Rock Hard Hair

At this very moment, I'm hanging off of a ladder in here, putting up ten metal rods and fifteen panels of velvet curtains. Since late morning, it's been one of those days where the clouds are hovering like Jewish mothers, though I have yet to see a single stinking rain drop hit our lawn. And I'm working in the windows, remember, so I've spent most of my day staring at our front yard. Anyway, this song just came on the radio, and I thought to myself, If there's no downpour by the time I wrap up I should shave my head, Dep a mohawk, and cut the shoulders off of my t-shirts.

I've been feeling nostalgic.

Grateful

Today I'm feeling grateful.

For this:



And this:



And this:



And this:



And this:

And this:

And this:

And this:

And this:

And this:

And this:

And this:

And this:

And this:

The Bathroom As A Bath Room

As someone who lives for one hundred and seventy four degree showers, I'm not quite sure if my love for standing in a small room full of steamy water is properly understood by the rest of the population. Well, maybe the Europeans. You can wash your hands and take a bath at the same time in a lot of their Tinkle Towns.

If you add a few more showerheads, something similar to the way that this bathroom functions would serve my purpose swimmingly, and I may finally have just the right space in this house to create it in. What do you think of bathrooms as bath rooms?

He's Thinking One Of These Things

I hope no one thinks TOUPEE!

I'm a sexier blonde than Slate.

At least Mama didn't catch me wearing her thong. Again.

I should win something for this.

Extensions? I think, yes.



Maybe I should stop drinking whiskey.

I think this makes me look thinner.

Racism With Cotton Swabs

Me: Did you get the Q-Tips?

Andrew: Yup. Here.

Me: Nooo...

Andrew: What?

Me: I'm not trying to be difficult, but I don't know if I can use these. They're all wrong.

Andrew: Wrong brand?

Me: No, wrong color. We only get white Q-Tips. White. It's like buying paper towels with decorative print.

Hired

Andrew: What is Satchel doing?

Me: Working. What does it look like?

Maybe Baby

The baby thoughts have finally hit me, but mostly not in the way that you're thinking, not the ones that are all yummy smells and pudgy feet and falling asleep sitting up without requiring a trip to the chiropractor. I have those too, which Andrew ignores, because he knows only hours later I'll have visions of toddlers sprinting around me while waving small weapons and screeching about jungle gyms and demanding to be reloaded with fruit roll ups. Consequently, I remain in utter confusion when it comes to any sort of final decision about procreating, and I find myself toggling between producing a tribe and removing my reproductive organs altogether at any given moment in time. This cannot be normal, I know, and being that I'm thirty, shouldn't the sky have parted and beamed down an answer by now, perhaps in some sort of colorful capsule wrapped in a bow and titled This Is OBVIOUSLY What You Should Do?

I mean, there's a lot of ways this thing could go down...

Morning Snack

First of all, Allison, I know about the manicure. And I promise not to post anymore pictures of my hands hours after attacking my walls while more than slightly hormonal. Or riding my bicycle for four hours before single-handedly taking down an entire pound of homemade nachos and cheese. So you do not need to email me, Best Friend Of Twenty Five Years. I know.



This morning I put Satchel to bed so that I could prepare for a meeting with Contractor Bobby, and as I was getting dressed in the bedroom I noticed that one of my diamond earrings, which Andrew had placed on his nightstand last night, was lying in the middle of the white comforter on our bed. I was so busy wondering how the earring had gotten there that I guess it didn't occur to me that THERE WAS ONLY ONE EARRING. These earrings are slightly more expensive than the kitchsy vintage pieces that I'm known for picking up here and there, so when it clicked in my thinker that the diamond had a missing runaway twin, I quickly reverted to marginally juvenile coping tactics. And by slightly I mean LOADS and by marginally I mean SCREAMING OBSCENITIES. While waving my arms up and down and falling to my knees. I don't know what came over me, it just seemed like the right thing to do. I admit, it wasn't one of my finer moments.

Life mid-renovation is never completely comfortable, if it's possible to be comfortable at all. Nothing is ever put where it's supposed to be put or found where it's supposed to be found or clean five minutes after you dust it. Every night when I go to bed, I look around and everything just sort of lands in whatever spot is mostly horizontal and happens to be available.

Which in this case, was on top of a cloth napkin on Andrew's temporary night stand, the same place that Satchel-pants inspects thoroughly every single morning for rogue socks and random under things. And since I have to finish tying up a few loose ends before Bobby gets here, I'll summarize the rest of the story in bullet form.

1. No, I did not require Satchel to lead a search party around the bedroom or poop into a cup.
2. Yes, obviously, I found the other earring which had somehow fallen under the bed, but I will never be quite the same person for those eight minutes that I spent having to think about digging through the feces of a puppy.
3. If you're wondering, I will not send her to go live on a "farm" for this incident, because despite our differences of opinion on what is acceptable snack food, she now weighs nearly fifty pounds and I'm dying to see what other valuables she expels out.

Faster Than The Speed Of Light

If you think Tiger moves fast, try making Miss Poop Breath go night-night downstairs in the middle of the day so you can get some work done. Should I tell you about last week when she pretended like she was the love child of Jackie Chan and Danica Patrick?

When Where What 034

when: breakfast earlier this week
where: cleaning out the depths of our refrigerator
what: whole wheat toast + egg whites + swiss cheese + glow in the dark cheese + bacon + grape tommy toes

We're Doing It For The S'mores

Getting the chimney cleaned this week. And, no, that's not a euphemism.

I figure I should clue the world in on what's holding this reveal up.

Before They're Covered In Dust

Andrew: I can't believe you got suckered into buying shoe insurance.

Me: It only cost ten dollars. And it's good for thirteen months. I know I'll use it.

Andrew: It's probably, like, impossible to redeem.

Me (shrugging): If I end up getting scammed for ten bucks, I think I can live with myself.

Silence.

Me: By the way, I emailed that lady about that place.

Andrew: Okay.

Me: It just feels like such a long time since we've bought anything, almost six months, and I want to change direction a bit and buy larger. Maybe a warehouse or an apartment building. If I don't tackle another project you might find me sitting on top of the dining room table punching my own face. There's opportunity right now. I mean, maybe opportunity that causes hair loss and back pain, but still. Challenge is good. I'm thinking new spaces. Bigger buildings, leaner designs. I need that kind of inspiration. I thrive like that.

Andrew: Sure. All right.

Me: Great. You're on board?

Andrew: Hm? What'd you say?

Me: Nothing, I was just talking about stuff like shoe insurance. So you're in?

Andrew: Of course.

When Where What 033

when: the other night
where: here
what: the 1940s hand blender I acquired seven properties ago getting some chocolate cake action

Live And Let Live

Officially, we haven't made a decision about removing My Second Favorite Tree in the yard at The Historic House By The Water, the one that is determined to slowly use it's root system to catapult our garage onto the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. So for now it stays put, right outside of my office window. I'm doing my best to urge it to bloom, because it gets these picturesque purple-ish flowers that can persuade even the grumpiest tree hating troll to reconsider letting the garage just crumble. Not that I'm comparing the person that I married to a troll. But grumpy? Perhaps.

Lookie What I Came Across

Baby hood ornaments!

And before you say anything, yes, I think we've established that there is absolutely no reason that I should be reading about these.

Saying Goodbye To The Mullet

This is what I look like first thing in the morning, when I head to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I actually got my hair did yesterday, and I meant to take a picture sans The Mullet, but one thing led to another and I never got around to voguing in the mirror. This morning I remembered as soon as I awoke, and I was so pumped to post a photo of me without the Steven Seagal ponytail and porcupine spiked bangs that I decided to ignore the fact that I was sporting a mad case of bedhead, unbrushed teeth, one of Andrew's mangled J. Crew tee's, and not a single stitch of make up.

I also wanted to use these as a desperate excuse to scream to the interweb about how Mr. Tim Tebow got his hair cut in the exact same chair I sat in at the salon a mere twenty four hours before I did, which I've probably already mentioned to one or two or forty seven people since it happened.

See, I Can Keep It Copasetic

Just in case you're concerned that it's turned all beer bottles and gangsta rap around here.

Say Anything: 16

"If financial success or career advancement are necessary for you, never accept an opportunity from an organization that employs a lot of women." From a private conversation with a college professor of mine and advice that's served me well.

It's All How You Look At It

It was last night.

A beer was poured into a mug with a strawberry resting at the bottom. It was polished off (believe it, sister) just around the time that I finished a thirteen page business plan, which was topped with a sticky note emblazoned with the reminder to BUY MORE ORANGES FOR THE FULL MOON.



I took the trash bins off of the street, put my bicycle inside of the garage, and watered the plants on the porch. I washed the dishes, put the dogs to bed, and dragged the laundry upstairs. The only thing left was The Phone Call, always the last part of my evening.

I told him about my panic, about the market conditions I'd spent the entire day studying, about how I was ready to slice my face off with a butter knife and start my life all over again, most likely with a kangaroo in the outback. I promised to write and take lots of photographs of succulents and koala bears and forget about the foreclosures that were tanking the comps by seventy five percent in more than one of our neighborhoods. "I'm sad," I told him. "And I haven't eaten since this morning and I probably won't sleep until next Sunday."

"A SEVENTY FIVE PERCENT DROP IN THE PRICES?" he gasped. "The only reason that you shouldn't be sleeping is because you are snatching those up!"

And I fell in love with him all over again.

And then I got busy.



(Andrew's all, "YOU DID NOT POST THAT VIDEO, Kelly. KELLY.")