Seven for Sunday

This post began as a Five for Friday, but I got no further on that than bullet points to remind me what to write about. Then I got it mostly written at the car dealership yesterday morning, but never got to post it. So! Seven for Sunday it is. 

I Don’t Know Where My Soul Is, I Don’t Know Where My Home Is: Remember when I was complaining about the robin (or robins, I suppose?) who has been flinging himself into my office window all spring? Well, the solution I decided on was… waiting him out. Which has not worked very well, I am sure you are shocked to learn. 

This is my view from the comfy chair I sit in, instead of sitting at my perfectly good desk. I can see the bird in the reflection of the painting.

I started out feeling bad for this bird, being driven by biology to slam his body into glass at regular intervals. And I know he’s not doing it with the purpose of bothering me; he doesn’t care about me. But I feel like even a robin should be capable of learning to identify a futile action, no? He taps at the glass aggressively with his beak, he flaps his wings at the glass, he has never once encountered another bird. Like, at least shouldn’t he be able to determine, inside his little birdy brain, that the mysterious bird threat he keeps spotting is secured behind a transparent forcefield? Or shouldn’t he have figured out by now that his attacks are usually followed by me shaking the blinds at him, which must be startling, at the very least, because it does get him to fly away?

Also, there is bird poop on my office windowpanes now. 

It is starting to feel very Edgar Allen Poe-ian over here, where I am now trying to figure out what the bird and his repeated appeals for my attention are telling me. What does it all MEAN? 

My daughter had the idea to set up her stuffed hawk on top of the blinds, but that did absolutely nothing. If anything, now the bird feels as though there’s A Real Threat encroaching on his territory. So my daughter added a stuffed tiger to the top of the blinds, which has had zero effect. I don’t think midwestern robins have any clue what a tiger is, to be honest, not to mention IT’S A STUFFIE. 

Sentinel hawk, reporting for the night watch. My chair has seen better days.

Anyway, my husband has decided enough is enough and we’re going to explore some of the very reasonable options you all shared with me last time. Perhaps the robin isn’t the only creature slow to learn that doing the same thing over and over will not result in a different outcome. 

Don’t Stop Til You Get Enough: I am Very Late to the Cool Bloggers Walking Club party, but I have serious FOMO. Plus, I do want to walk every day, and having this extra little motivation can only help. While I am not opposed to walking on the treadmill, I prefer to walk outside. And my new neighborhood is full of fun things to see on walks. 

A couple of weeks back seemed to be prime egg-laying season for the geese, and for a moment it felt like there were eggs EVERYWHERE. I can’t tell if geese were of the I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant ilk, dropping offspring in the goose equivalent of the grocery store parking lot, or if the eggs had been diverted from their nests by foxes/hawks/squirrels, but it was kind of an odd experience to be walking along and then come upon an egg. 

I have also seen a teensy little snake and a turtle. 

The snake was very small, maybe four to six inches long. And the turtle was not interested in being photographed, and tucked her head into her shell the instant I pulled out my phone.

Tossed Salad and Scrambled Eggs: Speaking of Elisabeth, in addition to inspiring more regular walking, she has also inspired me to revisit one of my favorite series: Frasier. I started it on the treadmill earlier this week and it is such a delight. I hazard to say that the Frasier pilot is one of the most perfect pilot episodes of all time. 

The only thing I dislike about Frasier is that the title character is supposed to be 41. (Incidentally, Kelsey Grammer was only 38 when he filmed the pilot.) Considering that I am FORTY THREE, I find it a little horrifying to see myself as part of Frasier’s cohort. He’s much more… mature than I am, that’s for sure.

I refuse to accept that this man is younger than I am by FIVE YEARS.

You Change Your Mind Like a Girl Changes Clothes: As of Thursday, our furnace and air conditioner have been repaired! And neither of them needed to be replaced! It did take a while, though, and I have a renewed irritation with our HVAC company’s communications system. It is STUPID. This is a very long and boring segment, FYI. If you want to skip it, rest assured that you have gleaned the key theme already, which is “It is STUPID.”

To contact the HVAC company, you call a central number and speak to a customer service person. (And by the way, they have a ridiculous scripted answer to their phone calls, something along the lines of, “How can I make your day great?” that sounds so dumb and disingenuous and also, like, fixing my A/C will most definitely make my day better, but nothing you can do, HVAC CS Agent, will make my day great.) You tell the agent why you’re calling. If you want an appointment, they put in a request for an appointment, and then a dispatcher calls you back and sets up the appointment. There is no way to directly schedule an appointment, or to talk directly to the technician who will complete the service/repair. There is no way to get directly to a dispatcher. If you miss the dispatcher’s return call, because you called during the one free period in your day, and they call back when you are in a meeting, you have to call the customer service agent again, and they leave a message for the dispatcher, and the whole phone tag thing starts all over. IT IS SO STUPID. Why is their system like this???? 

I got my initial appointment last Monday. After waiting ALL DAY, two people (a technician and a site manage) arrived to examine the air conditioner. My wonderful father was able to come to my house so I could go pick up Carla from school, because of course the HVAC people showed up right as I was pulling out of my garage. They determined what was wrong with the A/C and furnace (a rodent had chewed through the wiring to the intake valve, which prevented both appliances from working) (FRICKING RODENTS), and found an additional issue with the A/C (needed a new contactor, not that I know what that is; my dad seemed to think it was legit), and said they didn’t have the part on the truck but had it in the warehouse, so they would be back the next day. Except they couldn’t tell me when they could come back, or even if they would be the technicians to return: I had to call first thing the next morning and get an appointment. 

When I called the next morning, the customer service person said he could see that the part was in stock and that I was on the schedule for that day, I just needed to wait for dispatch to call me to confirm a time. No one called all day, so I called back and spoke to a different customer service agent. It turns out there was a hold on my appointment, which a completely different customer service agent said she suspected was because maybe the part wasn’t available? I told her that the technician had said it was, and the customer service agent I’d spoken to that morning said it was, and she said, “Well, did you confirm that it was really in stock?” Um. NO? How would I do that beyond talking to people who would supposedly know the answer?

Anyway. I told her I was unavailable the next day, but would be available Thursday morning. She said she would put a note in my file to have the work scheduled for Thursday and have dispatch call me on Wednesday. I said I would be in and out of meetings and wouldn’t be able to take the dispatcher’s call if they called while I was in a meeting. I asked if I could get a direct number for the dispatcher, so I didn’t have to do the customer service step. Nope. But! She could have the dispatcher text me, so I could communicate with her directly. Great.

No one called or texted me on Wednesday. In between meetings, I called the central number and went through the whole customer service, wait for a dispatcher to call back rigamarole. When I finally connected with the dispatcher, she said I was on the schedule for later that day! Well, as I told the customer service person yesterday, I was not available later that day (there was an event at Carla’s school). Finally she was able to get me scheduled for the first appointment on Thursday. Which turned out to begin at nearly noon, and the guy was not finished before my two o’clock meeting so I left him a tip and a notepad while I went to my meeting (fortunately, it was on Zoom) and he finished up and wrote me a very thorough report before he left. 

We were very fortunate that it was pretty cool all week. I am not going to lie: I woke up every night in a puddle of sweat, but the thermostat read only 75, so that may be more of a perimenopause thing than an HVAC issue. Hard to say. And now, everything is FIXED, even if the company’s system is BROKEN.

It’s All One World in Which We Live, So Understand and Try to Give: It’s a teeny bit early for me to be thinking about teacher gifts for the end of the school year, but I have two reasons for thinking about them already. 

Usually I give money to our class parent, who puts it toward a gift card for our teachers. But this year, Carla’s teacher has been so involved in her life, I want to do something special. The obvious gift is a Stanley, right? I feel like it will so perfectly encapsulate this teacher’s experience of teaching fifth grade this year. And we can personalize it. So now I have to decide if I personalize it with her name (probably her last name, right? That way she can bring it to school without all the kids calling her by her first name, or she can give it to her own kid if she wants nothing to do with it) or with some sort of phrase that makes her think about this year/this class/my kid. I will probably go with her surname, but I WANT to be the kind of person who comes up with some meaningful quote that will make her heart swell every time she uses the Stanley. Anyway, this is why I am thinking about it NOW; I need time to order it and have it arrive.

The other reason I am thinking about gifts is that I have somehow “volunteered” to be the person in charge of an end-of-year celebration for one of Carla’s extracurriculars. There are two instructors who lead this program, and I want to get them each the same thing (with, perhaps, variation in color). My mind went immediately to Stanleys, but Carla reported that one of the other kids in this extracurricular told her with great authority that one of the instructors HATES STANLEYS. Which I get. So. Stanleys are out. But that leaves… what???? I don’t want to do gift cards for Reasons, but I am not sure what a good alternative would be. And I’m running out of time, because this program ends at the beginning of May. (Lest you think I have been procrastinating, I was just wrangled into this role last week.)

A Bushy Bushy Blonde Hairdo: It is once again the time of year when I begin gently stressing about Carla’s birthday party. We already have the Big Gift planned: as I mentioned/fretted about before, I have scheduled an appointment for her to get her ears pierced. Her pediatrician will be doing the ear piercing, as I figure it would behoove me to be in a medical establishment just in case I pass out from seeing someone create dual apertures in my child. 

Since Carla’s birthday is on a Saturday, and since we are planning on a pool party, I figured I would schedule her ear piercing for the following week. (It probably isn’t IMPOSSIBLE to go swimming after you get your ears pierced, but it is a complication I don’t want to deal with. Plus, this way, Carla can back out if she decides being hole-punched is not as good an idea as she originally thought.) Swistle mentioned this ear piercing aftercare spray, and I think I will get a bottle of it, wrap it up nicely, and that will be how she learns about this present. 

Anyway! Party! I asked Carla what the theme of her party should be, and/or what color she wanted her cake, and after some thought she said, in Ken-style deadpan, “My theme is just beach.” So. That seems both easy to interpret in a bunch of different directions and too vague, but I am going to run with it. Maybe the kids will get beach balls as their favor? (I would do towels, but one of Carla’s friends gives out towels as a birthday favor and Carla doesn’t want to copy.) Or sunglasses? Flip flops? Although that might be tricky, without knowing each kid’s shoe size. I want it to be a summery, beach-adjacent gift that isn’t too expensive and can be used even without access to a pool/beach. 

The food will be a taco bar. I think I may need to borrow crockpots from a couple of friends, so I can have ground beef and shredded chicken and black beans. But tacos seem like a pretty safe bet – or, at least as safe as pizza, which neither Carla nor her best friend will eat, and which is the standard Birthday Party Meal around these parts.

The lifeguard has been secured, and she will bring her own life-saving equipment. I just need to provide a chair. A rather big issue to solve will be what to do in case of rain. I could have a dozen children in my basement, but I would rather not. That’s probably what will happen, though. 

Now that the big things have been decided, I can turn my attention to cupcakes. Carla requested a color scheme of blue and tan, which… well, I will feel free to jazz that combo up with additional colors. She also mentioned wanting either an umbrella or flip flops on her cupcakes. These cupcakes look a little fussy to make, but very cute. These beach cupcakes look much simpler, and are also very cute. I could always get some flip flop cupcake toppers to add on.

Target has cute beach-themed dinnerware. I think this could be a lot of fun. Especially because no real sand will be involved.

I’ve Given You Sunshine, I’ve Given You Dirt: Yesterday included a sports event (Carla’s), a visit to the car dealership (my windshield wiper fluid should no longer leak!), a playdate at our house (also Carla’s), a bunch of laundry (2/5 loads have been washed and dried, 0/5 have been folded, although I did manage to replace the sheets), and some very gentle progress toward buying some of the furniture we want to buy but have been postponing (we did not buy anything, once again, but we did re-measure and re-confirm that we want to buy a specific bookshelf from Room & Board). 

When it seemed as though Carla, newly divested of her friend, and my husband were happily doing their own things, I decided to drive to the garden center.

Firstly, garden centers can be FANTASTIC for fun gift-y browsing. The one I went to was AMAZING and I found myself drooling over plant stands and cheese trays and kitchen towels and wind chimes long before I even saw a plant.

Secondly, I am in full-on I Want to Plant Things mode, which is a mode that feels deeply unsatisfying because I am a) cheap and b) indecisive and c) black thumbed. But oh! how I love visiting the garden center and imagining all sorts of plants in and around my home. Am I person who could grow golden raspberries? I sure hope so! Do I need a malus purple prince flowering tree? I think I do! What kind of fern would work best in the sunroom (which has no furniture, and so is less of a “room” and more of a “holding space” for various things we haven’t felt up to tossing yet)? Hard to say because I have never dealt with ferns! Should I try to grow a bunch of veggies again this year? I am desperate to do so, but… HOW desperate?

I took a bunch of photos of all the things I want to buy (and of their price tags; yikes) and I think I finally made One Decision, which is that I want to buy two Dwarf Alberta Spruce (spruces? sprice?) to put in large containers on either side of our front door. It would be nice to have something green there all year long. I wouldn’t have to worry about planting flowers each spring, but it would still be inviting and elegant. And around the holidays, I could wrap them with fairy lights! The garden center person who asked if I needed help tells me that the only problem with putting them in pots is that their roots are in danger of freezing in the winter, so I might want to bring them inside. Hmmm. I will sleep on it. 

In the meantime, I picked up a new friend. Meet Alien (“Because it’s green!” says Carla.), our new Venus flytrap. I hope it enjoys moths.  

That’s all I’ve got for you, Internet. Passover begins tomorrow, and we have been lucky enough to be invited to a Seder with dear friends. Hope you have had a restful, bug-free weekend. 

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Houseplant History and Satisfying Plant Update

One of my gentle aspirations for the year was to repot my house plants and I am pleased to report that I have (halfway) accomplished that goal.

It seems irresponsible that I, a known plant murderer, should persist in owning houseplants. And yet I LOVE them, and I have strong feelings of affection for them. 

I still remember the jade plant my mother bought me when I was a freshman in college. My mother, who is excellent at keeping things alive, has always had a jade plant in her home, and I have fond memories of the enormous jade plant in the room in my childhood home we referred to as The Library. It sat in a massive pot on a plant stand and its leaves cascaded nearly to the floor like the glorious mane of a beautiful woman. It was extraordinary. So it felt almost like I had a little piece of home with me, setting that jade plant in my dorm window and mostly neglecting it.

Each summer, I would take the jade plant to the dean’s office and they would look after it for me. Each fall, I would reclaim the jade plant – which always seemed to have grown and flourished in someone else’s care – and it would live in my room. After we graduated, my then-boyfriend and I drove to his home town where we lived and worked for the summer; the jade plant came with us. My housing situation was, in retrospect, a little precarious. My then-boyfriend’s parents had arranged for me to house sit for a family friend. But the friends had moved out of their house and were actively looking for a buyer. WHY was this a good idea? WHAT did I think I would do if they sold the house??? HOW did the realtor explain to potential buyers the evidence that a squatter was inhabiting the house??? Anyway, I think my furniture included a mattress on the floor of one of the bedrooms – not the primary bedroom, because the realtor or maybe the homeowner discouraged me from staying there – and maybe they had left a couch in the living room? Or did my then-boyfriend bring over a couple of lawn chairs? I can’t remember. But I had my jade plant there, too. 

Once summer ended, my then-boyfriend and I drove across several states to move into the apartment we’d rented, sight-unseen, while I attended grad school. We had driven all day, with a U-Haul attached to my then-boyfriend’s car, and I had my jade plant in my car with me on the passenger side floor. We did get slightly lost in the worst part of the unfamiliar city – this was the age of MapQuest and printed directions, folks – but we eventually found our way to our apartment without being robbed or murdered. Only to discover that there had been a massive ceiling leak, which had a) filled up a ceiling light until it was so heavy it collapsed part of the ceiling and shattered onto the floor and b) created a mold field on the carpet and in the walls of the tiny closet that counted as a laundry room. CLEARLY the apartment had not been cleaned or prepped for new occupants – the bathroom in particular was a filthy disaster – which was not the best introduction to the city or to our scandalous life of premarital cohabitation. 

We ended up staying in a hotel while the leasing company remediated the problem, and we had to stay in the hotel so long that we ended up unloading our U-Haul into a storage unit and then having to reload it into a different U-Haul when we were finally able to move in to the apartment. I remember our parents being extremely helpful about the whole thing, even though they were all strenuously against us living together. (It worked out okay.) 

But our new city was very hot, and in all the chaos I forgot about my poor jade plant and it died in my overheated car. 

Perhaps this incident has instilled in me a crawling anxiety about plant care, as well as an intense internal pressure to never kill a plant again. And yet, despite the emotional intent to be a good plant owner, I am not, in fact, a good plant owner. I try, I really do. I try not to be overbearing, and I try not to be neglectful. But I fear that I overcompensate in both areas.

Currently, I have five houseplants. 

This is the whole sad crew, including the jade plant in the red pot whose health has since declined precipitously, and the very already dead cactus in the light green pot.

One is a small, spindly palm tree that has survived for nearly twelve years, which is when my mother gave it to me as a housewarming present. The African violet that was also part of the original basket succumbed to my black thumb several years ago. The long drapey plant that I think may be a philodendron persists. The palm tree looks increasing full of despair. (Although it recently sprouted a new head/branch/limb? So perhaps it is preparing for a second wind?) 

I also have a jade plant that is really circling the drain. I have tried a lot of things, and I am coming to the sad conclusion that perhaps I am just not meant to be a jade plant owner. I can’t even bring myself to take a photo of it for you; I am too embarrassed. Consider the state of the little palm tree and then ask yourself what a plant must look like for me NOT to post it.

My orchid was a thank-you gift I received for being Carla’s room parent in kindergarten, so I have a strong sentimental attachment to it because it represents both a moment in time and time’s unrelenting passage. It has flowered several times since I brought it home, in November of 2021, April of 2022, and most recently in December of 2022, which is reassuring unless flowering is a distress signal. But it got to the point where it appeared to be attempting to crawl out of its pot and far, far away from me.

The orchid, listing violently to the right and readying itself for ambulation.

The anthurium is one in a long line of anthurium I have had and killed since I moved to this house. This is the first one I’ve kept alive long enough for it to re-bloom. Based on pictures, I think I have had this since at least July of 2021.

Anthurium in a too-small pot; orchid limb photo bomb.

The fifth plant is really Carla’s. It is a replacement cactus; replacement because we bought her a cactus last summer and promptly killed it. I didn’t even know you could kill a cactus? Well, we managed. But we saw this orchid cactus at the plant store and couldn’t resist buying it. Carla is in charge of its care even though it lives in my office; perhaps she will turn out to have a greener thumb than I do. 

Orchid cactus. It can only sit in that little plant stand in that exact position because the plant stand is stupid.

One of the problems with my poor plants is that they need repotting. And yet I am so terrified of killing them that I cannot bring myself to do it. So when this adorable plant store opened just down the street, and I discovered that they will repot the plants FOR YOU, for the extremely reasonable price of five dollars, I knew that was my solution. 

After a couple of false starts – for instance, Carla was off school on a random Monday, so we loaded the plants into my car and drove the plant store only to discover it wasn’t open on Mondays – we finally made it to the plant store and they REPOTTED MY PLANTS.

Well, they repotted the two I brought in – the orchid and the anthurium. It was such an easy process and such a relief that I am trying to get up enough nerve to bring in the palm tree/possible-philodendron and my ailing jade plant. I am a teeny bit afraid that one they see the jade plant, they will send someone to repossess all my plants.

Here are the plants immediately after the repotting:

I undertook this repotting exercise at the very end of March. And the plants continue to thrive (except for the jade plant, my god the state of that poor jade plant).

My orchid and anthurium are SO pleased. The anthurium is in bloom and has sprouted a bunch of new leaves. The orchid looks fuller and prouder of its situation, and much less like it wants to escape. And the cactus is cactusing along nicely. I am looking forward to the time when it decides to bloom. 

So happy!

Not quite as stunning a transformation as the anthurium, but trust me that this plant is MUCH happier.

Orchid cactus; anthurium in the background, trying to pretend it doesn’t want all the attention.

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Tuesday Randomosity: Mainly About My Backyard Edition

It’s been a long, long while since I’ve done a randomosity post. But random topics still burble to the surface, so let’s get them all out in the open.

Fifty-one weeks of the year, I really enjoy living on this particular street, in this particular house. We live on a quiet cul-de-sac that is close but not too close to a main intersection in an urban-leaning suburb of a mid-size city. I feel like we get the neighborhoody aspects of living in the suburbs, but have plenty of businesses and restaurants and ice cream shops nearby. And it’s quiet. I realize I said that one sentence back, but it’s important. There’s not a huge amount of action, beyond the teenagers playing basketball across the street. The traffic is minimal.

But one week of the year, a business that resides (lives? exists?) on an adjoining street holds an event that draws people from near and far. So for the duration of the event – not quite a week, but close enough that I will count it as a full week, for complaining’s sake – our street is busy. Lots of cars driving down it, to check out the event. Or to try to leave the event, without realizing that our street has no outlet. Or to park on the side of the street before hiking back to the event venue. The event lasts late into the evening, so there are cars driving and people talking excitedly and people beeping their horns as they engage their remote locks well past ten. Is event starting to look a little wacko, as words go, or is it just me? By day two, I begin to go crazy. Carla is a fairly deep sleeper, but I get that crazed newborn-parent feel of, SHHHH, you are being TOO LOUD, there is a BABY SLEEPING, and there is nothing I can do about it.

I don’t like it, is what I’m saying. It makes me cranky. It makes me feel wary of talking to anyone while we’re outside, which we are a lot at this time of year. It makes me double and triple check the locks on the doors (because people heading to the event are super likely to be burglars/murderers) (no). It makes me feel like whispering and ducking past windows and uncomfortably aware of the proximity of my bedroom to the street.

I will be glad when this year’s event ends.

 

We have a new addition to our household. A new baby deer. Its mother leaves it in a snug little bundle of white spots between our deck and the azalea bushes.

Baby deer!

This year, Carla spotted the fawn first. And, being a child who loves animals with a passion that makes her literally vibrate with the desire to pet and hug and adopt, she cannot stop thinking about the fawn. This has made it rather difficult to enjoy our backyard; she is constantly hopping out of her seat at lunch or dinner to go peek at the fawn. Or, instead of playing in the yard, she is peeking at the fawn. Or, instead of doing anything at all other than peeking at the fawn, she is peeking at the fawn.

She wants to show it a pinecone. (It won’t care.) She wants to share her ham with it. (No.) She wants to bring it up on the deck to show it an ant that is crawling as quickly away from Carla as its legs can carry it. (No.)

We have had lots of conversations about deer being wild animals, and being especially careful around baby animals, because their mothers will be protective. And how even though deer are so pretty and docile looking, they can bite and kick.

This has sunk in a bit further in some areas than others; Carla still wants to pet the fawn (no; wild animal). But she refuses to go into the backyard by herself just in case the mommy deer is there and wants to bite her or kick her or lick her (okay, good point; also it probably won’t lick you).

I don’t know why I continue to be disgruntled by the presence of baby deer in our yard. This has happened… every year since we’ve lived here? Our yard is a deer daycare. But each year, I feel annoyed at the mother deer for just abandoning her baby in my yard, where I then feel obligated to care for it. (I mean, insofar as “care for it” means peeking at it occasionally, keeping Carla away from it, and fretting about its safety.)

And I DO fret about it! We were moving some deck furniture around the other day, on the very deck against which the fawn was snuggled, and it was making a tremendous racket, and I commented to my husband that I hoped it wasn’t terrifying the poor creature. When the lawn service people arrived, I ran around in a panic, trying to replace my pajamas with clothes so that I could go out and warn them to stay away from the fawn’s azalea hidey-hole. We are having our deck refinished in a few weeks, and I am really hopeful that the fawn’s mother decides to take her on a field trip somewhere else so that the sanders and scrapers don’t scare the poor thing out of its spots.

Part of me feels so annoyed at the mother deer, for not picking a safer location to stow her offspring. But I suppose it is an urban deer, and this probably feels a whole lot safer than the corner of a busy intersection or the back of a schoolyard playground. And I suppose the fawn could always complain to its mother about the creature with the curly blond fur who keeps poking its face over the side of deck and waving pinecones at it, and suggest that they find a new daycare center.

“Please stop peeking at me. You are making me very nervous/annoyed/camera shy.” – Fawn

As long as we’re talking about the backyard, we did get a playset. I loved all the comments and ideas, especially the suggestion to turn our weed patch into a beautiful garden (believe me! I would LOVE that!). Of course, being me, I continued to obsessively research and read reviews and bother people with questions. In the end, we concluded that a playset is the right decision for us. Time will tell, I suppose. To tell you the truth, I think the playset is really for ME. It will be so much more convenient to throw Carla in the backyard than to schlep her to a playground when she is overcome by the need to swing. And we can host playdates MUCH more comfortably if there is something for the kids to do outside. So I’M excited about it.

 

I’ve been on the hunt for a few very specific items of clothing lately. One is The Perfect Skirt, for which I continue searching. Let us take a gauzy look through time at one I had in college: white, a lineny blend, cut just above the knee, a-line. THAT is the skirt I am looking for. It was the ideal cut/shape for my shape/cut. It was a nice summery, neutral color. It was a casual material, which I am REALLY interested in; I have plenty of This Would Be Fine at the Office kinds of dresses/skirts; I really want some This Is Cute But Totally Casual Enough for the Playground or Library Story Time options. But I have yet to find it. I bought this skirt from Nordstrom, and despite being adorable in the online pictures, it was NOT The Perfect Skirt and I have since returned it.

Photo from Nordstrom.com

Another item I am seeking, in bulk, perhaps, is Rear-End-Covering Shirts. I already have a few that are dressier, so right now I am looking for casual options. I have found some good ones, I think: this one from Athleta,

Photo from Athleta.com

…and this one from Loft. (I got the Loft version for, I think, $12. But now they are on sale for two for $18!)

Photo from Loft.com

But I find myself wanting moremoremore because a) I enjoy wearing leggings and b) my rear end is self-conscious. My trouble though is that shirts that seem to fit the bill either don’t actually cover my rear end (I am more generous in the backyard than 99% of the models modeling the “rear-end-covering” shirts), or they make me feel shlubby. I want casual-but-put-together, not rolled-out-of-bed-and-grabbed-my-husband’s-undergarment-off-the-floor. I guess a more accurate way to describe it is that I like my tops to have some shape to them. Yet, like The Perfect Skirt and The Perfect Jeans, it seems really hard to find something matching my specifications. So I’m snapping them up when I come across them.

 

The room mother for Carla’s preschool class collected money for a year-end gift for her teachers. The gifts were lovely and generous, and I was delighted to not have to come up with ideas for something her teachers would like and not throw away. But when Carla and I were leaving her classroom on the last day, one of the other parents brought in two large bags from a fancy store and handed one to each of Carla’s teachers.

Listen, Carla and I wrote personal messages in cards for each of her teachers. They went above and beyond for us this year, in many ways, and I wanted to express my gratitude in words in addition to submitting some cash to the group gift. So I acknowledge that maybe these other parents felt similarly, and wanted to really show the teachers how grateful they were.

Or, of course, maybe they didn’t participate in the group gift. Or maybe their love language is Gift Giving. Or maybe other justifying thoughts I can’t come up with.

My worry, of course, is that this is What You Do; you give money to the room mother for the group gift, and then you ALSO buy a personal gift for each teacher. Which seems ridiculous, but what do I know? So many tiny, unimportant-in-the-greater-scheme-of-things stresses related to Having a Child in School! I had no idea!

My desktop anthurium – which you may recall was purchased purely because I was looking for a red lamp – for accent moreso than for light – and couldn’t find one – has lost its… well, I suppose they are flowers? The red pretty rooster-face looking portions of the plant. There were two to begin with, and one darkened and crumpled a few months ago, and now the second is going the same way. I don’t know anything about anthuria, outside of the fact that I fed them with ice cubes. Well, I guess I did a rather poor job of even doing that, considering that they have chosen death over waiting to see if I will remember to ice them each week. So I have no idea if they will flower again, in time… or if I need to find another one. One of the things that made it so clear I needed to buy THIS anthurium was that it came in such a lovely bright red vase. I neither want to buy a new red-vased anthurium nor replant an anthurium in this vase. So I suppose I will stare hopefully at my remaining anthurium leaves and try to remember the weekly icing.

Photo from gardenknowhow.com

That’s it for now, Internet. What’s up with you?

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