A good friend of mine sends me the following commentary: "I have come to the conclusion that I need to buy a new belt. A new belt that's a little bit longer. I am sort of OK with that."
I feel her pain. I've worked hard to gain the weight I've put on in the last three months. Cripe. I've EARNED it.
As soon as I finish reading my friend's message, I sprint out the door. Carpool time!
As I am backing out, I notice the gate opener is not in its usual place. I search the other visor, the console and the passenger seat. No controller.
I jam the car into "Park", run back into the house and shout "MIKE! Do you know where the gate opener is?"
His response: "In the seat?!" The answer is more than laced with sarcasm.
Not one to back down in the sarcasm-response department I yell back: "So you mean to tell me my butt* has gotten so big that I couldn't feel the remote when I sat on it?" My voice creates a nervous, pseudo-laugh as I yell this.
Response from somewhere in the bowels of the house: "YUP."
I don't have time to argue the point about him thinking my butt is big, given his response.
Now back in the car, remote returned to its upright and locked position, I listen to a news report. I hear that a man has been arrested for pinching the butt of a lady in line ahead of him. Problem is, the posterior he chose to squeeze is attached to a female cop. IN UNIFORM. Um, DUH?!?!
To this very odd little person who needs an education on uniforms I say: Mister? If you feel the need to pinch a little arse, you really should pick someone like me.
Someone whose bottom is so buried in fat that it has surpassed the ability to feel the remote I just sat on.
To my belt-challenged friend: I salute you, sister of the traveling Oreo ball! I feel your pain during this calorie-laden, fat-inducing season. And I'm 100% behind** any ideas we might come up with at lunch tomorrow*** to get control of our wayward bodies in 2010.
But we must be quick--BEFORE someone decides to get all fresh with me and my larger-than-life hiney.
*Not the word I used. I'm attempting to tame the cussing beast and am starting with the written word. Before it costs me quarters. Starting in a measly 15 days.
**Pun only partially intended.
***Dessert not optional. It's Christmastime, by golly!
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
Lessons from a First Grader
I am invariably amazed when my kids learn something that I think they are too young to know. Now matter how much we try to shelter them from direct exposure, in the form of movies, TV, radio, etc, there will always be someone in their class at school who can educate them on the "finer" points of life.
This classroom education always comes from an expert. You know the type: a cute first grader with a brother who is sixteen. A teenager with a mean streak who thinks it is hysterical to teach the little guy how to fart with just his hand and armpit. Or who teaches cuss words in anticipation of a Sunday morning trip to join Great-Grammy Cooper at the Southern Baptist Church of Podunk.
Yeah, that type of kid ALWAYS seems drawn to my kid. And my kid thinks buddies of this ilk are geniuses in seven-year-old skin. In kid-speak, a genius is someone who knows way cooler stuff than their parents.
Tonight, ironically on the way home from the Christmas pageant, the latest educational revelation becomes the topic of discussion after the following off-the-cuff comment: "I hope I never have an 'oops' baby."
Mike: "What do you mean?"*
Bro: "YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT AN OOPS BABY IS?"**
Mike: "Why don't you tell me?"
Bro: "Mom, do you know what an oops baby is?"
Me: "I think so. But why don't you tell us?"
Bro: "Well. It's kinda hard to explain.*** But, it's like when you have three kids and you don't want four but around Thanksgiving**** you end up with another baby. That's the 'oops' baby."
Mike and I just looked at each other, both mentally clearing sweat from our brows. Both knowing, if we'd answered that question, we'd have ended up dumber than the sixteen year old who taught his first grade brother about oops babies in the first place.
If I've learned one thing about parenting it's that you should rarely, if ever, answer a question straight out once your kid hits about four. Starting at that age, they are just looking to trap you. And they're crafty little trappers.
But score one for the parentage on this issue: we didn't make an OOPS.
Har, har.
*Shooting a sidewards glance at me which indicates "What are you teaching that child?"
**His brain is thinking "GEEZ you are old? How did you get so old and not know this?"
***Yes. We, the parents, are the imbeciles in this situation. Our son is thinking "I'll try to distill the explanation down to your level but it is going to be AWFULLY hard."
****Why Thanksgiving? Why not Halloween or Saint Patrick's Day or Kwanzaa???
This classroom education always comes from an expert. You know the type: a cute first grader with a brother who is sixteen. A teenager with a mean streak who thinks it is hysterical to teach the little guy how to fart with just his hand and armpit. Or who teaches cuss words in anticipation of a Sunday morning trip to join Great-Grammy Cooper at the Southern Baptist Church of Podunk.
Yeah, that type of kid ALWAYS seems drawn to my kid. And my kid thinks buddies of this ilk are geniuses in seven-year-old skin. In kid-speak, a genius is someone who knows way cooler stuff than their parents.
Tonight, ironically on the way home from the Christmas pageant, the latest educational revelation becomes the topic of discussion after the following off-the-cuff comment: "I hope I never have an 'oops' baby."
Mike: "What do you mean?"*
Bro: "YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT AN OOPS BABY IS?"**
Mike: "Why don't you tell me?"
Bro: "Mom, do you know what an oops baby is?"
Me: "I think so. But why don't you tell us?"
Bro: "Well. It's kinda hard to explain.*** But, it's like when you have three kids and you don't want four but around Thanksgiving**** you end up with another baby. That's the 'oops' baby."
Mike and I just looked at each other, both mentally clearing sweat from our brows. Both knowing, if we'd answered that question, we'd have ended up dumber than the sixteen year old who taught his first grade brother about oops babies in the first place.
If I've learned one thing about parenting it's that you should rarely, if ever, answer a question straight out once your kid hits about four. Starting at that age, they are just looking to trap you. And they're crafty little trappers.
But score one for the parentage on this issue: we didn't make an OOPS.
Har, har.
*Shooting a sidewards glance at me which indicates "What are you teaching that child?"
**His brain is thinking "GEEZ you are old? How did you get so old and not know this?"
***Yes. We, the parents, are the imbeciles in this situation. Our son is thinking "I'll try to distill the explanation down to your level but it is going to be AWFULLY hard."
****Why Thanksgiving? Why not Halloween or Saint Patrick's Day or Kwanzaa???
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Christmas Goodie Goodness
There is only one time of the year that I care about The Dallas Morning News. It's when the food section publishes the annual winners of the Christmas goodies contest.
Last year, I snagged a recipe that looked so simple I figured it couldn't compete with the likes of the highly-esteemed bourbon ball. I assumed that I'd make these things once and we'd all go "OK. They're OK." Then, I'd purge the recipe from my memory and we'd move on to someone else's recipe.
I was wrong.
I had a grasp on a piece of newspaper history that would become contender for my second favorite Christmas cookie. Who knew?
Like the bourbon ball, which still is my BCFFL*, this thing isn't "technically" a cookie. It's more a cracker sandwich cleverly disguised as a cookie.
I think this treat probably has issues similar to guys who think they are girls but who have a penis so they are technically dudes. They're all topsy-turvy. So's my cookie-thingy.
The recipe is deceptively simple: smear a cracker with peanut butter, slap another cracker on top, chill for a bit, then completely cover with chocolate. If you can resist trying them, allow them to set for a bit before munching down.
Yeah. Don't doubt it. It's that simple. And, OH SO DELISH.
I don't even quite know what to call them. I've long since lost the actual piece of paper the recipe was on. And they are hard to describe.
"Chocolate-covered-peanut-butter-sandwiches" calls to mind those heinous pb crackers that can be found in vending machines from the Jersey shores to Vancouver. I think, along with Twinkies, they have a half-life of a cockroach. In fact, I think cockroaches have been around a shorter period of time than some of the vended PB crackers I've eaten.
"Peanut-butter-crackers-covered-in-choclate" is just too much to say.
"A-little-slice-of-Heaven" sounds too Paula Deen. She's a cutie. But, good gracious, everyone would think I incorporated a full stick of butter. Paula, honey? Please be a little less Southern. For just a cotton-pickin' minute. God Bless You.
So, for now, I'll continue describing them as "They taste like a good Peanut Butter Twix. Not the kind actually made by the Mars Corporation**."
And, if you have a brilliant idea, let me know.
I'll gladly put my thing-a-majiggy down, lick the chocolate off my fingers, and write down your suggestion.
*Best Cookie Friend For Life. You should get one, too.
**Which suck. Don't take my word for it. Pony up 75 cents and try a taste test. My funky Christmas recipe will eat that Twix for LUNCH, I tell you.
Last year, I snagged a recipe that looked so simple I figured it couldn't compete with the likes of the highly-esteemed bourbon ball. I assumed that I'd make these things once and we'd all go "OK. They're OK." Then, I'd purge the recipe from my memory and we'd move on to someone else's recipe.
I was wrong.
I had a grasp on a piece of newspaper history that would become contender for my second favorite Christmas cookie. Who knew?
Like the bourbon ball, which still is my BCFFL*, this thing isn't "technically" a cookie. It's more a cracker sandwich cleverly disguised as a cookie.
I think this treat probably has issues similar to guys who think they are girls but who have a penis so they are technically dudes. They're all topsy-turvy. So's my cookie-thingy.
The recipe is deceptively simple: smear a cracker with peanut butter, slap another cracker on top, chill for a bit, then completely cover with chocolate. If you can resist trying them, allow them to set for a bit before munching down.
Yeah. Don't doubt it. It's that simple. And, OH SO DELISH.
I don't even quite know what to call them. I've long since lost the actual piece of paper the recipe was on. And they are hard to describe.
"Chocolate-covered-peanut-butter-sandwiches" calls to mind those heinous pb crackers that can be found in vending machines from the Jersey shores to Vancouver. I think, along with Twinkies, they have a half-life of a cockroach. In fact, I think cockroaches have been around a shorter period of time than some of the vended PB crackers I've eaten.
"Peanut-butter-crackers-covered-in-choclate" is just too much to say.
"A-little-slice-of-Heaven" sounds too Paula Deen. She's a cutie. But, good gracious, everyone would think I incorporated a full stick of butter. Paula, honey? Please be a little less Southern. For just a cotton-pickin' minute. God Bless You.
So, for now, I'll continue describing them as "They taste like a good Peanut Butter Twix. Not the kind actually made by the Mars Corporation**."
And, if you have a brilliant idea, let me know.
I'll gladly put my thing-a-majiggy down, lick the chocolate off my fingers, and write down your suggestion.
*Best Cookie Friend For Life. You should get one, too.
**Which suck. Don't take my word for it. Pony up 75 cents and try a taste test. My funky Christmas recipe will eat that Twix for LUNCH, I tell you.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Bourbon Balls
One of my favorite memories of Christmas is the bourbon balls Mom would make every year. To this day, I carry on the tradition and eat my weight in them pre-Christmas. Then, around Christmas day when we visit my parents, I enjoy the b.b's Mom made for her cookie platter. I, basically, would not think to pass up the opportunity.
The ingredients are simple: ground pecans and vanilla wafers, confectioner's sugar, and a half cup of whiskey. Mix, shape into balls, add a generous coating of MORE confectioner's sugar and, walah, a bourbon ball is born.
UMMMMM. Sugar, cookies and liquor all in one place. The pecans? Strangely added. Probably by some thoughtful German who reasoned that the little protein kick would be good for the hangover you'd develop if you ate too many of them*.
I started eating bourbon balls about the time I could really enunciate "ball" and had the lung capacity to scream for several minutes if they weren't proffered. I don't remember anybody in my family telling me I couldn't have them. Today, people would be calling CPS and screaming child abuse. Thank GOODNESS I am not a child of the 00's.
Yet, interestingly, last night at our party, where these little jewels were served, I found myself discouraging the under ten set from eating them. None of the quite respectful children in my house asked "Why not?". But, if they had, I would have cleverly told them they were made with "fire water" and they wouldn't like them. Truthfully, I just don't want to waste a single one on younguns would can't appreciate a true delicacy.
Christmas has arrived here. In the form of a lowly bourbon ball. OH, the joy.
*I speak from experience. Sad, sad experience.
The ingredients are simple: ground pecans and vanilla wafers, confectioner's sugar, and a half cup of whiskey. Mix, shape into balls, add a generous coating of MORE confectioner's sugar and, walah, a bourbon ball is born.
UMMMMM. Sugar, cookies and liquor all in one place. The pecans? Strangely added. Probably by some thoughtful German who reasoned that the little protein kick would be good for the hangover you'd develop if you ate too many of them*.
I started eating bourbon balls about the time I could really enunciate "ball" and had the lung capacity to scream for several minutes if they weren't proffered. I don't remember anybody in my family telling me I couldn't have them. Today, people would be calling CPS and screaming child abuse. Thank GOODNESS I am not a child of the 00's.
Yet, interestingly, last night at our party, where these little jewels were served, I found myself discouraging the under ten set from eating them. None of the quite respectful children in my house asked "Why not?". But, if they had, I would have cleverly told them they were made with "fire water" and they wouldn't like them. Truthfully, I just don't want to waste a single one on younguns would can't appreciate a true delicacy.
Christmas has arrived here. In the form of a lowly bourbon ball. OH, the joy.
*I speak from experience. Sad, sad experience.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Christmas and Partridges Do Not Mix
"On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me, a partridge in a pear tree."
SSSSSCCCCCRRRREEEEEEEEEEECCCCCHHHHHHH. Those are the tires of love going from 150mph to zero in .75 seconds. HELLO? A partridge in a pear tree? REALLY?
Never, in all my years of dating and/or being married, have I thought "GEE, self. Wouldn't it be the most romantic of gestures to receive an inedible, completely worthless bird in a fruit tree?"
No.
How about this? "On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me, a diamond in a black box."
Yes. That has a nice ring to it. Non-specific. Could be a bracelet, a necklace, or a belly button ring. It could be 10 carats or .5 carats. Yes. That's better.
I think I'll just rest a little bit better if we recreate the song so men all over the world don't get any ideas.
Because there is no way on God's green Earth that I want Twelve Drummers Drumming on the front lawn of anybody's house on this street.
With my luck, the boys would discover a new-found talent and feel the need to join a drum corps.
Sorry, boys. There is not enough chocolate and wine or a powerful enough hearing aid to overcome that prospect.
SSSSSCCCCCRRRREEEEEEEEEEECCCCCHHHHHHH. Those are the tires of love going from 150mph to zero in .75 seconds. HELLO? A partridge in a pear tree? REALLY?
Never, in all my years of dating and/or being married, have I thought "GEE, self. Wouldn't it be the most romantic of gestures to receive an inedible, completely worthless bird in a fruit tree?"
No.
How about this? "On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me, a diamond in a black box."
Yes. That has a nice ring to it. Non-specific. Could be a bracelet, a necklace, or a belly button ring. It could be 10 carats or .5 carats. Yes. That's better.
I think I'll just rest a little bit better if we recreate the song so men all over the world don't get any ideas.
Because there is no way on God's green Earth that I want Twelve Drummers Drumming on the front lawn of anybody's house on this street.
With my luck, the boys would discover a new-found talent and feel the need to join a drum corps.
Sorry, boys. There is not enough chocolate and wine or a powerful enough hearing aid to overcome that prospect.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Cliffs of Dover
Yesterday I heard the story about Julius Caesar forcing his army to move into battle. It seems they landed on an island (Britain, to be exact) and Caesar had the audacity to torch the ships they had just journeyed on. Then, he walked the group over to the cliffs to take a look at the burning lot of boats. Since there was no way of escape, the troops had but one choice: battle and conquer. So, they did.
I am standing on the Cliff of December. Looking out at my calendar, which looks like someone tattooed it with black ink. I could stand here and scream, but I'm taking the high-road, much like Caesar's troops after they realized they were totally screwed, and moving ahead and conquering.
There are Christmas cookies to be made, an Advent calendar to stock with small gifts, chemotherapy appointments to attend, parties to host and dentist appointments to make. There are also Children's Choir and community band performances to enjoy, pageants to participate in, airplanes to board and dogs to kennel.
Almost everything in December is fun stuff, mind you. But, it's just in large quantities. Kind of like the weight most people will gain during the month.
So, I'm taking a deep breath and plunging in. I hope, come January 1 I'm still standing.
If not, please get in your car and go to the store. Buy plenty of fruits and vegetables. Then bring them to me.
I understand they are a good counter defense against the sugar coma I will be in.
I am standing on the Cliff of December. Looking out at my calendar, which looks like someone tattooed it with black ink. I could stand here and scream, but I'm taking the high-road, much like Caesar's troops after they realized they were totally screwed, and moving ahead and conquering.
There are Christmas cookies to be made, an Advent calendar to stock with small gifts, chemotherapy appointments to attend, parties to host and dentist appointments to make. There are also Children's Choir and community band performances to enjoy, pageants to participate in, airplanes to board and dogs to kennel.
Almost everything in December is fun stuff, mind you. But, it's just in large quantities. Kind of like the weight most people will gain during the month.
So, I'm taking a deep breath and plunging in. I hope, come January 1 I'm still standing.
If not, please get in your car and go to the store. Buy plenty of fruits and vegetables. Then bring them to me.
I understand they are a good counter defense against the sugar coma I will be in.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Christmas song remix
The latest Christmas song to be modernized in our household is to the tune "Deck the Halls" and goes:
Deck the halls with poison ivy
Fa la la la la, la la la la
There is no second verse
Fa la la la la, la la la la
Break a window, pop a tire, set your wafflemaker on fire
Fa la la la la, la la la la
The concluding verse is not complete
Fa la la la la, la la la la*
As usual, I tried to maintain a serious look on my face and correct the boys by saying "Why do you continue to ruin perfectly good Christmas song lyrics?"
To which, my oldest, with all seriousness, replied "We're boys. What do you expect?"
Um. A modicum of decor. A little self-restraint. Lyrics that wouldn't embarrass nuns. Nothing Earth-shattering, really.
I realize kids aren't perfect angels. Heaven knows they aren't the spawn of perfect parents. But, sometimes, I think they must have a little devil on their shoulders.
I know this devil hasn't taken up residence because they've all, save The Babe who doesn't quite get it yet, accepted Jesus into their hearts.
But, just for good measure, I checked all their near-bald heads today.
No 666 on any scalps.
WHEW. (That's me. Breathing a big sigh of relief.)
*Christmas-carol-writers around the world are not shaken, nor stirred, by this rendition, nor do they feel the need to get to work, based on the Nowell boys complete lack of writing ability.
Deck the halls with poison ivy
Fa la la la la, la la la la
There is no second verse
Fa la la la la, la la la la
Break a window, pop a tire, set your wafflemaker on fire
Fa la la la la, la la la la
The concluding verse is not complete
Fa la la la la, la la la la*
As usual, I tried to maintain a serious look on my face and correct the boys by saying "Why do you continue to ruin perfectly good Christmas song lyrics?"
To which, my oldest, with all seriousness, replied "We're boys. What do you expect?"
Um. A modicum of decor. A little self-restraint. Lyrics that wouldn't embarrass nuns. Nothing Earth-shattering, really.
I realize kids aren't perfect angels. Heaven knows they aren't the spawn of perfect parents. But, sometimes, I think they must have a little devil on their shoulders.
I know this devil hasn't taken up residence because they've all, save The Babe who doesn't quite get it yet, accepted Jesus into their hearts.
But, just for good measure, I checked all their near-bald heads today.
No 666 on any scalps.
WHEW. (That's me. Breathing a big sigh of relief.)
*Christmas-carol-writers around the world are not shaken, nor stirred, by this rendition, nor do they feel the need to get to work, based on the Nowell boys complete lack of writing ability.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
The Cutting Edge
So I am the least fashion/style conscious person on the planet. In fact, to find the genes that have anything to do with anything remotely NOW, you'd have to go back several generations. Then, you'd be in the NOW of the past, so that really defeats the purpose. Let's just say that my side of the family buys into the phrase "It's your thing. Do what you want to do."
Since I'm prone to winging it when it comes to design* and, heaven forbid, NEVER consult magazines that would actually involve anything having to do with "Fall Collections" or "Latest Trends", it was nearly impossible for me to try to get the blank canvas of this house anywhere never presentable without competent help.
Plus, by remaining design-ignorant, I've kept myself from needing the latest and greatest and from running to the store every 20 minutes trying to keep up with the latest incarnation of bell bottoms, paisley prints, and the "in" colors.
This week, however, I was in need of help with color. For the walls. In the TV room.
I actually made a semi-design decision that too much green would be, well, too green. So, I found the email my former neighbor sent and emailed the woman she used to help redecorate her house on a shoe string.**
This is the response I got:
From: Stylishly Cheap Designer
Subject: RE:
To: helpmechoosecolors@yahoo.com
Date: Wednesday, October 28, 2009, 7:32 PM
Jill,
I would love to help you out but I am completely booked until the 2nd week in January. I start Christmas decorating next week - can you believe that?!!!
If you're interested in setting something up in January just let me know and we'll get it on the calendar. My # is 972/555-5555. Thank you so much for your interest in Stylishly Cheap Designer Interiors!
The Stylishly Cheap Designer
WHAT??? I've heard of paying someone to put up Christmas lights on the exterior of their house, but decorate the interior? Really? People pay money for that?
I understand the exterior light thing. What middle-aged man really wants to haul his over-worked, under-exercised body onto the roof, potentially exposing himself to a nasty fall and the holidays in a body cast? Please. Mike gave up on that in his late-20's and I was all for it.
The interior of a house, at Christmas, should feel cozy and warm and full of stuff that kids made at over abundant holiday parties, Sunday School events, and school craft times. There should also be the requisite ornaments handed down from the previous generations. Plus some junk picked up post-Christmas sales at 90% off.
Pretty much, once the tree is up and the flat surfaces of the house are covered with red/green/gold/silver stuff, you are done. The cost? A Sunday afternoon of your time and a few extra ounces on the body due to too many calories from the hot chocolate you downed in the process.
I emailed the SCD back and asked if she knew someone who could help before January as I would likely lose my sanity by then. Plus, I'm afraid our dear contractor will notice he's become part of the family, having been with us since last February, and walk just on that basis.***
We'll see what she says. In the meantime, I'm going to resist the urge to head out to Sherwin Williams for a quick look-see.
Last time I chose colors, we had Pepto Bismol pink in the entryway. I'd like to avoid another color faux-pas like that.
*Yeah. You noticed. Go ahead and admit it.
**I already liked this woman, sight-unseen, for the work she did in my friend's house and for her penchant for cheapness.
***Becoming an honorary member of this family IS that frightful.
Since I'm prone to winging it when it comes to design* and, heaven forbid, NEVER consult magazines that would actually involve anything having to do with "Fall Collections" or "Latest Trends", it was nearly impossible for me to try to get the blank canvas of this house anywhere never presentable without competent help.
Plus, by remaining design-ignorant, I've kept myself from needing the latest and greatest and from running to the store every 20 minutes trying to keep up with the latest incarnation of bell bottoms, paisley prints, and the "in" colors.
This week, however, I was in need of help with color. For the walls. In the TV room.
I actually made a semi-design decision that too much green would be, well, too green. So, I found the email my former neighbor sent and emailed the woman she used to help redecorate her house on a shoe string.**
This is the response I got:
From: Stylishly Cheap Designer
Subject: RE:
To: helpmechoosecolors@yahoo.com
Date: Wednesday, October 28, 2009, 7:32 PM
Jill,
I would love to help you out but I am completely booked until the 2nd week in January. I start Christmas decorating next week - can you believe that?!!!
If you're interested in setting something up in January just let me know and we'll get it on the calendar. My # is 972/555-5555. Thank you so much for your interest in Stylishly Cheap Designer Interiors!
The Stylishly Cheap Designer
WHAT??? I've heard of paying someone to put up Christmas lights on the exterior of their house, but decorate the interior? Really? People pay money for that?
I understand the exterior light thing. What middle-aged man really wants to haul his over-worked, under-exercised body onto the roof, potentially exposing himself to a nasty fall and the holidays in a body cast? Please. Mike gave up on that in his late-20's and I was all for it.
The interior of a house, at Christmas, should feel cozy and warm and full of stuff that kids made at over abundant holiday parties, Sunday School events, and school craft times. There should also be the requisite ornaments handed down from the previous generations. Plus some junk picked up post-Christmas sales at 90% off.
Pretty much, once the tree is up and the flat surfaces of the house are covered with red/green/gold/silver stuff, you are done. The cost? A Sunday afternoon of your time and a few extra ounces on the body due to too many calories from the hot chocolate you downed in the process.
I emailed the SCD back and asked if she knew someone who could help before January as I would likely lose my sanity by then. Plus, I'm afraid our dear contractor will notice he's become part of the family, having been with us since last February, and walk just on that basis.***
We'll see what she says. In the meantime, I'm going to resist the urge to head out to Sherwin Williams for a quick look-see.
Last time I chose colors, we had Pepto Bismol pink in the entryway. I'd like to avoid another color faux-pas like that.
*Yeah. You noticed. Go ahead and admit it.
**I already liked this woman, sight-unseen, for the work she did in my friend's house and for her penchant for cheapness.
***Becoming an honorary member of this family IS that frightful.
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