Melted Bead Bowl

While not an addict, per se, I do find myself checking out all things Pinterest once (or twice) a day.  Every so often I see a project, or a nail polish, that grabs me and forces me into immediate compliance.  As was the case with the melted bead bowl.  Now, I know me, and I know I often have big visions and shite results (Turkish Bed Socks I'm looking at you!), so I bought the inexpensive rainbow assortment of melty beads (as opposed to the more tonal colors) and figured if I hit this out of the park then I'd dump the rainbow stuff on the kids and go get me some tonal goodness. 
I followed the directions from as explained in the link above, which were not super detailed, but adequate.  I preheated my oven to 350° F.  Then I went in search of a bowl.  When I found that my Pyrex bowl was dirty, I picked out another glass bowl which I assumed would be oven proof (this assumption proved correct ... whew).  I sprayed that sucker with Pam cooking spray.  Like a lot.  That baby was lubed up.  In fact a little puddle formed at the bottom.  I was worried about the Pam puddle but decided to boldly go forth and ignore it.  Then I dumped in a hand full of beads.  I added a hand full at a time until the bottom was covered.  And then I thought, "SHIT!  Are these all suppose to be oriented in the same way so that they are all side up or hole-end up??"  A glance at the Pinterest picture lead me to think that orientation was not an issue (much like it should not be an issue in marriage, but I digress), and I carried on.  I rotated the bowl and added more beads and pushed down any that rolled to the bottom.  It took some time but eventually I had it up the sides in one even, though not samely oriented, layer. 

And I was ready to approach the oven.  I decided to put my bowl on a cookie tray so that if there was a mass meltdown it, just maybe, might be contained on the tray. Then I baked it.  For ten minutes.  And it still didn't seem melted.  So I took it out, wrapped a ladle in wax paper and mushed the whole thing down.  Then I baked it at 400° F for another five minutes.  Then I set it on the counter to cool.  It popped out no problem, though it was very Pam-tastic and slimy.

At first blush this looks like a great bowl, yes? WRONG! Rotate the bowl and you'll see ... my fingers?

I done lost a chunk of my bowl! And there is there is a line, or fissure, where the sides and bottom don't meet up.  

The actual bottom of the bowl seemed to really have melted and my wax paper ladle mashing seemed to have bonded those puppies together.  So I decided to give this bowl another go.  I rePammed my glass bowl, put the bead bowl back in, replaced the chunk that fell out, added some extra beads on top, put it back in a 400° F oven, started typing up this blog post, and totally forgot about the bowl.  A quick check just revealed some of the beads are LIQUEFIED.  Whoops! I feel like this most recent rendition is going to take quite some time to cool. So, you know, to be continued.

Toilettes

This morning, I had the pleasure of taking mes bébés to The Cheesecake Factory for brunch.  We met up with some awesome friends, the girls got some awesome Christmas presents, and we had an awesome meal.  Sadly, due to Schikabibble's (the current in vogue name for Baby #3) placement directly on top of my bladder, and having a companion who is three and a half years old, there were a couple of not so awesome trips to the loo.  And each and every time, I, or we, were faced with the automatic flushing toilet. 

Now, in principle, the automatic flushing toilet is brilliant.  It cleans up for people who are too dirty, lazy, or germaphobic to actually push the flusher themselves.  In reality, well, in reality, it is never that nice.  For some damn reason, the automatic flushing toilet will never flush, not even once, for the person before me.  When it is my turn, however, the thing will flush a half a dozen times.  Now, let me be clear, I am not a twitchy person, I don't have Tourette's, and I'm not wiggling around when I'm in the stall.  Nonetheless, that toilet flushes like I'm marching a band in there with me.  Inevitably it flushes once I've lined the seat with paper before I've even managed to sit down.  Then once I re-line, it flushes again.  A flush or two while I am going and then another when I stand up.  Each flush, of course, mists my rear end.  So basically I am using a public bidet.  Which, quite frankly, is probably one of the grossest things out there, if there exists such a thing.  A quick google search reveals that though there a lot of complaints about public flushing toilets, there is no technique which prevents such misting mishaps.  I suspect that most people do not feel a need to, proverbially, build a better mousetrap, which is why I am converting, flip flopping, switching alliances.  No longer will I be a line it, sitter.  Nope, from this day forward I shall always be a squatter. 

Touched

If you asked me, I would tell you it has been awhile since I went to a fancy function. If I really thought about it, I'd realize that the last time I did anything fancy, was when I was pregnant. With my first kid. In 2007. Three years ago. Unfortunately, I hadn't really thought about it until it was too late...

When I mentioned to a friend, in passing, that I was going to go a wedding this past weekend, she seemed kind of excited and asked me what kind of dress I bought. THIS SHOULD HAVE RUNG SOME ALARM BELLS IN MY HEAD. Instead, I responded with something along the lines of, "Buy a dress? HAHAHAHA. No, I'm just gonna wear something from my closet." She then said, "Oh. Uh. Oh." AGAIN, WHERE WERE THE ALARM BELLS? A day or two later, another friend asked if I was going to get my nails done and, instead of heeding the silent HELLO!?! YOU NEED TO FANCY YOURSELF UP, I fluffed it off. In the end three different friends asked me about my wardrobe and grooming for the wedding and yet I still found my self climbing into the shower on Saturday afternoon blissfully unaware of the fashion horror show I was going to become.

Saturday, as my shower progressed I was feeling good. In fact, it was only when I was shaving my legs that I thought about my wardrobe and that thought was inane and something like, "Man, I wish I had planned better so I could have borrowed my friend's handknit shawl. That'd be great for a wedding." I had no idea that mere minutes later I would arrive in my closet wearing a towel and a fine sheen of panic as outfit after outfit was deemed TOTALLY HORRIBLY UNACCEPTABLE. Now you might think I am kidding. Being a little facetious. Maybe exaggerating. I remind you, however, that the last time I dressed up I WAS PREGNANT. In fact, the last two times I dressed up I WAS PREGNANT. And before that? My body had not created and ejected TWO HUMAN BEINGS.

I first thought I would go with my LBD (little black dress). The LBD that I wore to my last two functions. Yes, I was pregnant, but the dress was not a maternity dress. It was a fat girl dress from Nordstroms so it should have been fine. WRONG. It was a fat girl dress that took my could-possibly-be-a-baby-or-a-burrito-gut and turned it into a glowing round baby-filled orb. This dress magically gave me a great pregnant belly. And guess what, IT STILL DOES. Now, as hard as it is to believe, I didn't want to show up at the wedding looking nine months pregnant.

So I decided to dig further into the recesses of my closet. Which revealed many casual skirts, three fancy skirts that were either too small or too big, one fancy skirt which fit but was IRIDESCENTLY SEQUINED, and one slightly big but doable skirt that was SHIMMERY METALLIC. In other words, NO SKIRTS. Also, where the fuck did I use to go that I thought a sequined or metallic ass was the way to go? In case you're curious, I am keeping those two skirts should I find myself in those kind of places again.

When the skirt thing tanked, I decided to take a different tack and look at tops. The results where just as dismal. Though without the bling. I could pour myself into some Saran Wrap which would not-so-lovingly show off every roll and budge, or I could wear a circus tent.

In the end I went with tight-in-the-gut, loose-in-the-thigh, a-smidge-too-short, black pants that belong to my old black suit and an asymmetrical, YES, ASYMMETRICAL, top that was black with white ovals on it. As if the "artsy" ovals were not unfortunate enough, the asymmetry left one side dangling below my hip and the other side hiked up at my waist, above my pants line.

In an attempt to counter-balance my hapless outfit, I decided to blow out my normally curly hair. Great idea, right? Wrong. All of a sudden it turned into this limp, long, stringy mess with many MANY short post-pregnancy hair-fall-out-new-regrowth-strands sticking up. Since it flopped into my eyes, I decided a clip was the way to go. A clip, holding back a poof. A poof like Sarah Palin's. Only Sarah Palin has a hell of a lot more hair than I do and the hair that she has doesn't dangle limply. I tried to compensate for my thin limp hair by making my poof bigger. All I can say is that this was a mistake.

So, in summary, I went to the wedding for one of the guy's who works for my husband, whom I had never met, and sat with a bunch of the other guys that work for my husband, that I had never met, wearing ill fitting clothes and donning a coif that even 1980's Jersey girls would have shunned.

Please learn from my shame. Buy a new outfit for a fancy event. No excuses.

Small Things

For the last month(ish) I have been in a super, duper, sour-puss mood. I am grumpy and surly and negative. I am easy to anger and basically no fun to be around. I hear myself and my nastiness and yet I can't stop it from spewing forth. Delightful, eh? I suspect, or at least I hope, a lot of this is from not sleeping well since my kids have conspired to have me up every hour or so to help with those oh so meaningful middle of the night tasks like blanket unwrinkling or binky retrieval. I am tired of being a grump and am kind of sick of myself. Nonetheless, I haven't been able to stem my tide of vitriol. Last night, however, both midgets managed to spend the entire night asleep and without need for assistance and I am using that as my impetus to turn things around. Or at least try. Granted, I am so not Miss Mary Sunshine to begin with but at least I can fake it. And, in my first attempt at faking joviality, I am going to list one good thing that makes me happy ... vacuum lines in the carpet. Okay, so maybe that is lame. But honestly, there is something about seeing fresh vacuum lines in my carpet that makes me feel a little better about the world.

Six Random Things

1) I like silly bandz. I bought some on a lark for LB and decided to give her one when she did something good on her own and without my pleading. On a good day she would end up with five or six of them which, at the end of the day, I would take back so that I could start again on the next day. This worked out until she started breaking and losing them and I kind of decided that I liked them. Now we are running out and I don't have enough for her or for me. Which makes me sad. Yes, I am sad because I only have a few of my two year daughter's animal shaped rubber bands left to wear on my wrist. Can you say loser?

2) I have a kitchen in my garage. Well not a functioning one. And, not one with appliances. Fine, I have a bunch of kitchen cabinets and some granite counter tops in my garage. Some how when everything was stored, the island was stored properly, which is to say it is a functioning island with cabinets and a top. A functioning island that now has two days worth of mail and six bottles of soda sitting on it. My point: an island is rather useful in the garage.

3) I have reknit my short-row heel and made it larger. I like it enough that I have started the second heel.

4) I have also started a garden. I PLANTED STUFF IN THE GROUND. WHERE BUGS LIVE. Mind you the majority of my garden consists of herbs in containers. But still, there are some chives, basil, parsley and oregano IN THE BUG FILLED GROUND.

5) TD seems to have mastered the art of sitting up. Mere hours after we were at her pediatrician's and I stated that she in fact could not sit up for squat. Note I also stated she couldn't eat food. She made sure I knew this statement was one hundred percent true as she took her first ever bite of banana, spit it out, and then projectile vomited on me. A lot.

6) There are twenty-one episodes of Law and Order in my DVR. Every single one of them is from 1994 or earlier and has Michael Moriarty as the prosecutor. I watched those shows when they were first shown and thought they were great. Now I watch them and think they are great, yet dated. Stuff from my teenage years feels dated. HOLY FUCK.

Pretty

Happy Mother's Day!

Oh For The Love Of Cookies

My poor sweet LB just can't seem to catch a break. First she got tossed about in the car accident, then she got a nasty stomach virus, and now she has an upper respiratory virus. In an attempt to be more empathetic I am trying to concentrate on her being my poor, sweet, pitiful sick girl and not the whiny brat who has passed on her funk to the rest of the family. Which ever way I look at it though, it has meant a string of cancellations for things we had planned to host. Can you say SUCK?

The latest thing to bite the dust was our monthly dinner gathering wherein we were hosting Mardi Gras night. To say I was psyched about this would be an understatement. I picked February solely because I wanted to do a Mardi Gras theme. I had planned a Bloody Mary Bar and was going to make vats of Hurricanes and a King Cake. I had beads! And masks! So canceling made me sad. Very sad. Knowing how disappointed I was, my husband sent me the following politically incorrect e-mail (an e-mail which reminded me that yes, I am married to the right man):

I’m sorry about having to cancel. I know you were looking forward to it. Maybe we can take the one in June and make it a South Africa World Cup theme. That way, we wouldn’t have to provide food.

Get it? Famine?

Try the veal. I’ll be here all week.

Clues

When I looked and saw that I had poop under my fingernail? That's when I knew the day was taking a down turn.

Vacuous

Silence has reigned supreme over here. I think because I am out of the blogging habit. Also, because I have had nothing of import to report, or rather, nothing funny. LB has started talking in her sleep which sends me into fits of giggles, but is not funny to the casual observer. I did have a mole removed on my knee that is "abnormal" and now a bigger chunk is going to be removed, which is totally hysterical, no? No? Oh, um, well. Peanut butter jelly time, peanut butter jelly time. Let's see, a while back we had a girls' weekend in Boston and went wedding dress shopping for Kay. It was a good time but I can't remember making an ass of myself in such way that would be worthy of blogging. Uh, I went to Florida to see Depeche Mode in concert. It was fun and I found out that I am attracted to rock stars who are gay and dance like gay men channeling Buffalo Bill (check out his dance around 2:17 and then 2:30, somehow it is hot on Dave Gahan and not so creepy, or maybe I am twisted, or both). Right. You don't want to hear me gush about Dave and his hot gay serial killer vibe like a thirteen year old girl rhapsodizing about ... Zac Efron? Who do thirteen year old girls rhapsodize about?

Despite the lack of funny, I have had some crazy. Well not Crazy, actually that is not true, I did get a note from Crazy. She forwarded me some junk mail with a note pointing out that Office Manager had failed to mail the stuff to me and congratulating me on The Deuce. I never mentioned that to OM, or even Kay, because I have decided not to share stuff that serves no purpose other than to hurt someone's feelings. Which sounds virtuous, but is not. Recently someone opined that I was "ripped off" on some repair work and I was really ticked. Why would you say that to someone? Let's assume that I did get ripped off, it's too late to do anything about it now. Do you honestly think that telling me that I was bent over is somehow constructive or going to benefit me in any way? No, you're telling me that to make yourself look good. You apparently know so much more that I do and would not have been ripped off. You are awesome and I am a schmuck. That is what you are saying. As it happens, I did not, in fact, get ripped off, I did get pissed though and have decided that I am better than this other person and so shall no longer say stuff that serves no purpose other than to make someone else feel like an assheel. So you see, this prohibition on sharing certain information is rather self-serving, and not virtuous. Also, for what it's worth, there is a good chance that someone at some point is going to piss me off and I am going to say something mean just to be mean because I am not virtuous and that is how I roll. Anyway, I digress. A lot. Though I got a letter from Crazy, it was sans gift, and not like the crazy I was going to share. Crazy, as in my own personal and not the person, has been visiting me in the late night hours and THAT is where I was intending to go.

You see, lately I have had the urge to spend. Or rather to buy. Stuff. Stuff I don't need, but I like and I want. Being 'retired' means that we are on a budget and I can't buy frivolous fun things a la Louis Vuitton. Well I could, but I'd be fiscally stupid, so I've restrained myself thus far. Also, I don't think I could sneak a purse, let alone a new car, by my husband without him noticing something was up and then I would have to explain and well, just no. So I've been good and not gone on a spending spree. That being said, from 4:00 a.m. to 6:30 a.m., when I am awaken with an urge to pee and am the unable to fall back asleep (DAMN YOU PREGNANCY INSOMNIA!), I try to plead with Lottery Karma. This is the part where I dance with crazy, not there part where I want to buy pretty things because really, that's not crazy. Anyway, at this queer time of the day ... morning ... night ... whatever, I explain to the voice in my head (a sign crazy could be in play), which I think that Lottery Karma (like Santa Claus? come on! crazy!) can hear, that I don't need to win hundreds of millions of dollars. No, I only need a few hundred thousand - after taxes of course - so that I can pay off our student loans, and mortgage, and car. It all seems so logical in the moment. I'm not being greedy. Just asking for a nugget to pay off our debt so that I can live a lifestyle that I'd like to live. Basically I am negotiating with my own inner monologue regarding a fictional influx of a large amount of money. Obviously this is crazy and I know it. This, however, will not stop my silent conversation tonight.

Bubble

I had a dream (stories that start like this ALWAYS suck, I KNOW. Do you care about my dream? No. Oh well.) about Twitter. And in my dream, I set up a Twitter page/account/thingamajig and then added it to my blog and I said to my dream self, "You should do this in real life." So, of course, I did. But here's the thing, what in the hell does one do on Twitter and who do you follow (well other than Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore)? Those are serious questions for which I'd love someone, anyone, you, to answer.

In the meantime, I am thinking that maybe I should delete my Twitter account and set one up for the Bean or for Dogbert. They'd probably be a lot more interesting. But this is something I will have to ponder later as I must now go stop the Bean from chasing the dog while carrying a (full) plug-in air freshener and a bottle of white-out. I can't see it ending well.

Ostentatious

Summer is here and I was thinking ... limos have pools in the back, why can't our Accord?



If you look closely, you can tell that Honda was thinking the same thing ... there is a hook for your towel off to the right.

Inane

Recent song lyrics that made me say, WHAT?

• I wanna take a ride on your disco stick.
  
• Birthday sex ... Birthday sex ... It feels like, feels like... lemme hit that...g-spot g-spot.

Things I've said that made the me think, WHAT?

• Please don't pet the cat on his butthole.
  
• Spit out the dog food. Now!
  
• Don't put the plug in your mouth.
  
• Oh, I thought it was because you smelled like a stripper.

Facebook status updates I've thought but not published.
sub-category: scatological

• I smell poop.
  
• I need to poop.
  
• My kid is trying to kill me with the smell of her poop.
  
• A diet of 100% blueberries will give you navy/violet poop.

sub-category: I'm a bitch

• People who post scripture as their status are unoriginal sheep.
  
• I don't give a fuck about your weather.
  
• You are not half as funny as you think you are.
  
• I still don't give a fuck about your weather.

Enough Already

This whole camera abduction is bordering on the ridiculous. Seriously. I finished yet another pair of sparkly peds of which I cannot blog about since I STILL don't have my camera! I also cannot show you that yes, herbs can be killed in a matter of days, even herbs that are "unkillable weeds." Dill weed I am talking to you, you dying piece of crap! Do I really need to buy another camera, again? This would camera number four. In like, less than four years. The only person I know with less luck with cameras is Joan. And her luck only runs bad when she is drinking. I haven't been drinking. Hell,  I lost the damn thing in my own house  it was abducted by aliens in my own house. And it's not like I don't have a million other things I would like to buy ... various articles of clothing, several cute pairs of shoes, a fancy schmancy stroller, which, with the extra seat attachment and all the accoutrements, costs as much as a cheap used car, a private yoga instructor, and a not-so-cheap used car. Obviously being 'retired' makes buying non-essential things impossible, or at least fiscally stupid, so I've restrained myself thus far. But the camera thing, it isn't an issue of desire, a camera is a need. But then it becomes, do I need another crappy point and shoot, or do I need a nice camera? Being that the camera lasts about six minutes in these parts, crappy point and shoot is the smart, though very boring, thing to get.

Crunchberries

I feel like my brain is slowly turning to Swiss cheese. It used to be a nice blue cheese, moldy in places, but still solid. Now the mold has given way to big ole holes. I thought about recounting a funny tale so that I could show myself that my brain does in fact fire on all six cylinders, okay, who are we kidding, all four. But I can't think of a funny thing. I mean, yes, Lady Bean does funny things but they are only funny to me. The lie down game, which sounds suspiciously pervy, is hysterical, to me and her, but you, you would sit there scratching your head, going uh, okay. So, that leaves me here. Jamming out to Lionel Ritchie. When is the last time you jammed out to Lionel Ritchie? Exactly. Swiss fucking cheese I tell you.

I'm Not a Bear

Today I went for a walk with the kid and the dog. It was a lovely day for a walk and all was well until I had to pee. And I mean, I HAD TO PEE. Well, when push came to shove, I decided to pee in the woods. But I wasn't really sure where to go. I mean, I couldn't exactly pee right there on the trail, but I also had a dog and a kid in a stroller so I couldn't really go off-roading either. Which is how I decided to pee here ...



My cellphone camera photo quality is kinda shitty; it is empty state wildlife restoration area with a short path into the woods. Now I am not exactly sure what "wildlife restoration area" means as there were signs all over the place about needing your hunting license and what kind of stuff you could kill, and to me, that seems like the opposite of "restoration" but then, what the hell do I know. Me, I like wildlife, behind bars or really thick sheets of glass. So if you some how are restoring it by killing it, well, more power to ya. In any event, being that you could kill stuff, I figured a little pee wouldn't be too objectionable. And, really, the local was perfect. I was able to squat behind the stroller and view the path while at the same time shielding myself. I mean, as far as imprompto outdoor pees, I thought I was doing okay. And I think this totally sounds reasonable. Well, until you realize that there was a porta-potty about 10 yards away.



Now it could have been a spotless porta-potty, I have no idea. I chose to bypass the porta-potty because I had a kid and a dog and though I could have tied the dog to a tree, I don't think I could have done that with my kid. And I most absolutely, positively was not bringing her in there. Not gonna happen. There is no way that I could have held her and done what I had to do without one of us touching something bad. And, now, that you know why I bypassed the porta-loo, this all still seems reasonable, yes? Nothing bad had happened. Nothing evil or demented. Peeing in the woods, logical and a-okay.

So why is it that not twenty yards further down the path, I stepped on a dead field mouse? Why did mother nature feel the need to seek revenge? It was just a little pee. Heck, I haven't even had asparagus in weeks. And yet, there in the middle of the path, unknown to me, was a dead mouse (presumably) the size of a large marble. A dead mouse which was the color of asphalt. A dead mouse which was in my path. A dead mouse which I squished deader. While wearing flip flops no less. I can't begin to tell you how mentally scarred I am. I mean, I am the woman that can not step on a roach because, Holy fuckadiddle, the squish and the crunch and no! I don't step on shit. It just isn't me, I scream and I run and I sometimes jump up an down while screaming and running. So mother nature, she really picked a great revenge. I could have taken a picture of the carnage with my cell phone, but honestly, I never want to see that shit again. I mean just knowing that such an image could be stumbled upon in my phone, well, no. I have such vivid sensory memory of the feel and sound of the crunchy squish, that a picture, so not necessary.

So, the moral of my tale of woe is that you should not pee in the woods. No matter how bad you have to go, even if you're pregnant, you just have to hold it.

Who Knew

I had no idea that diapers expire. And, I'm not sure what exactly happens if you use one after it expires. But I am sure that I returned these bad boys. Because whatever it is that does happen when you use an expired diaper, it can't be good.

Count the Ways

#15,874th way to freak out your husband:



Start to organize your nail polish 'stash' but don't finish before he gets home.

Um ... ?

Remember THE Christmas stocking? The stocking that I truly had a love/hate relationship with? And do you remember the designer of the stocking? The designer who thought I was a moron for wet blocking the stocking? The designer who was going to send me a replacement kit as an act of goodwill despite my supposed dimness? 'Member that? Well, last night as I was  lying   laying  lounging in bed, I realized ... FUCK GOOD WILL! She never sent me the stocking kit.

Also, and totally unrelated to the above, I think I may be stuck in the 90's.



Since when did $1.69 become a "GREAT PRICE" for a two liter jug of Coke? $1.69 is great? Really? That seems like a rip-off gas station/convenience store price to me. 99¢? Now that is a GREAT PRICE.

And also unrelated to both of the above, but lingering in my subconscious because of the use of the word "great" ...



Check out my baby's hair do!?! Now that is Grrreeeaaatt! I took that picture with my CrackBerry and didn't think the quality would be all that great (which it's not, obviously, no duh, I KNOW), so I busted out the "real camera." And yes, I use "scare quotes" because my camera is only real in the sense that it takes pictures. It is a point and click and not anything like the real deals that Stalkarazzi use and that I covet. But I digress, I busted out the camera that is only a camera and not a phone and yet, the pictures, still pretty phone like in quality ...



Anyway, I liked the hair do. It made me smiled but LB screamed her lungs empty when I made? crafted? concocted? placed? (what does one do to a ponytail?) the ponytail, and thus, it was loose and was undone before we left the house.

A (bad) Poem

Nose, congested to the umpteenth degree. Air does not pass.
Daughter, napping finally. Screamed herself to sleep.
Husband, feverish and working. Needs to feel better soon.
Ceiling, being painted. It better not suck.
Knitting, a possibility this eve. If I live that long.

MIA

Dear Unknown Entity/Force:

Please quitting eating our socks, one at a time. If you really must, and by must I mean that you really need to eat our socks, this is a survival issue and not something you and your pals are doing for a good time, if you really must eat our socks, could you just take a pair? If one fills you up, save the other for later. A snack or even desert? If that's not good, then maybe you could store the extras, a baby sock might be an amuse-bouche next time? It would really be quite kind of you as this current one-at-a-time thing is making my eye twitch.

Sincerely,
SPR

P.S. Also, have you seen the middle of the foam O?