Ever since my first viewing of Christmas Vacation, I have longed for a house shrouded in lights. Due to a lack of outlets and a husband with safety concerns, this year I conceded that I was going to settle for a roof outlined in lights. Because of the hubs’ aforementioned safety concerns and his height, he is not a fan of ladders and rooftops. In my continuing efforts to be helpful, I decided to put lights around the roof myself.

Obstacle 1: he hid the staple gun. Obstacle 2: a fully extended metal ladder is much harder to get angled up to the roof then one would expect and wobbles scarily once it is in place–even when being held by a giggling, dedicated Bratchild. Obstacle 3: roofs are slantier than one would expect from the ground. Obstacle 4: Once I overcame the staple gun issue by finding sticky hanger things, I couldn’t figure out how I was supposed to lean over the edge of the roof to attach them and then string the lights. Obstacle 5: pants.

Never one to be dissuaded by practicalities, I persevered.

As I was shimmying/crawling/starting to weep along the roofline, my spiffy don’t jiggle it when you wiggle it Old Navy bootcut yoga pants became entangled in my grippy bottom athletic shoes and caused me to stumble. I forced myself into a sitting position and was frozen in terror. Visions of best Christmas magic lights ever were replaced with bloody images of my skull on concrete. I actually physically couldn’t move.

Bratchild: Mom, are you okay?
Me: Nope, I’m stuck.
Bratchild: On what? Just come down.
Me: Can’t. Ladder will move and I will fall and die.
Bratchild: I told you this was a bad idea.
Me: Not helpful.
Bratchild: I’m going to take a picture. Does your phone have a video camera?
Me: No.
Bratchild: (squealing and cackling) It does! It does! Admit this was a stupid idea and I will come hold the ladder. I want it on video.
Me: Santa is not even going to wrap your presents in Bieber paper if you keep this up, he just won’t come. (In years past, I would have called Santa but my phone was safely on the ground whereas I was not.)
Bratchild: I’m going to call Poppy. (Dialing, chatting) He wants to know if he should call 911?
Me: I’m not a cat stuck on a tree branch!
Bratchild: He says to come down backwards.
Me: Hang up and come hold the ladder. You know what? Maybe I don’t have to use the ladder? I could just sort of roll into those azalea bushes. I think they would break my fall?
Bratchild: Mom. No.
Me: Really it’s these pants that are the problem, I keep getting tangled in them and they are tripping me up. Do you think I should take my pants off?
Bratchild: I think if you try to take your pants off while you are stuck on the roof you are for sure going to fall.

She eventually coaxed me down the wildly wobbling ladder which by then I was too tired to move. When my ex-husband came to pick up bratchild for dinner I met him at the door and asked him to move the ladder. When he wanted to know why, I explained I needed it down before J got home. He countered with it wasn’t like Bratchild wasn’t going to tell him I was on the roof and while I conceded that yes, that was true, it was entirely different to see something actually on fire than to know it had once been on fire but had since been handled. He shook his head but did move the ladder for me.

My holiday safety tip for you? Avoid pants. And sensible shoes.

Our elf, Bertram, is very chill. Sometimes he hangs out in the same place for a couple of days. I like to say it’s because he found a good vantage point. Sometimes he’s tough to find. He never makes messes or does “clever” things because, unlike some parents, we get the point of having an elf. The elf is a means to terrorize your children into behaving. (And Bratchild isn’t even a badly behaving child! But still!) PB (pre-Bertram) I would have to call Santa Claus and have conversations with him, of course within Bratchild’s earshot. Now I have an elf to do that shit for me. SO WHY would you have an elf tear up shit, make messes, write on windows, et al when he’s supposed to be the ENFORCER not the ENABLER? I don’t understand and I digress.

Back in the dark ages, when we were the only peeps with an elf, there were only boy elfs. Now they make skirts. Bertram is a boy. But that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t enjoy a skirt. The hubs wears skirts, well, kilts at any rate. So why can’t Bertram? Pictured is the 2011 Claus Couture Collection Skirt, it would seem there is a 2012 edition as well. Ridiculous much?

Regardless, Bratchild and I were at Barnes and Noble heatedly debating Bertram’s desire for a skirt:

Me: But he wants a skirt. He told me.
Bratchild: Mom. He’s a boy. That’s stupid.
Me: BUT he whaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnntttttttsssssssssss ooooooonnnnnnnnnnne. (I hadn’t thought of the J skirt argument at this point.)
Bratchild: No.
Me: But he toooooooooollllllldddddd me so.
Bratchild: Mom. No.
Me: Who do you think he talks to more? Me or you?
Bratchild: You are not getting him a skirt.
Me: FINE. When he doesn’t come this year it will be because you aren’t supportive of his life choices. (a few seconds later) I could accent it with glitter?!?!
Bratchild: Can we go to Target?
Me: We don’t need to since you don’t want Bertram to be happy. You’ll wish he had a skirt when he decides to wrap all your presents in Justin Bieber wrapping paper making you not want to open them. Or maybe girls who deny elfs the right to skirts don’t even get presents. We will see.

We left the store, skirt-less to say the least, but I am not defeated yet. What’s wrong with being fancy? Maybe if I made him a kilt that would be more acceptable to the bratty brattiest bratchild? This skirt, ahem kilt, looks elvish, no?

For me it’s quite simple: as long as you are not hurting a creature or thing that is unable–be it due to age, health, intelligence, etc–to defend themselves or say what they want, I don’t really care what you do.

I also don’t discuss religion. See above.

On to my point on politics. As I said,  I rarely discuss them but feel like, for me, it’s necessary to speak out.  Rather than the hatred and vitriol thats’s spewed upon other human beings, the mass defriendings (gasp!) on Facebook, the generic Republicans are evil, Democrats are dumb; shouldn’t there be a little more party in the political parties?

In my opinion, the fact that we are ALL entitled to our own opinion is what makes us Americans. To me, that is worthy of celebration. I’d love to hear more champagne corks flying and less insults.

And holy shit ya’ll: what does that say about this country when things have to be “Facebook Official” and, the majority of the time, those things are ones that would never be uttered aloud to another person?

In this election season, at no point in time have I felt warred upon by a politician or a party; whether I agreed with them or not. The only time I have felt attacked is by the ignorance and broad comments people feel the need to share on the internet. It’s curious to me how many people only support a woman’s right to choose, in any matter, when her choices agree with their beliefs. What was the point of suffrage and the feminist movement? Too many seem to think it was so there could be a “feminist standard.” For me, I believe a woman has the right to choose her life: whether it be barefoot and pregnant or commanding the country. Women, and all Americans, deserve the right to choose for themselves the life they wish to lead. Pursuit of happiness doesn’t mean the same thing to everyone…and wouldn’t it be boring if it did?

When it comes to voting, and so many aspects of life, I don’t think there are right or wrong answers. There are only YOUR answers and your choices. And that’s the benefit of freedom.

So tonight, I hope you all celebrate your patriotism in a positive way. I’ll be enjoying my new reading material, a little Chardonnay and some paper mache.

Peace.

Monsoon season came to Huntsville Monday. As I picked bratchild up from school, the bottom fell out and we were engulfed in what one weather-watcher dubbed “frog-strangling rains.” I found myself in need of a giant cardboard tube, big ass cardboard boxes and foam sheet insulation along with the foam that I couldn’t recall its name but described it to the helpful Home Depot staff through a mixture of chipmunk cheeks, Stay Puft Marshmallow Man movements and whoosh, whoosh whoosh sounds. My impromptu game of construction charades led them to deduce that I needed Great Stuff Expandable Foam.

Because I am not allowed to use power tools, wood was out of the question for creating a coffin and the witch cutout as seen on Martha Stewart. (I’m sure Martha is allowed to use power tools or at the very least has minions.) Mine is going to be slightly different from the below as I am making two witches and a cauldron.

I decided to create my coffin, witch et al from 4 foot by 8 foot sheets of foam insulation that I would spray paint. (Regular styrofoam can’t be spray painted but I am pretty sure this kind can be.) Cut to Bratchild and I staring at the sheets of insulation. I was convinced they would fit in my car, Bratchild said they wouldn’t and I should call Poppy (my dad) since J was at work. When I called to ask what he was doing, he wanted to know why and when I asked him to come to Home Depot, he muttered and hung up the phone. Note: he wasn’t being mean when he hung up the phone, several people in my family just end conversations that way. (Turns out Bratchild was right and the sheets barely fit in my dad’s SUV/truck thing. In addition to lettering and bow tying, I also fail at dimensions.)

So, still in the pouring rain, we were loading insulation sheets, big ass cardboard boxes and a 12-inch diameter four-foot long tube PLUS spray paint and Great Stuff. No one was particularly happy with me. After telling me he was changing his number, dad took Bratchild in his car while I swam back to mine.

The result? A fashionable look I call drowned rat OR strangled frog. (My Lilly Pulitzer Murfee pictured below, coincidentally, is one with frogs in the print.)

In other news, I broke out the Great Stuff Expandable Foam last night and it is SO MUCH FUN.

I am not overly fond of our Goodwill. It’s over-priced,  smells terrible AND they leave stuff sitting outside in the rain forever which may account for the offending odor. I much prefer the Greater Huntsville Humane Society Thrift Store or the one on North Parkway, the name of which always escapes me, but it’s the one where the man laid down behind my car, tried to pretend I ran him over and then starting hitting my window asking for money. I didn’t hit him but even if I had, I never carry cash.

ANYWAYS–so bratchild and I were wandering around the store trying to find a dress shirt to go with the white tux with tails that I purchased at another non-smelly thrift store. I am not a quiet person. I’ve been described as having two volume levels: playground and arena. This will play a role in the following events.

Bratchild: What are we looking for? (She knows it’s best to keep me focused.)
Me: A men’s dress shirt. White or black, plain. Hmmm, I don’t really know what size but he’s super skinny so it probably doesn’t matter much. I don’t want to spend much since it won’t really be seen as he’s wearing it with that white tux, top hat and a sequined bow tie.

This is when the first Goodwill shopper looked at me with crazed curiosity in his eyes and fell in line behind my seductive shopping song.

Me: I mean, really, he’s just a skeleton. Does it really matter what he wears? He’s just going to be there for people to look at. No, that shirt won’t work. It has a stain and I don’t want to go to the trouble of washing it before I force it on him.

A Goodwill employee joined in the parade…

Me: Do we even have to buy him a men’s shirt? Maybe we could just stick him in a ladies shirt? He is super little and won’t know the difference. It’s not like he knows better. And I don’t really care if he likes it or not.

At this point, FOUR people were following from afar like a slow-moving zombie horde.

Me: (as we walk by the shoes) I didn’t even think about shoes? Does he even have feet? I would think he does but since he’s going to be wired to a chair or mounted to a post somehow, I don’t think the size matters. Since he’s missing his ribs, is he missing feet as well? If he has feet, we can just shove something on him. Though I would like to figure out a way to have him hold a tray of drinks or something. Anything he wears will be an improvement on the tattered prison garb he’s currently sporting. Though we may have to scrape the kerchief bit off his head–they must have glued that on him.

At this point in time, I noticed the crowd we had amassed and I started giggling uncontrollably. I replayed my statements in my head and came to the realization that these people probably thought I was pulling an Angelina Jolie and was adopting some child from a third world country that I was going to dress up and have stand on the veranda of my plantation home in his tux greeting guests and passing out Bounce sheets from a beribboned basket. I imagine they all had cell phones at the ready to dial DHR, Homeland Security, the TSA or anyone else they could think of…

Now that I was envisioning myself as a psychotic Pied Piper, we decided to leave. The best part? The Goodwill gang will never know I was shopping for him:

I was in a sorority and had many, many friends who were frat boys so the term isn’t a slur, it’s just a descriptor. In the South, we have a very specific type of frat boy: more often than not he drives a truck or an SUV but even if he drives a smaller car–they all have some sort of accessory rack for luggage, bikes, coolers, dead deer, etc somewhere on the vehicle. They also wear visors, always have croakies attached to their shades and, more often than not, have a black lab. It’s like they’re gifted these things at initition or something. Hooray, you survived hell week: have a black lab and a bow tie.

So when I saw a dog shitting in my yard that WAS  a black lab and was attached to a visor/croakie wearing tan boy–I knew it was one of the frat boys from down the street who, coincidentally live next door to my OTHER neighborhood nemesis aka the dude that got in a standoff with the police and then hit my car. I should probably just consider avoiding that region of the neighborhood.

I scrambled down the stairs to yell at him and as I opened the front door was punched in the face by the terrible odor of the poop his obviously gastrointestinally-challenged dog had left like breadcrumbs across my yard and driveway. He ignored me. That was his first mistake. I was wearing a swimsuit and flip-flops so I wasn’t about to take off running after the fit frat boy. Instead I grabbed my car keys and followed him down the street, careening wildly into his driveway and almost taking out a frog holding a gazing ball that must have been left by the previous owners. He reacted with the appropriate look of terror because until you’ve had a 35-year-old sweaty, no makeup wearing, crazy-eyed lady almost kill you and your frog with her big white Lexus, I don’t know that you’ve really lived. (This brings about the first life lesson of this post: it’s always more fun to be terrifying when you look cute. Slap on some lip gloss, brush your hair, pull yourself together. A little cleavage never hurt.)

I explained to him that I expected him to clean up after his dog, that we didn’t behave like that in this neighborhood and that yes, it was more than four little nuggets and that perhaps Bo, all frat boys name their dogs Bo if they aren’t named that themselves, could stand a visit to the vet.

After I arrived home, I called J to inform him that I was now in an altercation with the frat boys down the street, explained what happened and told him that if he came home and Bratchild and I were collecting giant piles of Clifford poo from the backyard, I didn’t want him to be confused. Remarkably, J wasn’t confused in the least or even surprised when I told him that if the frat boy didn’t clean up his dog’s poo, I was going to collect some of our dog’s piles and place them around his front yard. I always like to keep J informed. I’ve also been known to make notes of people I feel look suspicious in case I go missing.

As I awaited the frat boy’s return I let Clifford, our ginormous Rottweiler mix rescue dog, sit in the front door to greet him when he returned. Clifford, who people often think is scary because of his size, did his part well and let out very loud, very terrifying, very deep barks that caused the frat boy to scurry to scoop the poop and race down the street with the poop sack, and his visor, trailing behind him. (Next life lesson? Have a bigger dog than your nemesis.)

Below: Clifford not looking terrifying just eyeing me with disdain.

Plus, one person who comments on this post will be chosen at random to receive a piece of art created by me. I’m offering up this Fairy Follies Theatre created with the Small Nouveau Theatre Collage Sheet as well as the Small Diorama Box; both from Alpha Stamps.

With the glittering gold and punches of red, it reminds me of some of the gorgeous gypsy supplies, currently on sale,  including FIVE new collage sheets designed especially for this swap. The goodies were all so gorgeous I had a hard time picking and choosing for my design team projects. They’re all so fun and inspiring that I have so many ideas I’ve decided to participate in the swap myself. It will be my first-ever swap and I can’t want to see everyone’s stunning creations.

With the gypsy theme, I knew I wanted to do something with a crystal ball so I decided to create one. I use a plastic ornament and placed the gypsy inside the ball for a change. The ball is perched upon some teeny tiny dice on a table made from a Mega Bottle Cap that has dominoes for legs. Of course a gypsy has got to have beads and fringe, so the table trim is the fun and fabulous Yellow Gold Beaded Fringe.

For my other project I used the Concertina ChipBoard Pennants to construct a Gypsy Caravan. As you can see here, you can peer inside to see the fortunes being spun and told. I also used the Card Players Collage Sheet, the Gypsy Beauty Collage Sheet, the Talisman Collage Sheet, the Queen of Hearts #3 Collage Sheet  and several other selections from the gorgeous Gypsy theme.

I’ve got my eye on several other components for the Gypsy Swap including the Brass Halo, the Indian Matchbook Labels, the Iridescent Moon Mix and the Phrenology Collage Sheet. I do hope you’ll join this glittering gypsy gang and take part in the swap. What Alpha Stamps products have caught your eye?

Click here to visit the other Design Team Member’s Blogs!

It has often been remarked that I need a handler. Or a TV show. But never both at the same time because THAT would defeat the purpose. My sister and I LOVE “Gilmore Girls.” Along with “Buffy,” “Arrested Development,” “Veronica Mars” and lately, “GCB,” it is up there with one of my most missed shows. I’m sure you remember Suki but what you may NOT remember is that, particularly in the early seasons, people in the kitchen sort of did their best to make sure she wasn’t injured, didn’t set things on fire, get rendered unconscious with a pan, slip on a banana peel–you know, normal kitchen-y things.

Ever since setting our kitchen floor on fire WITH a Pop Tart when I was just a wee lass, and then as a teenager setting a fire in a home where I was babysitting because those high-maintenance children demanded popcorn popped on a stove with oil and not in a microwave as God intended, that since I lacked a handler–I would avoid the kitchen. Much like I fear shower curtains, because no good comes from them, I also have decided avoidance is the best policy when it comes to kitchens.

With J in Afghanistan, the bratchild, I mean Miss Brown, and I have a routine. We get up. She gets ready for swim practice and applies her own sunscreen. Can I just say praise the LORD and pass the waffles that she’s old enough to handle that on our own? Sunscreening children, though necessary, is awful. She has been applying her continuous spray sunscreen in our kitchen which didn’t give me any pause. See above: kitchen avoidance. The other day I innocently ventured in their to water my orchid while wearing my highest pair of wedges: The Lilly Pulitzer Picture Perfect Espadrille.  And they are: practically perfect in every way. Or they WERE, until the unfortunate attempt on my life and all that.

Miss Brown chose to bring about my demise a few weeks ago as I sauntered through our kitchen in my fabulous footwear toting my iPad and three ice cubes for my orchid when, unbeknownst, to me I hit a slick patch. I screamed, the iPad went straight up in the air, the ice cubes flew everywhere and I scrambled, after a brief airborne experience, to land exactly on my right kneecap, my hands and somehow my forehead. I remained in that position for some time because I was unable to move and was trying to figure out what had attacked me. While being so up close and personal with our hardwood floor, I glanced to my left ever so slightly to see a mysterious puddle/oil slick/foggy substance coating the area from which I had recently been launched. At this time, Miss Brown, felt it important to confess that yes, she had been applying sunscreen in the house and did I think it had something to do with my current predicament. Ummm…YES.

The thing is my knee still really hurts (two weeks later) and it feels itchy, numb and sore on the inside and all at the same time. I also think it has a lumpy spot making my knee look fat. When I attempt to scratch it (from the outside people, I am not cutting myself open) there’s a weird owwwowwwwOWIE feeling coupled with a why is that spot numb. Also? My right ankle is the one that is STILL injured/won’t move certain ways and clicks with certain motions from when that sidewalk in New York City reached out and grabbed ahold of me. Life lesson: while alcohol certainly has medicinal properties, it will not cure tiny shards of bone caused by the mean streets of NYC. Instead of guzzling wine, I should have explored medical care. A lesson only partially learned as this go-round, I didn’t guzzle wine BUT I also didn’t seek medical attention. So any doctors out there? How do I make my knee not itchy/owie/numb?

One day, I will live encased in bubble wrap while wearing a helmet as suggested by Boot Camp Joe.

Shoes may actually be the death of me.

]]> http://amyblam.com/2012/07/12/it-was-miss-brown-in-the-kitchen-with-the-sunscreen/feed/ 0 amyblam clue pp http://amyblam.com/2012/07/09/and-now-i-have-to-get-a-tuxedo-altered-for-a-skeleton/ http://amyblam.com/2012/07/09/and-now-i-have-to-get-a-tuxedo-altered-for-a-skeleton/#comments Mon, 09 Jul 2012 13:11:53 +0000 AmyBlam http://amyblam.com/?p=1350 ]]> I’ve accepted the fact that things happen to me that are often ridiculous and that, more often than not, it’s my own doing. The other day, bratchild and I were going to go to thrift stores and Mary’s (a junk/antique/bead emporium) to look for crap and to try, again, to find a smallish cheap round table that I can turn into a fortune-teller’s table for my friend Ronda to use when she is the fortune teller at bratchild’s Halloween party that I told her she could invite her entire grade to attend. Mainly because I am lazy and what’s 20 kids versus 50 or so when it means I don’t have to mail invites and can just give her a buttload to take to school.

ANYHOO-we invited mom to come and then decided to invite dad and he came mainly so he could make me drive and criticize every driving maneuver I executed, pretend to be bored and catch things as mom knocked them off shelves. (Also J doesn’t like it when bratchild and I go to thrift stores and dad naturally looks frightening so really inviting him was a safety precaution. The LAST time I went to a thrift store a homeless man got down on the ground behind my car, pretended I had run him over and then hopped up  and  began rapping on my window demanding money.  Since I had NOT run him over, I just pulled away. To be fair, even if I HAD run him over, I never carry cash.)

It was at that very thrift store that mom spied a white tux with tails stuck in with the wedding gowns and decided I needed it to dress a skeleton or Frankenstein for Halloween. Obviously I agreed and brought him home to begin looking for a skeleton. Can I just go ahead and warn you that finding an acceptable not a bajillion dollar skeleton is not an easy task? Most are mini–which is weird or for medical students–which I am NOT. Some are glow in the dark and others are just cardboard jointed cutouts. Mom pointed out I should perhaps look for a Frankenstein–because a life-size one of those would be easier to locate and less expensive? I needed a manly skeleton that could be scary and perhaps hold a tray of cocktails AND fit my new white tux with tails. FINALLY-I came across this one for the bargain price of $39.99. He’s posable and doesn’t look stupid and he comes with a change of clothes. What skeleton doesn’t need wardrobe options?

Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones…

Downside? He’s ONLY five feet tall making him shorter than I am. I hadn’t intended him to be a crossdresser so putting a pair of my highest heels on him is out of the question (I also don’t know what size his feet are or if they are bendable). I guess I will make him (by I, am clearly talking about J) a platform upon which to perch. My tux, which I don’t know what size it is but am pretty sure is larger than a 5 foot tall skinny skeleton is now going to have to be altered so once he arrives, I am going to have to drag his bony ass to find him a dress shirt (I already have a sequined bow tie for him) and cart him to my alterations lady to have his tux “fitted” to him. Fortunately, I am in the market for a new alterations lady so I don’t particularly care if I traumatize my moody, refuses to speak English and uses a sponge roller as a barrette current seamstress.

I could learn to sew myself but honestly taking a skeleton and his tux to a seamstress seems less problematic. I refuse to believe I am the first person to be in this position.

Up first is a wonderful piece by fellow design team member Laura Carson. I just love all the different elements and sparkles(!) and three-dimensional details adorning the under the sea siren.

Monica Dase  created the cutest seaside couple and I and falling for the fringey trim and the wonderful words across the bottom.

Cynthia Jones celebrated the girlfriend getaway and has me longing to sit under an umbrella and put my toes in the sand.

JoAnn White’s vintage-inspired view features a shimmering seahorse that I just love. The mail stamp is a delightful detail.

I’m in need of a tropical destination and a pink drink with a paper parasol–how about you? For the latest swaps, sales and all the crafty goodness at Alpha Stamps, I encourage you to sign up for the newsletter and prepare to be inspired! For even more fun, find them on Facebook.

Current crafty crush? This Antique Scalloped Trim and the Vintage Embellishment Junk Pack.