Cool.
Every year, as the cold weather settles in, I ask Jon why we bought an old house. It's so drafty. Like every day. Like every minute of every day I'm cold. I wear a silly number of ugly, bulky layers and I carry a space heater from room to room. Yet my toes are ice.
Jon gently reminds me that I insisted on an old house. It's all my fault.
So why is my misery in the "cool" category, when "cool" is not meant to be literal? Because this is the time of year I start dreaming. Dreaming about vacation, dreaming about summer, dreaming about summer vacation where I'll bury my toes in the hot, hot sand and smile.
I like to dream. Some of it isn't very realistic. The Powerball, for example. I did a little dreaming, a little envisioning, a little planning. It felt good. Got me to sleep one night. I don't think we matched a single number.
I also dream and plan about definite possibilities. Our annual March getaway. Last year we went to London. This year I'm pushing for the tropics. Maybe St. Thomas. Marriott has a beautiful, newly renovated property with a swim up bar in an infinity pool. Both, together. It's almost too much lavish luxury for this overly-layered housewife to handle! If there's a steel drum band anywhere within earshot, I may need to stop time and never, ever leave that infinity pool. For all infinity.
(I just took a break to move the space heater closer. My fingers are frozen.)
When the thermometer dips, I also start thinking about the house we'll rent at the beach. And sunsets over the bay. And the coconuty smell of sunblock. And sun-kissed shoulders. Sun. Sun. It's glorious.
With summer on my brain, yesterday I mentioned to Edy that her best pal's mother's friend runs a camp in Canada and she was invited to possibly attend. Thinking about something that may occur in seven or more months is torture for a kid. That's a long time to wait when you're eight! But I persisted out of my own need to think toasty thoughts. I asked her if she'd be "up for it," to which she responded with three quick questions:
1. Will Jessie's mom just drop us off in Canada? (Pretty much.)
2. Will I be staying in a hotel? (Uh, no.)
3. Will I be able to catch my own lunch? (Fish? Maybe. Small game? Unlikely.)
I don't know if I could give up Edy for a week or more. That kind of organic humor is truly better than anything I could ever imagine myself. It warms my heart, just not my hands.
Crazy.
It's back. A show that started out well-meaning, and has become an over-the-top mess. As is the case with so many things these days.
Extreme Home Makeover. Great idea. Deserving people. Ridiculous execution.
#1 - There is no way quality construction can happen in 5 days. Walls will buckle, lights will fail, pipes will leak.
#2 - The exploitation of the families is immensely uncomfortable.
Lu, of course, thinks it's spectacular. This provided me with a perplexing parental moment. Do I just nod and agree that it's nice to help people, or do I break it down and burst her sweet bubble?
For example, in the episode we watched (I only caught a few minutes, but it was enough) the designers made a Wipeout room for the family's adopted two-year-old. He's two! How can he be a Wipeout fan? Really?! It was such blatant cross-promotion of abc's big-ratings hits that I wanted to vomit. And speaking of vomit, there was a ball pit in his room!! What's the upkeep on a ball pit?
In one of my better parenting moments, I decided that explaining "blatant cross-promotion" to Lu was way harder than simply nodding. She caught me at a weak and tired moment.
Here is a parody of Extreme Home Makeover from several years ago. Super, duper silly and so spot on.
Every year, as the cold weather settles in, I ask Jon why we bought an old house. It's so drafty. Like every day. Like every minute of every day I'm cold. I wear a silly number of ugly, bulky layers and I carry a space heater from room to room. Yet my toes are ice.
Jon gently reminds me that I insisted on an old house. It's all my fault.
So why is my misery in the "cool" category, when "cool" is not meant to be literal? Because this is the time of year I start dreaming. Dreaming about vacation, dreaming about summer, dreaming about summer vacation where I'll bury my toes in the hot, hot sand and smile.
I like to dream. Some of it isn't very realistic. The Powerball, for example. I did a little dreaming, a little envisioning, a little planning. It felt good. Got me to sleep one night. I don't think we matched a single number.
I also dream and plan about definite possibilities. Our annual March getaway. Last year we went to London. This year I'm pushing for the tropics. Maybe St. Thomas. Marriott has a beautiful, newly renovated property with a swim up bar in an infinity pool. Both, together. It's almost too much lavish luxury for this overly-layered housewife to handle! If there's a steel drum band anywhere within earshot, I may need to stop time and never, ever leave that infinity pool. For all infinity.
(I just took a break to move the space heater closer. My fingers are frozen.)
When the thermometer dips, I also start thinking about the house we'll rent at the beach. And sunsets over the bay. And the coconuty smell of sunblock. And sun-kissed shoulders. Sun. Sun. It's glorious.
With summer on my brain, yesterday I mentioned to Edy that her best pal's mother's friend runs a camp in Canada and she was invited to possibly attend. Thinking about something that may occur in seven or more months is torture for a kid. That's a long time to wait when you're eight! But I persisted out of my own need to think toasty thoughts. I asked her if she'd be "up for it," to which she responded with three quick questions:
1. Will Jessie's mom just drop us off in Canada? (Pretty much.)
2. Will I be staying in a hotel? (Uh, no.)
3. Will I be able to catch my own lunch? (Fish? Maybe. Small game? Unlikely.)
I don't know if I could give up Edy for a week or more. That kind of organic humor is truly better than anything I could ever imagine myself. It warms my heart, just not my hands.
Crazy.
It's back. A show that started out well-meaning, and has become an over-the-top mess. As is the case with so many things these days.
Extreme Home Makeover. Great idea. Deserving people. Ridiculous execution.
#1 - There is no way quality construction can happen in 5 days. Walls will buckle, lights will fail, pipes will leak.
#2 - The exploitation of the families is immensely uncomfortable.
Lu, of course, thinks it's spectacular. This provided me with a perplexing parental moment. Do I just nod and agree that it's nice to help people, or do I break it down and burst her sweet bubble?
For example, in the episode we watched (I only caught a few minutes, but it was enough) the designers made a Wipeout room for the family's adopted two-year-old. He's two! How can he be a Wipeout fan? Really?! It was such blatant cross-promotion of abc's big-ratings hits that I wanted to vomit. And speaking of vomit, there was a ball pit in his room!! What's the upkeep on a ball pit?
In one of my better parenting moments, I decided that explaining "blatant cross-promotion" to Lu was way harder than simply nodding. She caught me at a weak and tired moment.
Here is a parody of Extreme Home Makeover from several years ago. Super, duper silly and so spot on.
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