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hErDIng sQUirReLs
27Apr/11Off

Dr. Seuss centerpiece. :^)

Dr. Seuss centerpiece. :^) by girlmonkey
Dr. Seuss centerpiece. :^), a photo by girlmonkey on Flickr.

My centerpieces were super-cheapie freebies.

To start, my mom brought over several of her silver pieces that had heretofore been packed away for the last ten years.

In place of candles, I did the hollow-out-an-egg thing, dyed the egg, and placed some flowers in them. The massive rose was from a vine that was growing into our yard from the neighbors.

I like the Gerber daisy in the egg; it was very Seussian.





27Apr/11Off

The Easter table

DSC_0556 by girlmonkey
DSC_0556, a photo by girlmonkey on Flickr.

For those who were curious, I took a pic of our Easter table set up. We had 23 people there (room for 24. PHEW!).





21Apr/11Off

Pretty party? YES I CAN!

My husband and I are hosting Easter dinner (for our extended family of 26) at our house this year, and I tell you: The bar has been set. I believe it all began 40 years ago, when my incredibly charming grandmother, Mimi, would have our extended family over for a holiday meal. She spent a lifetime collecting Royal Doulton’s Old Country Rose patterned fine china, and you can bet her dinner table was always set flawlessly.

My sisters and I took note. Okay, who am I kidding? I was a tomboy and outside climbing the cherry tree and hitting target practice with my brother and my mom’s old Red Rider BB Gun. More importantly, my sisters took note, and eventually when my girl parts finally settled in and I married and had kids and became an internet geek and began entertaining guests and officially became feminine-ish (all pretty much in that order), I began to notice their attention to detail.

It started with plating. Heretofore, I would take my carefully prepared pasta and homemade sauce and roasted chicken and dump it in a bowl. Or slap it on a plate. Or two, even—depending on the amount of chicken and the forethought (or lack thereof) of grabbing a correctly-sized serving dish. Sure, there were placemats and mostly matched silverware.  But these days I truly shutter with mortification when I think of what little attention I paid to such things. It’s a miracle I cared enough to use clean dishes.

Mimi’s knack for table décor was passed on to my oldest sister, Denise, who sadly shrouds her mad table-setting skillz (yo) behind a work-a-day life as an ICU director (yawn) turned hospital administrator.  Knowing of her hidden talents and expertise, I think it’s a crying shame she followed some Florence Nightingale passion, giving up what could have been a lucrative career as a party decorator. (Kids parties, dog funerals, possibly the occasional bar mitzvah… the list is literally endless.) Talk about wasted talent: The woman can take a strip of burlap and a few ribbons and recreate the garden at giverny, right there down the center of any table. (Hello? Pretty parties helps people too, Denise. Whatever.)

Suffice it to say, my other sister, Joanna, has similar talents. And not only does her table always look beautiful and sophisticated, her food is downright gorgeous. And it doesn’t even have to be her food; Joey can put a store-bought roasted chicken on a plate and make you feel like you’re eating at a five star restaurant.

And then, THEN my brother had to go and marry this really awesome gal named Karen who apparently *also* had a hidden talent for event décor.  Walking into their home over the holidays? I made the mistake of looking for the escalator—I swear, that place was decked out to the Macy’s-at-Christmas nines, with just a hint of FAO Schwartz thrown in for good measure. Everything self-created, everything flawless and gorgeous. She swears she only bought a few things here and there, at garage sales and the dollar store and crafted the rest.

So you see what I’m contending with here. While I’m no longer the embarrassing slouch I was back in my 20s, it’s going to take a bit of creativity to run in the same entertaining-ranks as these women. Sure, I may have been a tomboy and grown into a baseball-loving, trash-talking internet geek, but that doesn’t mean all hope of my feminine success is lost. On the contrary: I have the power of Google on my side. (Keyword search: Easter table decorations.)

Here are a few ideas... Perhaps for your table as well?

Look at these pretty ladies! Simple, elegant, colorful. And talk about easy! Some tall glassware, a few simple stems and pebbles that can be found at craft stores, dollar stores--even in the fish aisle of the pet store


I love the antique look that silver can add to any place setting. And frankly, my mom has so many old pieces that have been handed down over time, I bet I can dig up a little something or two. Against white place settings? Instant elegance. And get a load of those cute jellybean-filled eggs! Whimsyyyyy. As for color, if being an internet geek has taught me anything, it's to love and appreciate an analogous color scheme.


Now imagine this cute flower in a springy color, and used as a napkin ring. It looks surprisingly easy to make following these instructions from V and Co, and by attaching a ponytail holder? Voila. I up my table's awesomeness factor by like 10 million. FACT.

My mind is churning. I'm going to come up with something nice-- I can do it. Now that I've stretched my imagination beyond tampon crafting, I can do anything.

Filed under: holidays Comments Off




20Apr/11Off

Tattoo YOU!

tattoo

Yes, I admit I have a tattoo fascination. First, tattoo art can be amazing and intricate-- or silly and sloppish. You never know what you're going to see. Case in point: the guy with his girlfriend's vajayjay on his bicep. Stunning, and maybe not in a good way.

Second, whether it's an in memoriam for a lost child or the Tasmanian Devil, all tattoos are intensely personal. There is always a story, always a reason why that particular image was permanently inscribed on someone's flesh. Which is why...

Third, despite what your mama said, most people who have tattoos are okay with you staring at them and asking about the art. If they weren't, they wouldn't wear it *literally* on their sleeve. IMHO, and those of many others who sport them, tattoos are an art form, heavily invested in by the owners. They aren't dirty little secrets. It's okay to ask about them... mostly.

And finally, I am too fickle to allow myself to get one. My tastes flap back and forth and because I know this about myself, I have saved myself from becoming a walking billboard of bad choices. I have yet to get a haircut that I feel fully committed to. I couldn't imagine a lifetime of wishing my ink had been smaller, slightly different and a little to the left.

THAT SAID... I am quite looking forward to the 7th Annual Fresno Tattoo Convention at the Fresno Convention Center. Huge opportunity to gawk at the gutsy, and appreciate the art of those who have committed a body part as canvas. There will be over 200 artists from around the world showing off their talents and applying their trades.

THE DEETS:
7th Annual Fresno Tattoo Convention
Saturday & Sunday
April 30 – May 1, 2011
Tickets are $20 per day, or $30 for a weekend pass

Famous was there in 2009 and captured some amazing shots of some amazing work. We’re aiming to be there again this year to document the awesomeness.





15Apr/11Off

Step into the void

15

Mom and I are chatting over lunch, like we do. It seems my overwhelming pride for my son—who graduates in June and will be attending San Francisco State University in the fall—simultaneously explodes in my chest and is tempered by my realization of the passage of time. Or, maybe just my acknowledgment of it.

I feel guilty. Normally, I’m predisposed to thinking that guilt is a useless emotion. When others are awash in it, my advice is that they rectify the situation, or release their attachment to it. Either way, move on. Guilt in and of itself is a hot mess that keeps people from acting. So, drop the guilt and act.

Except, of course, it’s ME we’re talking about here and no matter how hard I try to give up my guilt fetish it seems I manage find new ways to revel in it.

What’s got me in a choke hold is that, lately, I can’t stop thinking about when my son was about a week old; I’d looked at this tiny, trusting little human being and—despite the stitches and the achy lady parts?—still wonder when his real mom was going to come and get him. And then I would remember I was his real mom, and that awesome job would evermore be left to me.

Pause.

Really? A mom? I was a mom? How could it be? I mean, I was barely 23-years-old. People that young shouldn’t be allowed to breed let alone take on the responsibility of ensuring that tiny people live and thrive and grow into much bigger ones.

But the one thing that sated me then, as I made the emotional transition from self-absorbed-it’s-all-about-me young woman to never-again-the-center-of-my-own-Universe mom, was the thought that in 18 years, I’d be done. My shift would be over and I could clock out. This baby—my baby—would have grown into a young adult and go seek his fortune and I could go back to being the sun in my own solar system. YAY me!

Fast forward 18 years, to me sitting in a café with my mother with a look of complete consternation. All I can think, and what I finally give voice to, is that I totally did this to myself. I wished for it, actually willed it to happen before I knew what I was doing and now there was no way I could ever take it back—because it was ALREADY HAPPENING.

When I confess my horrendousness to my mom, she smiles that I-know-what-you-mean smile. “There’s something about the first child and the last child making those big steps in the world,” she says. “Because as you watch those two take their big steps, you’re also taking two huge, emotional steps, as well. Watching that first little bird leave the nest comes with the acknowledgment that his leaving is necessary. He has to go out into the world and live his own life. And the reality that they really do leave, and that your family dynamics will change, is that first step toward the reality that they all go.

“And then when the last one goes…” she pauses and we both nod, not wanting to say or hear anything about “empty nests” and “chapters closing” and “the passage of time,” et al. “And it’s not that you feel any differently about the middle ones. Not at all—you still feel that pull. The contrast is that, with the other two, your feelings mark the beginning and the end of that passage in your life.”

I don’t know why, but I suddenly don’t feel guilty anymore. A little sad, sure, but somewhere in our conversation I forgave myself for being young and fearful of stepping into the unknown. That unknown has been my comfortable, well-worn world for many years now. I drink my tea and sigh, and acknowledge that I’m not that young woman anymore. But I’m about to leap into the void again.

Filed under: It just is Comments Off