Sunday, November 28, 2004
Three years isn't a huge gap in age, but it's enough such that I was still squirrelling around with Cabbage Patch Kids* while Sean was getting fitted for a highschool marching band uniform. Not surprisingly, we have somewhat different banks of music trivia. For example, the following conversation came up over breakfast this morning while Christmas music trilled in the background:
Him: Did Quincy Jones produce this?
Me: No, Bob Geldof.
Him: ...
Me: Band Aid? Boomtown Rats?**
Him: Oh, the guy who was in "The Wall"!
Me: *hunches over laptop, attempts to surreptitiously verify the claim*
Him: DON'T IMDB IT, WOMAN, I KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!
* I wasn't really all that into them, but my friends were, so... Actually, that excuse had pretty broad application throughout my youth.
** Not that I'm old enough to really remember that band at its heyday. Everything I know was learned by watching VH1's "Pop Up Videos".
# posted by Amanda at 8:58 AM |
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Wednesday, November 24, 2004
[Editor's note: If you have any banjo music handy, now would be the time to put it on the Victrola. Be sure to turn the volume way up loud.]
Having been denied the opportunity to witness pumpkin chunkin' at a bona fide pumpkin patch this year due to a very long stretch of inclement weather in October, we here at Cheezleton Manor decided to chunk pumpkins right in our very own backyard. What is pumpkin chunking, you ask? It is a proud tradition dating back at least to the proto-rednecks of medieval times and involves a trebuchet, flight-friendly vegetables and - I suspect - heavy amounts of alcohol. In a nutshell, getting sloshed and flinging stuff for distance AND awe-inspiring splatter patterns. Huzzah!
Our backyard pumpkin chunking idea required acquisition of a trebuchet which - as you can imagine - isn't the type of thing that is readily available for purchase through Sears or Wal-Mart. There also isn't a wealth of detailed information out there on how to build one. (Go figure, not a lot of demand for such things these days, what with municipal trash collection being so affordable and all.) Fortunately, Sean was apparently born with a natural instinct for building medieval flinging devices and managed to design and assemble a basic trebuchet in just a couple days' time.
I invited a few friends to come witness our completely unprovoked attacks on unsuspecting vegetables. Beer was most definitely served during the event. Below, photos and video from Backyard Pumpkin Chunking:
Pumpkins whose time had come. They were so scared, they were actually sweating.
Loading up The Beast. Oh looky, there appears to be a bottle of beer in the foreground!
The crowd of rather underwhelmed onlookers, some of whom aren't even facing in the direction of the flinging.
Whee, a movie! See pumkin chunking in action! Hear the crowd go wild with excitement! (The propane tank and decrepit fence in the background of the clip really add to the charm, IMO.) Alternatively, enjoy this photo of the moment of flinging.
So, now we are the proud owners of our very own trebuchet. Probably not too many other American households can say that. I feel quite special.
# posted by Amanda at 9:40 PM |
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Thursday, November 18, 2004
Behold, the beauty of Cheezleton Manor's freshly redecorated family room! A few coats of red paint over the weekend, new sofa delivered last week, various wall art redistributed...yes, we ARE having visitors this weekend, why do you ask?
Here's what the room looked like during the painting process, which lasted many hours longer than my actual interest in repainting the room:
Note the plastic wrap on the sofa. It only came off long enough to take the "finished" photo above, and was tucked back around the delicate new furniture mere moments later. I LOVE the plastic wrap! It may become a permanent fixture here. Not only is it extremely attractive, it is also a formidable deterrent of the non-declawed feline-variety beast that specializes in sofa destruction. Cats slide right off. Really quite satisfying. REVENGE, BITCHES! THE SOFA IS FIGHTING BACK!
[Editor's note: A few observant individuals have noted that the turquoise-y sofa pillows do not match anything in the room. Sometime during the intervening weeks between the purchase of the sofa and its delivery, I forgot that I had intended to paint the walls a nice neutral coordinating beige. Big oops. The orange rug doesn't match anything, either. Let's just all pretend that I'm colorblind and not mention it anymore, mmmkay?]
# posted by Amanda at 10:39 PM |
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Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Right before my 30th birthday I picked up a little red miniskirt at H&M. Then I let it sit in my closet for a couple of months while I debated whether or not it is really something I should wear.
Over the past couple of years, I've been increasingly conscious of the fact that certain clothing styles become decidedly "too youthful" at some age. Exactly what age that is, well, that's a nebulous thing: could be 24 (in which case I definitely missed the boat, as that was the height of my brown-and-navy sack-shaped clothing phase during which I was repeatedly mistaken for a bookstore employee), could be 44 (certain celebrities think so, anyway). Not that I want to pre-emptively fill my wardrobe with the middle-aged uniform of chinos and holiday-themed sweaters, but I'd just rather not be the woman who dresses in ways that inspire less than charitable commentary: "Girl, who's she trying to fool that she's young? Maybe in dog years!"
I woke up this morning realizing that, having very few remaining clothes that are both clean and not wrinked like used aluminum foil (have I mentioned that I hate to iron? I have been known to donate clothes to charity rather than iron them), the heretofore unworn little red skirt was the best clothing option for the day. I threw it on with a black sweater, some black tights and black Mary Janes, and studied the reflection in the mirror. Too young? Not professional enough? Hard to say. I shrugged and left for work.
About halfway along my commute this morning, I drove past an elementary school and happened to see some of the kids going into the school. There was a little girl - maybe eight years old - wearing a little red skirt, black sweater, black tights and black shoes.
Guess that answers my questions. Maybe I should have accessorized my outfit with a SpongeBob Squarepants backpack.
# posted by Amanda at 8:50 AM |
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Monday, November 15, 2004
Sophie this morning, with her hair in two ponytails and wearing her new winter coat.
# posted by Amanda at 12:23 PM |
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Wednesday, November 10, 2004
The mostly charming but occasionally mortifying thing about kids is that they don't candy-coat anything. Their comments are all about the plain truth of what they see. If a preschooler tells you that you're old, offering in support of this position the fact that you have wrinkles, know that indeed you are both old and wrinkled. The kid isn't being mean, just making an honest observation. Next time you want to know if your butt looks big in a certain pair of pants, considering employing the services of a 4 year old.
Sophie is just beginning to enter the stage of commenting on her observations about people. Hair color is a major area of interest these days. Over the weekend she found a photo revealing my hair during a darker phase of its life and exclaimed, "Mommy, BROWN!" in approximately the same shocked and disappointed tone as a kid who has just discovered that her pet rock isn't a pet at all.* As far as Sophie is concerned, Mommy has always had long blonde hair and anything different from that is simply not as it should be.
Last Sunday we visited my grandparents for the first time since my grandmother started using a walker and cane. We fully expected Sophie to comment on the new equipment, and I could only hope that whatever she said would sound kind. Although Sophie was clearly fascinated by the shiny new things (a rolling jungle gym! what fun!) she apparently didn't draw the connection that they were helping Mom Mom to walk. Not a word was said about them.
At some point, Sophie went into my grandparents' bathroom and noticed some false teeth soaking in a cup on the sink. Now THIS was something new and interesting! Teeth! Outside of someone's mouth! How does THAT happen?! My mother explained to her that Pop Pop has a partial set of false teeth that he wasn't wearing at the moment. Sophie considered the explanation and toddled off to find other things to get into.
Later during the visit, someone said "Pop Pop" and a beaming Sophie chimed in, "TEETH IN A CUP!" As if it was a perfectly logical association. Perhaps even his Indian name.
Funny though it was, I would have been extremely embarrassed except for the fact that my grandfather didn't hear her. Alas, in some tribes he is referred to as "HEARING AIDS COLLECTING DUST ON THE DRESSER!"
* Speaking from experience. I was seven and my parents thought it would be funny, which it probably was right up until I realized that the several hours I had put into teaching the rock tricks were a total waste of time. Crying ensued. We got a puppy shortly thereafter.
# posted by Amanda at 10:10 PM |
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Monday, November 08, 2004
I'm in a mood that can best be described as rather chainsaw-esque. Hello, Monday.
Also, I'm home from Las Vegas. Below, some photos from the trip. A couple of them are worth mousing over; figure out for yourself which ones. Rar!
Lodging
We stayed at the Bellagio, which is very tastefully decorated in gilded Italian style and probably sees the nicest hookers of any hotel on The Strip. At times it was nearly impossible to differentiate the paid prostitutes from the tarted-up vacationers. Late one evening while I was waiting for my travelmate outside a bathroom near the lobby, a couple of elderly guests walked by me, looked me up and down and tsk-tsked as they continued along their way. It would seem that - dressed in what I thought was a conservative little plaid skirt and black knee boots and loitering alone - I looked like someone's Soccer Mommy Porn Dream.
The ceiling of the hotel lobby was covered in Chihuly blown-glass flowers. There were botanical displays elsewhere in the lobby and a faint gingerbread scent.
The Strip
There was a very pervasive bad smell - a cross between a stable and the monkey house at the zoo - on the streets of Vegas. I'd guess that it was the stink of sin and vice, but other than the guys handing out prostitute flyers, the drunk philosophers and the Curves conventioneers, people seemed fairly normal. We were 2/3 of the way through the trip before we encountered an Elvis impersonator, who rather humorlessly stated, "I pose for pictures for tips." Nothing was free in Las Vegas.
This sign was affixed to the front of the Flamingo Hotel (or something like that), which was fairly unnecessary considering that every place that could have slot machines DID. I played $45 in quarter slots across the entire trip and only managed to come out $11 in the red. Yessir, high roller in the house!
Paris and New York New York are quite charming and photogenic, as far as Vegas hotels go. If you happen to be in the vicinity of the little Mexican cafe in New York New York and you're feeling a bit parched, the Very Berry 'Rita comes highly recommended.
Much less charming were the MGM lion's cheeky bits, which were all squished up against the glass of the observation tunnel. Yes, we took pictures of that li'l tourist attraction, but I'll spare you the photographic evidence.
The Main Attraction
In case you're wondering about the purpose of the Vegas trip, Ms. LuraFabulous won not only a Vegas vacation for four but also a 2005 Ford Mustang and a "High Horsepower Party" in a sweepstakes sponsored by Quaker State. I was one of her invited guests for the Vegas trip and the party, which included meeting FunkMaster Flex. (Admittedly, I had to Google that to find out that a FunkMaster is not a Dungeons & Dragons thing. My [slightly] younger male coworker was positively aghast to hear me speak of FunkMaster Flex without properly reverent tones.) The "party" was held at a nightclub within the Bellagio, and was actually more like a "guest appearance". No publicity photos, no "hollahs" (that we heard, anyway), just FMF slouching in shortly after midnight and the four of us trying to look awake and enthusiastic while posing for - I KID YOU NOT - snapshots. FMF grabbed me first as soon as photos were mentioned, which I initially chalked up to me looking cute in the aforementioned Soccer Mommy Porn Dream outfit. However, after reviewing the photos I realized that he probably wanted me next to him in pictures because I AM THE ONLY PERSON SHORTER THAN HE IS. One would think that a FunkMaster would be taller than that...
Nonetheless, as you can see in the picture, my left boob [accidently] touched the greatness that is FunkMaster Flex. It will be posing for pictures. For tips.
# posted by Amanda at 11:55 AM |
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Monday, November 01, 2004
A Highlight From Trying On Outfits For My Upcoming Vegas Trip:
Me: (muttering to self, twisting around in front of mirror) ...I just don't know if I could get away with an outfit like this...they might arrest me or something...
Him: (looking up from his book) Oh, it's okay, they don't arrest prostitutes in Vegas.
Me: ...
Him: What?
# posted by Amanda at 9:48 PM |
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