Because I am too busy being a ONE WOMAN MISTAKE FACTORY! BOOYA. Take that, people who hate mistakes.
Hey look, I know some people think airheads have it so easy. Well, let me be the first to correct that assumption. We flakes, ditzes and space cadets may appear to be just floating through life without a care in the world, but we really …
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Where was I going with this? Hmm. Hey listen, I’m going to the kitchen, do you want anything?
I’m a neglectful blogger. I’m sorry. Facebook and Twitter and Tumblr are just so much easier. Plus blogging is not as satisfying to a pregnant nesting chick as ironing curtains or scrubbing grout. Again, sorry, Internet. Be some grout. Maybe you’ll get my attention.
Anyway, to appease you, here is a list of some things Iain and I decided we’d like to do some day.
This is how my thoughts go these days:
Urf. Something smells awful. La la la. La la la. OMG WE’RE GOING TO HAVE A BABY! … La la la, la la la. La la. HOLY CRAP WHAT DID WE GET OURSELVES INTO? … La la la. Oh hey, Twizzler! <repeat>
Oh my God. I just wrote and deleted a weirdly detailed post about repotting my plants. Let me sum it up for you: As other people treat their dogs like children, I treat my plants like pets.
Like you didn’t know I was a weirdo.
Anyway, here they are, getting a sun bath. (WEIRDO.) If I start knitting them sweaters you have my permission (nay, my instructions!) to slap me upside the head.
Breathe again, my friends, for I am here to tell you all about my hair. I know you were worried.
I had an appointment today at the Fountain of Youth salon in Cranberry, which I chose solely because it’s Aveda-affiliated, and I have always had extremely reliable results from Aveda salons. However, finding this place was like finding that twelfth egg on Easter morning: impossible, and the longer it remains elusive the more panicked you feel. It ended up taking three phone calls, 55 minutes and a stop at the Marriott for directions before I found it, half an hour late and hyperventilating from an anxiety attack.
Which … is pretty much par for the course whenever I try to get a haircut.
So. I go in. I ask for layers. The lovely stylist delivers. It’s pretty much exactly what I was looking for: a bit of shape, a bit of bounce, and the ability to wash and go with my waves. Plus she closed out with a hand massage — unexpected, but Aveda is like that — and made the whole event a good one. I like her work.
The documentation effort was not so successful.
Attempt at selfportrait number one: Unisex bathroom at Sheetz gas station:
Attempt number two: My bathroom, with Photoshop actions:
Plus about 25 other attempts. But I just can’t bring myself to put any more pictures of my face on Flickr today.
Except this one, which shows how curly she got it.
Another new theme in play, for those of you clicking through. I have some little changes to make but Owen is hopping around on one foot waiting for his turn to play lego.com.
Day one. Going good so far.
(AND NO I AM NOT PREGNANT. I am doing it the hard way this time.)
I like to trace my patterns on to wax FREEZER* paper. You know how you get the tissue pattern and it’s so neatly folded and you don’t know which size to cut? Or which view? Or if there’s a pattern printed in the back of one of your sewing books, or in a magazine, and you don’t want to cut it out? One sharpie + roll of wax paper = cheap and easy.
Trace the pattern you want onto the paper side and label all the markings. Cut it out. Now you have a nice stiff copy of the pattern to be sliced, folded, slashed and spread as needed. Plus you can lightly iron the pattern directly onto the fabric and then cut it out for a good smooth line. I like to do that on very tiny, fussy pattern pieces, such as the stuffed birdy ornament from Last Minute Patchwork and Quilted Gifts.
Wax FREEZER paper. Tell your mom.
*Correction, 11/4/08: I typed “wax paper” but really, I mean FREEZER paper. Wax on one side, paper on the other. Do your writing and pressing on the paper side. The wax side is what you place against the fabric, if you want to try that. Don’t use wax paper — both sides are waxy and you’ll screw up your iron if you press it. Also, your writing won’t stick.
FREEZER paper. Now you can tell your mom.
All right. I can’t leave that bit about the pants up there at the top of the page. Ugh.
Epilogue to the Sad Pants Story
I drove back to the mall, by myself. I reveled in the simple freedom of taking the escalator, unencumbered and light as a feather without two tots and a stroller. I smiled inwardly, remembering the kind Pittsburghers who had earlier in the day stopped to help a bedraggled young mother — me — get her two squirmy children and umbrella stroller up and down the escalator, politely ignoring the big yellow sign depicting a stroller and the big circle cross-out thing that means USE THE ELEVATOR, MORON. Down Escalator Samaritan was a young lass evidently on her way to her shift at Ann Taylor Loft. Up Escalator Samaritan was a middle-aged man, possibly a civilian contractor or maybe former Armed Forces, who had three grown children and had just returned from Asia, or someplace far away, because he hadn’t been to the mall in three years and didn’t know where the elevators were, but definitely remembered “those days,” and swore it wasn’t a problem at all.
Then I strode briskly to the Gap, and bought yet another pair of Long and Lean jeans in size 2 ankle. They fit pretty good. The end.