would tell me what my presents were before I got them. This was satisfying at first because, like most kids, I vacillated between wanting to be genuinely surprised on my actual birthday and omigod wanting to know right now! what my presents were. But eventually, it became a huge pain in the ass. She wouldn’t spill the beans to irritate me. She just could not help herself. She had no patience whatsoever when it came to seeing the disappointment over my surprise being ruined melt into genuine excitement over scoring that jacket I had asked for. Mom could love people with an almost childlike exuberance, the same exuberance that made her an annoyingly chipper morning person who arose each day with a smile on her face and a song in her heart. In other words, the type of person you wanted to kill at 6am.

On my 13th birthday, some girlfriends of mine had planned a surprise party for me. Unaware, I came home from school one day crying, wounded because my circle of friends had suddenly shunned me and seemed to be whispering behind my back and making plans that didn’t include me. Mom waited out my angst for all of five minutes before declaring, “Okay, look. You can’t be upset because they’re throwing you a surprise party. Isn’t that neat?! Are you happy? Great, now let’s start working on your fake surprised face.”

She’s not aware that, 30 years ago today, she survived a hellish labor and a C-section to have a 9 lb. 5 oz. butterball yanked out of her. Depending on the day, she may not remember that when I was 12, I convinced her to cut my hair to match the style of a favorite soap opera actress and that she then convinced herself  she had done a pretty damn good job, in spite of the fact that my hair was actually crooked. I think she knows that she had a daughter once, but doesn’t connect that little girl to the 30-year-old lady with the boy hair that I am to her today. Regardless, I wish she was here to eat cake with me and whisper under her breath what my presents are before I open them.

So I’ve gone and started a side business to pay for my increasingly expensive meth design addiction. My grand plan is to, one day, make enough money from freelance editorial jobs to work from home unshowered in my underwear, thus fulfilling my dream of becoming the grossest millionaire alive (hmm, perhaps that position has been filled). But for now, this is my little side project:

So if you need a copyeditor, holla at me (in the parlance of our times). Think I’m full of it? Take the word of one satisfied customer:

“urrrrrr-ica rulz and she will clean up your shitty writing and make it jazzy and snazzy. and she is super cool awesomeness to the max! hire her, foolz!”

– one distinguished Dr. T., PhD

See? What more could you ask for?

And now, an open letter to a special lady:

Dear Grace Bonney,

You should totally hire me for the Design*Sponge West Coast copy editor position. I will copyedit the crap out of your lovely website, which I feverishly consume on a daily basis. I have plenty of experience managing, hand holding, and in some instances, conducting therapy sessions with writers at various degrees of skill and divadom. But truly, I can think of nothing better than applying my spastic design fanship to copyediting your site.

I appreciate your consideration and hope this was not too single-white-female for you.

Sincerely,

Erica Nikolaidis, Editor Extraordinaire

An usually rainy Colorado summer, a recent spat of head colds, and a slew of work bullshit has left me wanting to retreat to my room and live out the rest of my reclusive existence watching movies in bed. Whenever I feel a sore throat coming on or see cloud cover creeping over the mountains, I get an urge. Nay, a fever. And the only cure for that fever?

THE LORD OF THE RINGS.

I love the shit out of the LOTR trilogy (see, I even write like a member of the fan club). One of my favorite pastimes is to curl up in bed and watch all three. In a row. Preferably with sugary reinforcements.

I have absolutely no clue where this penchant for hobbits, wizards, and dark lords (oh my!) originates. I’m not into fantasy films or fiction (except for The Neverending Story, of course). I never played Dungeons & Dragons or World of Warcraft. I don’t live in my parents’ basement. Hell, I’m not even a fan of Tolkien’s writing, which I consider long winded to a yawn-inducing degree. Sure, the man can spin a yarn, but christ. How much can one person read about trees?

Nevertheless, I love me some epic questing to throw a stupid ring into a crack of doom! But why? Where the hell did this come from? I would patronize the shrink who could tell me what childhood trauma left me with a soft spot for homoerotic hirsute hobbit love (hmm, maybe it’s not so perplexing after all . . .).

What particularly confuses me about my LOTR lurv is the sense of comfort it gives me. Maybe it’s because I remember watching the Rankin and Bass animated movies during “quiet time” at daycare as a kid (an odd film choice for four year olds, considering those movies are effing creepy). Maybe it’s the idealized bucolic innocence of life in the Shire, where agrarianism, pot-smoking, and vest-wearing is de rigueur. Or maybe it’s because every slow closeup on Elijah Wood’s giant, beautiful, tortured blue eyes is like hearing the Beatles for the first time. All I know is that I brought the entire trilogy to the hospital with me the day my son emerged from my own crack of doom. The epidural kicked in just as Aragorn swooped in to save Frodo from the Ringwraiths (my favorite part!) and now I get numb from the waist down when I hear the haunting strings of the LOTR score.

So seriously, what the hell is wrong with me? Eh, whatever it is, I don’t want to fix it. It’s nice to have an escape, even if said escapism is shared with people who would note “Elvish” as their second language on a job application. Just as Adam looks forward to imposing the Star Wars mythology on Henry, I look forward to the day we can each call in sick to school and work and eat bon bons in bed while watching the LOTR extended editions back to back.

Poor Henry. Caught in the eternal struggle between good and evil as played out in space versus the eternal struggle of good and evil as played out on Middle Earth. My one and only — my precious — hasn’t got a chance at adolescent popularity.

No, I’m not referring to the cheesy and oft-overpriced furniture store chain. I’m talking about this neat design magazine website I discovered last week: Bolig Magasinet

Though I have no idea what anything on this site means, it offers oodles of awesome photos of Scandinavian homes. Here are some favorite shots:

From what I can tell, kokken = kitchen, bad = bath, galleri = (you guessed it!) gallery, and tips and tricks = well, I can’t figure it all out for you, people.

I always seem to gravitate to Scandinavian interiors. Photos of these homes are awash in white (possibly the photographer’s flash?) with punches of color, mid-century furniture, and quaint, sometimes precious knick knacks. The result is clean without feeling sterile — warm and inviting with a good mix of old and new. Those bold pops of color and pattern give you the impression that these spaces, and the folks who inhabit them, don’t take themselves too seriously. And I love that.

One of the kitchen galleries introduced me to the almighty SMEG fridge. I love me a retro kitchen appliance. And the name reminds me of the word “smegma,” possibly the last thing you want to associate with your kokken.

Oh, I kill me.

Henry’s been acquiring new words left and right lately, dropping developmental skillz on his dad and me like it’s HOT. It’s as though he’s experiencing the mental equivalent of a growth spurt, without the acne or discovery of hair “down there” (god save us all from such a day). As such, I figured I should list all these newfound changes before my overworked and sleep-deprived brain promptly forgets it all.

Hank’s Words:

1. Book. More query than statement, he drops a book in our hands, sits in our laps, and says, “Book?” It’s an adorably manipulative way of getting us to relent and read I Love You, Stinky Face or Go, Dog, Go! for the umpteenth time.
2. Cracker. Henry has inherited his mother’s carbohydrate fixation. This kid loves a cracker — animal, saltine, graham, redneck, what have you. He has yet to turn one down.
3. No. He doesn’t so much refuse things yet. Instead, he uses “No” to acknowledge his understanding of anything off-limits. He will tentatively sidle over to the trashcan or a pile of rocks, look at us, and shake his head. “No? no? no?” This doesn’t stop him from tonguing said trashcan or rocks, of course. He just knows he’s not supposed to.
4. Water. This is really more like “wah wah” at the moment, but he gets the point across.
5. More. He says this in conjunction with his version of the ASL sign for “more” (here’s the official ASL sign. In Henry’s version, he points to the palm of his hand). He learned this word and sign together with “cracker,” so at first, his botched ASL sign meant “more” and “cracker”, interchangeably.
6. Nana. As in “banana.” Upon saying this, he will shove an impossibly huge bite of banana in his mouth, happily chew it up, and spit it out. He seems to think this is how “nanas” are consumed.
7. Mama. This kid is “mama”-ing all over the place. “Mama” still primarily communicates complaint or grievance, but is no longer solely associated with all things pejorative. This term is often heard at 6 am, while poking his mother in the face.
8. Bye. Said while blowing a kiss. What flair this kid has.
9. Dada. He’s had this word down for a while, but “Dada” was always Adam plus a catchall word for everything else. Happily, Henry now seems to distinguish his Dada from fruit, stuffed animals, and toilets.
10. PawPaw. I thought this was a fluke, but every time he’s shown a photo of his grandfather, he repeats PawPaw. Coming soon: MayMay and PopPop (we’re working on it!).
11. An assortment of onomatopoeic words and phrases. These are used to convey anger, machismo, and the acquisition of dog toys and shoes: bah!, dis?, eeee!, jes, and gerplerblexenflipenscholocken.

Hank’s Actions:

1. Climbing. To our great horror, he’s getting more adept at this. No matter how vertical the surface, he finds a toe-hold and starts hoisting himself up. Currently, he has summited the coffee table, living room bench, couch, armchair, and stairs (insert heart palpitations here), as well as various baskets, books, boxes, and toys on wheels. Exhibit A-1 showcases Hank’s skill at repurposing any boxed item as a stepladder to some formerly unreachable object:
   

   exhibit A-1

   

   I know why the caged Hank sings




2. Tummy time! Not laying on his stomach, but lifting up his shirt and proudly pointing to his belly while his parents do the same and exclaim, “Tummy!” Click here for a reenactment. (Please watch that entire clip.)
3. Kissing. By far, the most adorable of all developments. He blows a kiss to say goodbye, and plants incredibly slobbery cheek smooches. This results in a face full of drool and melted hearts all around.
4. Dancing. Holy crap, my efforts are paying off. This child loves to cut a rug. He is currently perfecting the twirl.
5. High-fiving. When you raise your hand and ask for a high-five, he joyously slaps your hand. Repeatedly. So it’s really more of a high-twenty.
6. Nose identification. If you ask Hank where his nose is, he points to it and/or wrinkles it. Coming soon: Nose time!

Ancillary Super Powers:

• Hair awesomeness:
  

  business after bath . . .

  

  party during the day




• Self-mumification:
  

  this one's just freaky




• Compaction:
  

  for ease of storage

Wow. My baby is morphing into a boy. It’s so humbling to watch this transformation.  Listing it all out like this and placing his lanky, leggy form into his crib for bed makes me more acutely aware of his evolution. It’s bittersweet and fantastic. Goddamn circle of life. Hakuna matata n’ shit.

But damn. My baby’s getting all growed up.

I recently regaled you with embarrassing photos illustrating my penchant for quaint, old-lady like interiors. So I thought I’d share this awesome example of how futzy, feminine, and traditional can be turned on it’s head to pack a youthful, modern, and ultra-sophisticated punch. For reals, this house is JAZZ HANDS. It’s a ballsy explosion of floral patterns, subtle colors juxtaposed with bright hues, and a complete disregard of design rulez (disclaimer: no balls exploded in the making of this home). Seriously, this interior design should not work. Painted ceilings, painted walls, layered, unmatched patterns. It’s bonkers. I adore it.

POW!

ZING!

SNAP!

SHIZZAM, yo.

For more photos, check out the full home tour (offered in three parts!) on Apartment Therapy.

Someone unleashed a hyperactive Queer Eye for the Straight Guy cast member on this bitch with buckets of sage paint. Bold, brash, and more unapologetically vaginal than a Georgia O’Keefe painting, I find myself wanting to type OMFG when I look at it, like I’m a member of the CW’s target demographic.

Which, by the way, I sort of am. I loved the crap out of Veronica Mars and Gilmore Girls, (stop judging me) and if you can’t appreciate a crazypants insaneface Tyra Banks on ANTM, our common ground ends here. I’ve considered watching Gossip Girl, but can someone explain the Chuck Bass character to me? I can’t take this guy seriously. The actor who plays him appears to have attended the same “something smells like shit in here” school of acting as Keira Knightly.

In other design fodder news, I’ve been enjoying the blog Yellow Brick Home. Perhaps more palatable than the above home, this couple makes fun and creative choices decorating their impossibly small 650-square foot Chicago apartment. And they are mad thrifty. Plus, their home tour provides a link to a source list detailing where they’ve scored their great finds. I’m particularly liking their Craigslist chair. Would be a nice replacement for my sad wicker accent chair, still covered in fur from my dead cat. Yes, in addition to saving our bitchass dearly departed cat Milton’s ashes in a tin on the counter of our guest bath sink (you know, as a conversation piece for visitors), the cushion on my wicker chair carries enough Milton DNA to clone him three times over (presumably, the third one would be slower than the rest, and have a penchant for pizza and ladies who “touch his pepe”). I’m sentimental and all, but it has been more than two years since the butthole died and left us to walk the house without being acutely aware of the vulnerability of our Achilles’ heels to cat scratch fever, or use the toilet without the specter of a hunched, feline form lying in wait until we turned on the faucet so he could furtively dart his tongue under the running water and OH NO, I WILL SCRATCH OUT A BITCH’S EYES IF YOU TURN OFF THE WATER. TRY ME, MOTHAFUCKA.

Oh Milton. Our lives are safer, but far less terrifying interesting without you.

So yeah, I gotta find me one of them mid-century modern lounge chairs. On the cheap. Sans cat fur. On the other hand, animal hair rugs are popular, so perhaps our Milton blanket carries the cachet of a flokati throw. Snap, I just started a trend. OMFG, y’all.

On Sunday, my half-brother turns 15 years old. He doesn’t read this blog, doesn’t know it exists, and is unlikely to find it. He doesn’t know much of anything about me, really. His birthday is one month before my own, and he is 15 years younger than me. I mentioned before that Brother’s conception cemented my mother in her toxic marriage, a marriage she had hoped to end. But I hate to attach such a bad omen to his existence. He was a miracle, really. Not a “miracle” in the Anne Geddes every-child-is-a-miracle-and-a-special-snowflake-wrapped-in-a-head-of-lettuce sense of the word. But a miracle in that, for a time, he gelled my mother, stepfather, and I together in a way we never had been and never expected to be. The day Mom brought him home, our dour family life characterized by constant, bitter infighting was transformed. Babies have a way of doing that (okay, because yes, every child is a gift wrapped in a thousand blessings, swaddled by a lily pad, and sprinkled with the wishes of blind children). All three of us desperately loved my baby brother and were utterly devoted to him. He had Stepdad’s face and Mom’s blonde hair. When he was upset, all three of us sang him James Taylor’s “Sweet Baby James,” the only non-hymnal all three of us knew the words to.

Stepdad beamed with happiness after my brother was born. Finally, a child of his own and a proper heir. Mom and I started to think that my brother’s existence might actually change him. And for a time, this proved true. He was nicer to us. Showed us more of the compassionate person we knew he could be. Came home with unexpected gifts and treats.

Because of our age difference and my closeness to Mom, I was more like my brother’s second mother than a sister (which, I realize, sounds like the premise of a Greek tragedy). I always loved babies — I did a ton of nannying in my teens, so I was comfortable with kids. But Brother was an extension of me. I played with him, bathed him, changed his diapers, napped with him on the couch. Got peed on. He was full of love and wonder and life and he blurred the hard line drawn in the sand between myself and my stepdad. My brother’s awesomeness was the one thing on which we could agree.

I left for college when he was only two. Of course, I visited often and loved him all the same, but the closeness we developed in his infancy grew more tenuous as the years passed. Like any boy who adores his father, Brother was raised as Stepdad’s mini-me. As such, once Brother was talking, he began calling Mom “fat pig” and “stupid,” because that’s what Stepdad called her. Stepdad laughed when Brother did this, which made Brother want to do it more. He gained his father’s approval by berating his mother. Of course, he didn’t understand it. Didn’t comprehend that one’s mother should not be the butt of cruel jokes. To make matters worse, Mom shrugged off these comments with a laugh and a dismissive wave. She made light of it and pretended it didn’t bother her.

But my brother’s mimicry of my stepdad obviously bothered me. I always knew it wasn’t his fault, that he simply didn’t know better. Between fewer visits home and Brother growing older and becoming more terse and awkward on the phone — as adolescent boys are wont to do — we became strangers. The little boy I carried through the house on my hip, that I tickled into submission, and with whom I memorized every irritating Barney song EVER made, is now an improbably tall, lanky 15-year-old with braces. He’s guarded, though cordial, around me. He has grown up hearing terrible things about his sister from a father who regards me as an enemy. The mother who loved and doted on him in his infancy wanders off, talks in circles, and can’t recall his name. He spends his summer vacation at home alone with her — making sure she doesn’t leave the house on her own, cooking her food, ensuring she eats. She’s a burden and a constant irritation for him.

Since having Henry, my brother is often in my thoughts. Being around my own baby boy floods me with memories of the sweet kid my brother was, and likely still is. I’m the only other person who grew up in that house, and the conditions have worsened considerably since I lived there. I’ve tried to offer myself up as a confidant and a sounding board to him. But he’s fiercely loyal to his father and keeps me at arms length, to say the least. I can only hope that, on the inevitable day when he faces the reality of Mom’s decline and thinks about the way he treated her growing up, he won’t blame himself. That he knows he was the one sweet thing that made the rest of the awfulness worthwhile.

Happy birthday, baby brother.

Work has been keeping me super busy lately, so when I decided to take a 15-minute “break” from work crap last night to catch up on favorite design-porn sites, I got sucked into what Adam has coined The Internet Hole. You know this condition — some blog or website catches your eye. It links to something else equally or more interesting. The next thing you know, you have 20 tabs open in your browser and you’re rolling in Internet content like Demi Moore in a bed of money.

Sidenote: I think Demi Moore has sold her soul to the devil. That woman looks improbably good as she ages. In fact, she looks better than her younger self. I’m guessing a face lift gets the credit, but if that’s true, why didn’t her surgery turn her into a Cat Person like other Hollywood starlets?

SERIOUSLY. wtf.

(photo of Cat Person via Google image search)

Moving on.

So yeah, I abandoned the work I was supposed to do last night in lieu of spazzing out on inspiring and jealousy-inducing interior design photos. I’ve shared a couple of my favorites below. Tread lightly, lest you be sucked into the same hole that kept me up past midnight.

j'adore

I say goddamn!

(image 1 via Samantha Pynn interiors; images 2 & 3 via Tulane Rehab blog)

I’m having a real love affair with kitchens lately. I think it’s always been my favorite part of the house to decorate. The bright, vibrant nature of the common kitchen layout lends itself to lots of playfulness. Plus, I’ve always loved retro 1950s tchotchkes and the kitchen seems like the best home for such items.

That first image KILLS me. I love how it gracefully integrates modern, clean lines and a soft color palette with retro touches and pink accents. Ever since having Henry, I’ve been a sucker for pink. But the right pinks –I’m talking delicate, ballet-shoe-wearing, tea-time-observing, lady-lunching pink. Something about having a boy has brought out my inner tutu-wearing GIRL and now I love how a sweet pink shade can inject a room with subtle femininity. It’s classy, y’all.

The second image illustrates a bolder turn on the revamped retro kitchen. That red and aqua together are a fabulous pairing. This kitchen looks like candy and I want it to get in my belly. I’m also digging that custom curtain over the kitchen sink. We’re desperately in need of something similar for the window behind our sink. The intense Colorado sunshine blasts through it every morning, so whoever is stuck making the coffee has to do it with their eyes closed (it’s worth it — we like coffee a lot around here). We recently replaced the old, wretched light fixture over our sink — a fixture that someone liked for unknown reasons despite it’s contempo-purple awfulness and convinced me to refrain from ripping out of the ceiling with my bare hands for two whole years — and replaced it with a gorgeous and funky Schoolhouse Electric light.

our kitchen window

(image via crappy cell phone camera)

Because of the bold colors and pattern in the light fixture, and the fact that I recently painted the wall above our cabinets aqua, I’ve been assuming that any curtain we get for the window needed to be extremely simple. Basic white, nothing busy. But I’ve got a wild hair up my butt (could someone get that, please?) to do a cafe curtain like the one in the above photos of the red and blue kitchen. Here’s the fabric I’m considering:

curtain fabric contender

What do you think? I’m nuts, right? Feel free to weigh in, but keep in mind that I may not follow your sound and probably highly tasteful advice. I had this same feeling when I wanted to paint the aqua color above our kitchen cabinets. I HAD to do it, despite a good friend politely warning me that it might inch my home ever-closer toward fulfilling its destiny of becoming the Golden Girls’ house (i.e., old ladies enjoying retirement in a Miami ranch house decorated with an over-reliance on wicker furniture, seashell art, and peach and turquoise paint). I considered her caveat carefully, thanked her for being a friend, and did it anyway.

That said, here’s a catalog of items in my home that showcase my dangerous flirtation with Golden Girls decor:

Exhibit A

Exhibit B

god help me

(images via Shady Pines Retirement Home )

Well, I’m off to sip prune juice on the lanai. I best not forget my toilet tissue in my handbag!

I spent the latter half of my week with my head in a toilet bowl wanting to die. So my apologies (to all three of you out there) for the lack of posts this week, but the stomach bug I had was so awful, I feared the Internet tubes might pick up my germs and infect you all. Then you’d be groaning over stomach cramps in addition to my lame jokes.

Before being downed by The Intestinal Rot of 2010, we enjoyed Henry’s first bike ride last weekend. After reading a review for the i-Bert Safe-T seat on Your Momma Reviews, we bought it on Amazon, scored Hank a goofy helmet, and hit the road. (This is a great bike seat, by the way. I back everything in that review.) But before mounting our bikes (heh heh), we took the obligatory your-baby-looks-silly-in-a-helmet-photos for posterity. So we can whip these out when he brings home his first date:

yeah, helmet time!

are we happy now?

dorkus familius

As you can see, Henry wasn’t wild about the helmet. I can’t understand why, considering his parents look so cool modeling their own. Also, holy christ. Mommy needs a minute and some effing sleep to get rid of those circles under her eyes.

A friend of mine used to have one of those astrological “what does your birthday say about you?” books. I remember rifling through it to different birthdays. One friend’s birthday labeled her “The Innovator.” Another friend was “Art Collector,” another “The Inventor.” The cool title I received for being born on September 1? “The Safety Enforcer.” Yep. Safety Enforcer. What planets were aligned on the day of my birth to forever deem me Hall Monitor? Why not call me Shoe-Lace Tier?

But in all fairness, the moniker is kind of spot-on. I drive with my hands firmly positioned at 10 and 2. I always buckle my seat belt and make sure passengers do the same. I don’t ride roller coasters — experiencing the fear of plunging to my death just for funsies has never appealed to me. I make loved ones call me after long drives or flights. So yeah, I’m a Safety Enforcer, bitches (said while enacting karate chop). Maybe I’ll make Henry wear that helmet around the house for extra protection. And since he clearly likes it so much.