The Ezio Challenge: Intro

It’s been awhile since I wrote a blog and I really need to get back in the swing of things so what better way to keep myself honest with all the stuff I’ve been putting off and avoiding than a blog challenge?? Yay!!!! It feels like good timing too. My husband’s out of town for a few days and I just dropped Wally off at school after he threw up in the bathroom sink as we were walking out the door. I should actually get 17 mom points for that because I had already put on pants. And if you’ve made me put on pants and you don’t have a fever, you’re washing your face off and you’re going to school.

The ladies of yesteryear who were able to keep house and keep it well, were not bogged down with the latest conspiracy theory going around the internet. They had no time to ponder the inner workings of One Direction or what on earth that Kanye thing at NYFW was and if anyone died because of it. No, they got down to business.

Well since one of the things I need to finish is an Assassin’s Creed costume for a family member, that’s what I’m going to blog about, EVERYDAY until I finish it. Because I have so many things happening and it keeps getting pushed back, so if I have to blog my process to keep it the main goal, then that’s what I plan to do.

A little backstory I had no idea what Assassin’s Creed even was until I got a text from my aunt asking if I could make her son a costume so if I mess it up, don't come after me with a pitchfork, Assassin's Creed fandom. I am so down for this project. My oldest son, Wally Cleaver, went through a multi-year costume change and he's very specific in his "look". Back when I began sewing, I LOVED trying to sort out the details of each costume he demanded.

First it was Elvis. Jailhouse Rock Elvis. So I went to Salvation Army, got a black suit jacket for $5 and got busy. It turned out amazing!

By the way, his room looks like it should be in one of those Pottery Barn: Kids catalogues in that picture compared to what it looks like right now as I type this

Embarrassing. That will be its own blog challenge. Back to the costumes. So we had Elvis, then he wanted to be a old-timey detective

He wanted to be a knight

He wanted to wear a kilt for International Day at school. So I made him a kilt.

In 2nd grade, he had to choose a historical figure to represent. He chose Susan B Anthony. Susan B Anthony he became.

So now I get to try my hand at this dude.

Stay tuned.

The Elf on the Shelf

(Bono voice) It's Christmastiiiime (sorry) and that means that houses around the nation are flooded with all these naughty little elf faces doing all these naughty little elf things while reporting back to Santa on whether you washed your hands after you peed or not. The elf knows. He was watching you while he left mint poops in the toilet. And now we all know because your mom posted a picture of it on Facebook.

Now if you know anything about me, you know that setting up tableaux of espionage and wicked tomfoolery to mimic something I saw on Pinterest and then posting it on the Instagram for status elevation is right up in my wheelhouse, and yet there is something about those cherry-cheeked little rats and their clandestine operations that sets my alarms to "Nope".

When my oldest child, or Wally as I like to refer to him on the web because it subconsciously plants the "Amy's like Donna Reed and totally has her life together!" seed in all your minds, well when Wally was around 2 years old, everyone kept asking me when I was going to hop on the Elf Express and invite one of these smiley spies into my home for the month of December. Intrigued, I did the natural thing and hit up my local Pinterest to check what these little rascals were about. Oh my eyes how they twinkled at all the glittery laughs and innocent fun!

"I'll do it!" I exclaimed to no one with a wink and one of those jaunty cross-body punches the kids do.

All that drunken Pinterest spirit fizzled, though when I saw that Target was selling those things for like $40 a pop. Forty dollars. For a stuffed elf. Plus those elves are kind of creepy looking. I don't need that thing going all Chucky on me and slicing my achilles tendon as I step out of bed one morning. I'm not spending $40 to invite a demon into my home when I'm fairly certain I can do that for free with some red paint and carefully placed candles. Plus I don't think that real demons can even hold knives so, cheaper AND safer.

Needless to say, the elf remained on the Target shelf and I lived vicariously through my Facebook friends and their ever increasing elf scenery that showed up on my tiny iphone screen.

Still, the need to over-do everything still nags at me to this very day and every year I wonder if I should either just break down and buy an elf, pose some dinosaurs in festive ways, OR just give in full stop and dress as the elf myself. The only problem with this plan is I'm out a photographer. My husband not only doesn't take photos but also stays far away from my grand schemes and nonsense so he's out. Then there's Wally who only takes selfies or really close up, arty shots of action figures doing strange things.

Source: my son

Sourec: my son

And that just leaves The Beav and he's 4. He'll just take my phone, walk away and start playing Bubble Witch with it.

Also, the manipulation of this elf stunt is a whole different matter in that Wally, while incredibly imaginative is also very scientifically biased; if he can't see, touch, hear, or smell it, it doesn't exist. For example, Wally informs me one Easter that "haha, the kids at school think the Easter Bunny is real, Mom! When it's clearly just a man in a suit that comes into our house. Hahah fools" and two years after that it was "Fairies don't exist! Mom, please. It's a man in a pink dress that comes in my room in the middle of the night and takes my tooth and leaves me money. Hahahah tooth fairies. Please." Because apparently a man in various costumes breaking into the house in the middle of the night isn't the weird part. I wonder if he thinks they're all the same guy.

So no matter how elaborate my lies about the elf menagerie become, he's still going to know they're not REALLY spying on him and his brother and reporting back to Santa and I don't really need my kid being THAT kid that spoils it for the rest of the 2nd grade.

He would appreciate a James Bond themed elf set-up.... hmm...still no.

The more I think about these elves, the more I feel like sad, lonely business man Michael Douglas who's just signed his life away by cashing in a gift certificate that my drifter brother Sean Penn gave me for a birthday gift but I don't know that anything's weird yet until the creepy clown (elf) I almost run over in my fancy, rich people driveway (Target) and decide to bring into the living room with me for some reason (Pinterest and Facebook likes) starts to talk through the tv and vandalize my house while Jefferson Airplane blasts in the background as depicted in David Fincher's  1997 film The Game that nobody wants to talk about with me anymore because "Amy, that movie is like 20 years old. We've seen it. Let it go." Totally rude.

Quite obviously, my desire to "The Game" everything is still in tact AND I'm creeped out by inanimate things smiling at me. Put your smug face away, elf and tell me what you think you know. And don't kill me please. Or tattle on me to Santa. Just you know what? I'm just going to watch you ratting out all the other families this year on Facebook from the comfy position of not wearing pants and slouching on my couch.

Happy Holidays.

Jared, the Coca-Cola Truck, and How I May Have Been a Middle-School Catfish. Or a Ghost Summoner.

When I was 13 I developed body odor and an obsession with the Ouija Board. I think in that order and at the same overnight visit to Lauren's house.

Sara, Lauren, and I met in middle school art class and in between drawing circle people and perspective city-scapes, the two of them spent every class, willingly or no, listening to my unverified theories that perhaps all of Def Leppard are deaf and like super Beethovens that are way into cats and either bad spellers or the cool kids that are smart but pretend they can't spell. I also spoke loudly on my conviction that N.W.A. was named after an airline. I'm pretty sure they had some bet going over who could stand my idiot stories the longest without laughing. Maybe there was a Dr. Pepper on the line. Whatever it was, I eventually infiltrated their clique of friends like Ebola, spreading my ignorance and lies to the furthest reach. Miraculously, I was never beaten up. 

The year was 1989 - please don't sue me Taylor Swift, I cannot erase that year of my embarrassment as much as we would both like for me to. We ALL would like for me to, but alas. So, 1989, possibly 1988 but we're not going to squabble because when I start doing the math on my age I begin to sweat and grow even older. It's like that merry-go-round  in Something Wicked This Way Comes, all fun and games until your skin wrinkles and dusts off of your skeleton in a pile of ash and sadness. 

Where was I? Oh, 1989. Sleep-over at Lauren's house. We had just finished watching a rented vhs copy of The Exorcist which even at the time we all knew was a bad idea but none of us wanted to admit it to the others. Or maybe that was my projection of the psychological terror and superb level of uncool little kid that I was feeling because I was scared. And if I'm scared, you all better be equally scared and ready to gossip or we can't be friends. Well, we can still be friends 'cause I like to feel popular, but I swear to god you keep your macabre to yourself because if you decide to "hahah" "tee hee" scare me I will not be the cool, calm, fun-loving Amy character I obsessively try to portray. I will take you down violently and by the crotch if I am able.

What I'm saying is, don't scare me. I have a brand I'm trying to sell. Jesus.

So anyway, we get done watching The Exorcist and decide to dress up in Lauren's new dresses from San Francisco which is the precise moment I realized that I officially needed to start wearing deodorant. I'm convinced it was fear manifesting itself into physical form, like Freddie Krueger shredding up the pits of Lauren's new dress with my onion-like stench. I'm a true friend and said nothing about it. We also decided at this time, because I think a Magic 8 ball told us it was destined, to pull out the Ouija board and talk to dead people. This would not be my last Ouija board experience nor my last attempt to talk to dead people as I just tried last night to convince my neighbors that my ghost hunting app was top notch. It didn't work. It may have also gotten me the coveted classification of Neighborhood Witch. Kids will flee from me for years, my legacy has been written. 

-------------------------

    "Only use two fingers, like lightly put them them on. Actually, they shouldn't even really touch it, just like hover."

    "But it needs our energies to work or something doesn't it? How's it going to work if we're not touching it? We need to touch it."

    "Yeah, like if we didn't need to touch it, it'd be channeling ghosts all the time!"

    "What if it's channeling ghosts right now? I don't think I want to do this. You saw what happened in Exorcist. Even the smoking priest couldn't handle the demons that came from the Ouija board."

    "He smoked. That's what the demons were mad about. The smoking. He was probably faking the whole thing anyway. He was a stunt priest."

    "Can we get on with this? Okay. Two fingers, touching the pointy thing, but lightly. And don't push it. I'll know if you're pushing it."

Will you know though, Lauren and Sara, I thought to myself as I sat oozing B.O. into a dress that wasn't mine. Don't test my will to trickily deceive and story-tell.

Now, to be honest, I probably pushed it but I don't remember doing so. I remember being spooked and engrossed in the story playing out before us letter by letter of a boy named Jared who was killed  - hit by a Coca-Cola truck on his way home from the mall or something equally as teenager and forced into an afterlife of parlor tricks and fortune telling. I still think fondly of Jared.  What's that little ghost dude up to these days? Did he get tired of stinky teenage girls putting words in his planchette? Did he move on to the Magic 8 Ball? Or better, did he find his own Long Island Medium to do his bidding, occasionally having to take fall for an ill-timed fart?

Or are you a truck driver, Jared? Driving up and down a lonely country road waiting for your chance to pick up a hitchhiker to pass on your tales of untimely death? "Just tell 'em Large Marge sent ya"? Only "Large Jared" unless maybe you now do go by Marge, I don't really know, you never call me.

Or do you????

Excuse me, I have a ghost hunting app to update.

Pulling Teeth and Oil

I drink a lot of coffee and tea (and red wine) and my teeth have no issue rattling their teeth mouths off on these truths of my vices very loudly and yellowy at your face when you're forced into having an in-person conversation with me. It didn't used to be so bad but then I apparently began channeling my Scottish great-grandma and my tea cravings have become a bit of a problem.

Source: dailyrecord.co.uk

And now my teeth are a problem. It's because of the tea. The tea set my teeth over the edge from an ivory to cabin witch brown. I also apparently have a cavity in one of my wisdom teeth that the dentist won't even touch unless I let him yank it out which nope. I'll go ahead and deal with that on my own by never going to the dentist ever again and then in a couple of years when the pain gets too much, I'll bang it out with an ice skate and a rock like Tom Hanks did in Cast Away. By the way, if anyone is looking for a life coach, shoot me an email. I take PayPal.

Anyway, my sister-in-law just had her wisdom teeth removed a couple of weeks ago and in talking to her, it honestly sounds like my plan of ignoring my dental needs is the right way to do things. As we were talking about her dental bravery and my cowardice, she mentioned some kind of "oil pulling" or whatever it's called that she had seen on Pinterest. Oh Pinterest, you evil temptress. She tried this oil business which is basically swishing coconut oil around in your mouth everyday for some minutes and it's supposed to heal cavities and whiten teeth. "Sign me up!" is of course my immediate reaction. How gross can it be? Also, I only have two kinds of oils in the house of which I'll be using the olive oil because I don't have coconut oil and I'm pretty sure that olive oil won't kill me or make me blind, unlike the really old bottle of make-up remover I found under the bathroom sink.

And hold up just a minute! Can we rewind and talk about Cast Away Tom Hanks again?? Wasn't he only eating coconuts? And wasn't he eating a coconut when his tooth started bugging him??? The tooth he had to beat out of his face with a rock and an ice skate??? So what's the truth? This isn't boding well for the all mighty coconut. Do I believe Oscar Winner Tom Hanks or some hipster science on the Pinterest?

Source: giphy

Well, to be fair I'm always up for a Pinterest duel and more importantly, olive oil never did anyone wrong, did it? I mean, it's delicious on a plate with red wine vinegar and ground pepper to dip my artisan bread in. Would anyone even fault me if that's where I end up in this oil pulling experiment? 'Cause we all know that's where I'll end up. Let's be real.

God, now I'm hungry.

Okay, intermission. I'm going to try this and report back, fully expecting to be typing with the shiniest, whitest teeth you've seen. And hopefully I don't just forget about this whole experiment because I gave up and ate and then spent the rest of the day scrolling tumblr. Wish me luck and white teeth.

source: flickr

Alright, everyone. Return to your seats. The results are in.

I started off with good old store brand extra-virgin olive oil. Shot glassed it up and swished. Now, I can't remember all of what the sis-in-law told me as far as the details are concerned, but I figure she swished everyday for about 2 minutes. I swished for as long as it took me to get my phone and erase a bunch of incriminating evidence to make enough megabyte room for this instagram worthy picture of my olive oil.

source: me

My teeth are pretty much the same color and I'm very disappointed about it. My mouth did feel like it had indulged in a big Italian meal that needed more garlic, though and I don't feel like I have bad
coffee-infused morning breath anymore and my lips feel nice and lubricated. I also brushed with baking soda right after and my mouth feels very clean and delightful, especially my tongue. Maybe I'll keep this up for a bit, or as long as I can remember to do it.

Don't worry, my friends, I am not anywhere close to giving up my deodorant or shampoo yet, though.

So because I for the life of me, don't understand how this works, I went and looked it up. This blog was first on my google search and it seems legit. However, it also says that I'm 18 minutes short in my swishing. How is a person expected to swish for 20 minutes?!????

Source: giphy

Should this experiment further itself, expect an update. In the meantime, I think I'm due for a loaf of garlic bread. And red wine. 

My Mariah Carey Year

On December 31 I promised my 2014 self that my 2015 self would be a better self. I've become maybe a worse self. 

New Year's Eve was wraught with potential. I was serious about it, too. 

"One more day of wasting hours on tumblr then it's serious business and a new you!" I exclaimed with gusto, only silently and to myself. I did come up with this plan while scrolling tumblr, though so I should've known it was going to fail. But! I was serious. My neighbor came over that evening with champagne and I joked that 2015 was my diva year! Then I thought about divas and champagne which naturally brought me to Mariah Carey and I came to an epiphany. I might be entering my embarrassing Mariah Carey years. As the night wore on and drinks were drunk my tv started playing One Direction performing on New Year's Rocking Eve or whichever one it was and I embarked on a one woman mission to make sure everyone knew that Harry Styles is handsome and beautiful. And charming! (And possibly gay.) And funny. And I wouldn't shut up about it. The rest of the night. 

Seriously.

Source: dailymail.com.uk

Seriously though, right????

Mariah Carey: Level 2

Source: tumblr

Guys, I've been in a rut. Like an unmotivated, crabby, diva-like rut. Maybe I'm overwhelmed with it all. Or maybe I'm bored. Maybe it's because I've been waiting an eternity for Mad Men to return. And Bates Motel is not back yet either. And LOST has been over for 4 and a half years and no one wants to go back to the island with me. 

Source: reddit

I came to this post trying compare my year with Mariah Carey but I think I'm actually just Jack Sheppard, Season 3. Both involve drinking so, whatever, I'll continue on.

This Season 3 Jack Sheppard rut is kind of ruining my plans. I'm not sewing, I'm not writing, I'm not cleaning my house- though to be fair, that has little to do with a rut and more to do with that I would like a maid please. And a nanny. I would like to sit around in kicky little outfits cracking bad jokes and singing to no one in particular while someone else does all the washing and sandwich making. I need an Alice to my Carol Brady is what I'm getting at. 

Source: fanpix.famousfix.com

So that's where I've been; sitting on my couch and avoiding facebook except when I think of something funny, scrolling tumblr and twitter, and thinking about how I should do something and then getting mad when someone (the husband) suggests that I get up and do something. I've also been busy breaking up fisticuffs between the children. This also makes me crabby. And diva-like. And wishing for an Alice. 

Alright I need to wrap this up because I'm supposed to be writing a PTA fundraising letter and I don't think they'd dig any Harry Styles or Carol Brady references in it so, I kind of have to buckle down on this even though we all know that Harry Styles sells. I'm just saying. Think it over, PTA. 

Of Being a Fangirl

If there is one thing about me that will forever hold true it is that I am a fangirl. If I decide that I like something, I go big, I go hard, and sometimes it makes me pee my pants. But there is no shame in this game. 

Lately there's been a little shame. 

But we'll get back to Mr. Styles in a minute. 

Anyone who's had a 5 minute conversation with me has had to discuss my favorite Beatle, my favorite Beatle's son, my favorite Monkee, my theory on Mad Men, Harry Styles' hair, my favorite character on I Love Lucy, baseball, and has seen me cry at the mere mention of LOST. I am an insufferable bore and I don't know how I still have friends.

Speaking of friends, I will also gladly discuss F•R•I•E•N•D•S and how horrible I think Monica's hair was and how I hate chunky 90's shoes and oh my god I took a facebook "Which Friend are you?" quiz and I'm Chandler but I think I'm probably Ross, if anyone is interested in that subject. 

Yet each one of these topics is a tree in the bigger, much more interesting and complex forest that houses them. And that forest of obsession is well-kept and coveted by the fangirls and fanboys that sow it. 

Now me being obsessed is nothing new. Me being obsessed with One Direction, that's pretty new. I am currently completely wrapped up in the soap opera that is the Harry Styles/ Louis Tomlinson possible hidden love story as depicted through the symbolism of Harry Styles' instagram posts and possible PR seeding. No seriously, it's a thing. A very, very fascinating thing. And whether it ends up being real or a very elaborate head cannon created and built upon by fans, doesn't matter to me in the same way it doesn't matter if reality TV is scripted. You have me. I'm hooked. 

 

Now, just spending a few minutes on tumblr in any fandom, you will inevitably come across the most realistic photoshopped pictures you have ever seen, the cutest drawings you've ever seen, the most amazing sketches and art, a lot of it is kind of smutty but it's amazing. And the well edited videos, the sense of humor and comradreie. And then there's the fanfiction which gets all kinds of eye rolls and shade from the outside world but it might hold the greatest admiration in my heart. I've only ever read Beatles fan fiction because it's the only fanfiction that has held my interest, however the very fact that it is a thing that people are so passionate about makes my English Majored heart want to burst. And going back to the One Direction fandom, there are a lot of teenagers coming up with this stuff, writing, photoshopping, creating, studying entertainment law and marketing and body language analysis, tattoo symbolism, fashion and probably the most beautiful part in any of this, these kids are fighting for equal rights and getting very involved in the LGBTQ+ community and embracing their fellow fandom on whatever choices and hardships the others are going through. It's really quite beautiful. 

I love the fangirls and fanboys. They are my people. 

Now excuse me while I go find out what shoes Louis Tomlinson is wearing today. It might be another clue. 

September 25th and my Current State of Busy Not Busy

It's September 25th. Today is my Friday the 13th. Examples; in first grade, I was stung by a bee and had to ride the entire bus ride home with a bee butt in my finger. It swelled up so bad, my mom had to call the doctor and wrap it in baking soda and gauze and I've never been able to remain cool around those little evildoers again. In 7th grade, I left my locker wide open and when I got back from class, expecting my stuff to be stolen or strewn about I found nothing. Someone must have just walked by and closed it but it could've been seriously embarrassing so it still counts. And then on this day in 8th grade U.S. History, a boy sitting next to me chewed up a bunch of sunflower seeds and machine gunned them from his mouth all over my face and hair.

It's also my mom's birthday. Happy Birthday Mom. Sorry you had to pull a bee butt from my finger. 

I realize that you're thinking "Geez, Amy this all sounds pretty ridiculous and 8th grade was a long time ago. You really need to let some stuff go." Well to that I say, "You need let your judgy aggression go". Real nice. I thought we were friends. 

All that being said, I'm not 100% confident I won't be spit on today, I'm kind of not confident about that any day if we're honest, but today of all the days. I'm also bound to sew my finger into these purses I've been making.

Yay purses. I have 12 of them that I'm making from The Charming Bag pattern from One Yard Wonders. 

 

Nine of the bags are custom orders so I just rounded it out to make an even number. I do now realize that 10 is also an even number and much more attainable. No matter! I'm trudging on (is trudging a word and am I using it correctly?). I figured that since cutting the pattern out is the absolute worst, I would do that first. To all of them.

Bruised my fingers. 

And this is what I've been doing and also not doing. You see, assembly line style sewing is kind of boring sewing so I haven't been working as efficiently as I could be. Also, I keep looking at this and laughing. 

Is that a robot butt?? 

I have everything cut out and am now just sewing it all together 

And one to itself. 

This is why I don't have high hopes that today, September 25 is going to work out in my favor. This topstitching the handle to the back of the bag business happened yesterday. 

I also have helpers.

 

Wish me luck.

EDITED TO ANNOUNCE: I was stung in the neck by a bee today. 

The curse is real, my friends. The curse is real.

The Instagram kid.

You know that kid, the impossibly perfectly dressed kid who is the same age as my Wally? The kid we all wish our sons would dress like? Or our husbands? 

Well I can't even get my kids to wear clothes half the time and when they do, they insist on dressing themselves which, although character and self esteem building, means that they are often dressed like Ace Ventura. 

Like a lot of the time.

So back to this Instagram kid. He's adorable. He has impeccable style and he's inspired others(' parents). 

And there in lies my problem with this. Either those kids are not able to be normal kids or they are ripping the crap out of their Stella McCartney pants as soon as the photographer (or mom) turns her back. 

What impossible egos are these kids growing into? It's like American Psycho, the prequel. 

I sound like a jealous monster. Maybe I am. I mean, I am in that I wish my boys were these polished, perfect Instagram kids but then I think of the reality of the situation; my kids could find dirt and mud in the most sterile of environments. They're like Rambo of dirt. 

And possibly these Instagram boys are more like my boys than their pictures would have you know. 

It's like Toddlers and Tiaras for boys. 

Oh my god, TLC! Get on that, I would so watch that show. 

Here if you want to read more about the Instagram kid. 

http://nymag.com/thecut/2013/06/five-year-old-boy-whos-become-a-style-icon.html

John Lennon ghost wants me to keep the internet and you don't argue with John Lennon ghost.

Pop Quiz!

What do you get when the most disorganized person in the world tries to take on PTA fundraising responsibilities, run an etsy shop, agrees to attempt to write a comic strip, agrees to attempt to write a book, and tries to write jokes in her kid's lunch box everyday because she saw it on Pinterest?

Me. You get me, the disorganized fool spending the rest of the day slagging off all of everything, watching the kids play outside for hours and sipping on wine.

And now as I type this, feet kicked up in defiance of THE MAN, very much Ferris Bueller to be honest, I'm listening to my kids kill each other in the other room and I'm going to have to go investigate this, aren't I? 

Oh, nevermind, here they come yelling at me.  Apparently there's been an attempted murder by "slapping and a cardboard brick to the eye and even the nose!"

This is why I feel like I'm opting out today. Because I feel like I'm on the verge of drowning and so, going gently into that goodnight, I just stop swimming. 

(I have dreams like this, by the way. Where I'm holding on the outside edge of a hot air balloon, certain death below me and I start questioning if it is just easier to let go.) 

I should disclaim here that I am not suicidal. That's also the second time I've felt the need to write that down in my life so that people know that- yo, murdered.  The other time was when I was 12 and I wrote in my sparkly journal, I wrote "if I ever die, I was murdered because I would never kill myself. I am not suicidal" and then I wrote something about how cute Johnny Depp is. So, similar if not exact to how I feel today. 

Also, when I was 5 I made a deal with the devil or whoever that I was never going to die so, suck it, haters. And murderer.

 

Anyway, back to my story of when I was outside ignoring everyone digital and just watching the boys play, I realized how very little I take time to do this anymore. I'm always answering emails and facebooks and tweets and looking at Pinterest and not just watching the boys play in the dirt which used to be mud but, drought. 

This makes me think that we need to break up, internet.

I feel the worst for my husband in all of this because, first off, the kids don't care. They really don't, Every Other Mommy Blog I've Read this Week. Here's the thing; they know that I love them, that I put the phone or computer down whenever they have question or speak in my direction, I have two sets of ears, the mom ears directed at only them 90% of the day, and the boys are pretty much ignoring me anyway and somehow, despite ALL my screw-ups, they are the most polite, loving, well-adjusted kids I could hope for. So whatever. Raise your kids how you do. 

But back to the husband, "Ward" as we call him. I think he has to hate me by now. Because when I put myself into his shoes, I'm the worst as wife. He does all the dishes, grocery shopping, money making (mostly unless you want to buy my stuff from my etsy shop??????) and in general, I probably look like Peggy Bundy. He would never say that to me but, this is how it looks from outside my skin. 

So, I've made up my mind. I'm going to kill a few birds with the Amy vs America's Housekeeping stone that I have been not throwing for many months. It begins tomorrow. I don't care how busy I get, I'm back on the ball. I will schedule time to do it. And sewing. 

I just don't know how this applies to my interneting. I think I have to take a bre- OH MY GOD IMAGINE JUST CAME ON THE TV JOHN LENNON DOES NOT APPROVE OF OUR BREAKUP, INTERNET. 

Alright, it's settled. 

PAUL MCCARTNEY!!!!!!!!!

So tomorrow night I'm seeing Paul McCartney for the second time. 

I have yet to get "out of my mind" excited. 

Until now. I just took some stupid Facebook quiz about how many Beatles songs I know by lyrics or whatever and this thrill and chill went through my bones

Oh, and? I know all of them. Pshaw!

Oh and also? I am seeing a Beatle tomorrow night!!!!! 

So I don't think I ever told the story about getting a new iphone (the pink one) and losing 80% iTunes library.

Sean Lennon- gone.

weezer- gone. 

Girl Groups of the 60s- gone. 

A million years ago and a million moves ago, I somehow lost my Magical Mystery Tour cd. And being that Beatles' Apple and iTunes' Apple didn't get along so well for a very long time, I couldn't just download it and be done. And I didn't ever get around to going to a record store and picking up a new one so my Beatles collection has been down one Beatle album for a very very long time. 

Finally, after all the dramatics and whatever, Beatles were on iTunes (and hitting the music charts again btw) and I splurged. 

I finally re-got Magical Mystery Tour and played the crap out of it. 

And my Beatles collection was complete and listenable from my phone at anytime I saw fit. 

  

Ahhhhhhh. 

Fast forward to present day Sherman Oaks. 

Thanks, iTunes, I currently have one Beatles album left. 

Magical Mystery Tour.

Goo goo gajoob.

HOLY CRAP PAUL MCCARTNEY TOMORROW NIGHT!!!!!!!!

My Mid Century Modern Obsession.

Now this shouldn't come as a big shock to anyone that knows me, but I'm kind of in love with everything Mid-Century Modern. Everything. This and that pesky time-travelling unavailability nonsense are the main reasons I probably can't live in the 40s- my favorite of all the decades. And The Beatles. I need Beatles.

 I also love Mad Men, obviously. Of course I do. So when Don and Megan moved into that apartment, oh my goodness.

 

In.

Love.

The mirrored entryway with the planter

and that hanging lamp thing

are pretty much the best parts for me. And I kind of want to replicate them immediately.

Good thing there's pinterest....

Although I want this couch from The Dick Van Dyke Show

And the house from Bewitched.

I don't really think I'm asking too much here...

 

Although Tim the Tool Man Taylor blew the whole thing up, so maybe I need that time machine.

 

Or the I Dream of Jeannie house.

 

 

 

The fact that I'm probably not going to get these houses does little to stop my want.

 

And you know I'm going to try to make that lamp. And that mirrored planter entryway thing that the Draper's had? I could do that easy.

 

And I need a new couch.

 

And this for my tv.

 

Or maybe this.

 

 

 

I need this too.