Monthly Archives: July 2010

One Year Later

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I’ve been annoyingly busy this week, trying to concoct some semblance of order for my appalling messy house. I’ve moved furniture from room to room, organized my boys’ clothing to find out what I need to buy for fall, sorted for the garage sale I was supposed to have six months ago, hoping all the while I can get it done soon enough to sweep the crumbs off my floor before I die of old age.

I’m not the sort of girl to envy my friends’ husbands, or wardrobes, or cars, or iPhones, or sexy figures. I have Housekeeper Envy.

Anyway, I was so busy it took me until this morning to realize today is my one year “blog-iversary.” I’ve began writing Raising Camelot on July 29, 2009.

In the 365 days since, I’ve posted 70 entries — or about once every 5.2 days — received176 (non-spam) comments and had 4,278 visitors. From these hollow statistics, we can glean the following:

  1. I don’t post nearly as often as I should.
  2. This blog will never set the world on fire or pay my mortgage. (No surprises there. You have to know me to “get” me.)
  3. My mother must have quit her job so she could sit at her computer and “refresh” her browser 10 times a day for a year.

Anyway, I’m sure in celebration of this milestone, I’m supposed to offer some sage words of blogging wisdom and host a giveaway of fabulous prizes.

Nah.

Instead, let me say only that I have really enjoyed this blog. Firstly, this is as close as I’ve come so far to adhering to the writers’ dictum: Write something everyday. I’ve kept at it consistently, if imperfectly, and that’s more than I can say for many a prior attempt!

Secondly, I’ve relished the opportunity — or perhaps the forum — for greater and more objective self-analysis. I tend to write faster than I can think. Like everything else I do, I write relying mostly on instinct. It’s no rare thing for me to write something instinctively that focuses a very unexpected lens of insight on my hidden self — something I couldn’t have conceptualized until I read it on the page. It’s been nice to have a way to open up and paw through the “junk drawer” of my mind and reflect on what’s inside.

Apparently, I don’t clean that place out often enough, either.

At least that means I have a lot more writing to do. I hope you enjoy the dig.

The Tub Rub

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So maybe you don’t remember, but we’re planning a big remodel for our master bathroom.

I think I might have mentioned it once or twice.

As I go round ‘n’ round, trying to figure out how to afford things I really want and want the things I can afford — and somehow make those two rivals fall in love with each other and live happily ever after — I keep coming back to one consistent source of dilemma: the bathtub.

I have finally, after lots of wrangling, come up with a plan that I’m happy about. Except that now I have a much bigger obstacle to clear.

In order to mask the identity of said obstacle, I won’t mention names. Let’s just call him My Husband.

I knew going in that the tub discussion was going to be a bit of a battle. Apparently, there was some question — in his mind — as to whether or not we should even replace the existing, swirled cultured-marble, off-white, ugly, hideous, dated, tacky, boring, repulsive tub.

Yeah, I was pretty ambivalent about it, too. Can’t you tell?

So I did what any wife would do. Let’s call it finesse. And I don’t mean the shampoo. And, inexplicably, replacing the tub became an accepted point on our remodeling checklist.

[SIDEBAR: Do any of you blogging ladies ever wonder if your husband even reads your blog? My answer to that question is, perhaps, forthcoming...]

However it came about, we did progress to the accepted fact that the tub would be replaced. At first, I thought we would rebuild the supporting frame with some nice wood mouldings and panels, surface the top with Carrara marble and drop in a new jetted acrylic tub. I even bought a Roman Tub Filler to match the sink faucets.

But the downside of the remodeling process is the time. Lots of it. Lots of time to think and rethink. So I did.

Now I want one this:

There are, of course, some trade-offs. The freestanding tub is not a whirlpool. And Scott wants a whirlpool, mainly for the sake of resale value. Which I understand.

But my rationale is that the slipper tub has drama. Romance. Panache. Cachet. (In case you’re wondering, that’s the full extent of my French vocabulary.)

My main goal for this remodel is to “upscale” the bathroom. I want it to look more high-end without being overly elaborate or freakily-customized. I think if we achieve a really show-stopping bathroom, nobody will care the tub lacks jets.

And another thing. Look at this photo again.

You see that ledge under the window and to the left of the existing tub? Drives me bananas. It’s totally useless — a complete waste of space. If I had the cash to install one of those elevators to conceal a flat panel TV in there, ala The Tonight Show, then maybe that little nook would make sense to me. But until then, I would need to cover that whole area in the same surface as the tub surround. Which was…marble. Oh yeah.

However, if I used a freestanding tub, it would give me the room to build a small-yet-functional window seat. Maybe with a touch of storage underneath.

So here’s the thing — the tub “rub,” if you will — my hubby wants more opinions than just mine before we commit to a freestanding tub. I’ve asked a couple of friends, including a realtor, for their thoughts, but I’d love to have a few more opinions to round things out.

Is lacking a whirlpool tub a deal-breaker? Would you forgive our jetless state for a nice cast-iron, double slipper tub like the above?

(I wish I were Layla Palmer and could manage a “presto-chango” for you to reference, but it is not to be. Just use your imagination and leave a comment telling me what you think.)

Have a fab week!

Put a Fork in This Blog

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It’s finally done.

I think.

Actually, I just remembered that I still need to figure out the mystery that is RSS and add an RSS link to my site. But that truly, on my honor, is all I have left to do.

I think.

Feel free to give me your feedback if anything is hard to read or find. I did this all by my lonesome, so I’m sure errors abound.

If you happen to have my blog button posted somewhere — and you both know who you are — please update to the new version, posted below. (If you have the new version, any future changes will automatically update your button and you won’t have to do nuffin ever again. Isn’t that nice?)

Happy Wednesday,

Raising Camelot

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The Deal of the Century

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Yes, I’m exaggerating. Again. Maybe it’s the deal of the month.

Better bloggers than I, such as The Nester, have educated the public on the best way to shop thrift stores. I really don’t have any new advice to offer. Just consider this my “happy dance” moment.

After a bout of summertime cabin fever — something to which Oklahomans are particularly susceptible in July — I ran off to Salvation Army with my boys in tow. Retail therapy on a shoestring, if you will.

I’ve been on the prowl for an ice bucket for sometime and just so happened to find a smallish version with scrolled handles tucked away behind some plastic plates. It was so filthy, at first I was unsure whether it was glass or acrylic. And then there was the price: $3.99.

My particular Salvation Army has a daily sale on bric-a-brac, 50% off certain color tags on certain days. And this ice bucket wasn’t on sale. So I left it on the shelf and walked away.

(You know you’re seriously deranged when you refuse to buy something at a thrift store because it’s not on sale…)

But just before I checked out, on a complete impulse, I plucked the ice bucket off the shelf and bought it, with the parting thought: “I hope it’s not acrylic.”

As I washed up my finds later that afternoon, I was happy to discover underneath all the grime was a very nice, non-acrylic ice bucket.

And then, as I dried it off, I looked down through the now grime-free bottom and saw something that made my jaw hit the floor.

It’s nice when your own stupidity doesn’t get in the way of sheer dumb luck. I think I spent the rest of the day doubled over and laughing at myself.

Of course, the downside is that I’ll spend the next twenty years — or however long I have before my boys break it — too paranoid to actually use the ice bucket. I’m sure it’ll end up sitting on some shelf, hidden by dust and grime.

Until it gets donated back to Salvation Army and sold for $4 to some idiot who thrifts with her heart and instead of her brain. Like me.

Linking up to:

southern hospitality

The “P.Q.”

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In his tragedy Medea, Euripides wrote:

Quem deus vult perdere, dementat prius.
(Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mothers with two sons to potty-train.)

Okay, my Latin might be off by a smidgen, but that’s what he meant. That Euripides was totally brill.

My potty-training experience has been a journey of Homeric proportions, with a duration to rival The Odyssey and a casualty list to shame The Illiad — at least as far as undergarments are concerned. The clashing of wills, the shedding of tears and the conflagration of tempers has ever threatened to lay waste to our little corner of the Peloponnesus.

If you think this is hyperbole, let’s trade lives for an afternoon. 1

So as to keep this post on the upbeat — and you know that’s where I live to be— we are making progress and are close, so very close to the goal. We are, despite semi-regular accidents, in a mostly liveable stage where [details redacted] and I’m only averaging seven loads of laundry per week.

But there is one tiny thing that I would rejoice to outgrow. The Potty Queue.

How have my two sons — through some bizarre trick of osmotic transference, as yet uninvestigated by modern scientists or paranormal experts — managed to completely synchronize their bladders and bowels? Honestly, the coordinated precision with which “the urge” strikes my little boys should be the envy of NASA and The Rockettes of Radio City Music Hall fame.

But so it is. Whenever I’m conducting one son on his excursion to the “big boy potty,” I’m sure to be treated to the appearance of his brother suddenly beset by a similar, and equally urgent, call of nature. And they’re not even twins. How does this happen?

It’s not that we lack the facilities, but neither of my sons have reached an acceptable level of independence where toilet needs are concerned. Ours is a supervisory deficiency. I’m sure it’s only because I’ve been mothering less than six years, but I have yet to master that little trick about being in two places at once. I feel like such a failure.

My own mother had two sons, both now functionally potty-trained — at least as far as I know — so I’m clinging to the dim hope that this, too, may yet happen for me. And since I don’t play the lottery and I have yet to complete my future New York Times Bestseller, successful potty-training is the only jackpot for which I’m in active contention — which leads me to believe I have an outside shot of actually landing triple sevens on this one.

Eventually.

In the meantime, has anyone ever seen a two-seater potty? Craigslist came up empty.

  1. And no offense, but please don’t flood the comments with your suggestions or admonishments on what else we should try. Heard it all. Tried it all. Been there, done that, disinfected the floor afterwards. I promise. ↩

Actually, I do.

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There is one phrase, above all others, I cannot stand. One phrase — just six words of the English language — that sends my dander to an altitude topped only by my blood pressure.

“You don’t want to do that.” 1

It’s usually spoken by a subcontractor, or a salesperson, and is often followed by “because…” and a very reasoned, practical substantiation. But if I hear this phrase one more time in association with my bathroom remodel, I’m going to resort to violence.

Let me state the following facts for the record.

  1. I am not an idiot.
  2. I am not confused.
  3. I know you’re just trying to help.
  4. I realize you’re a professional in your particular field.
  5. But I am not, by any remote definition of the word, indecisive.
  6. I rarely have any trouble determining what I want.
  7. And hanging on to said preference with bulldog-like tenacity.
  8. In full knowledge of and despite the many obstacles it may present.
  9. So yes, I do want to do exactly that.
  10. Which is why I came to you in the first place.

So, subs and salespeople of the world, take note. Thank you. 2

  1. Acceptable alternative phrasing includes, but is not limited to: “That’s a great idea, but in order to make it work, you’ll need to…” or “You could save money/aggravation/labor, etc., if you…” or “I don’t think you’ll be happy with the results, but we’ll do our best.” or “As You Wish.” ↩
  2. Yes, I am this crabby today. ↩

Alpha Testing the Cabinets

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At last I have an update on the bathroom remodel project — specifically our attempt to transform, rather than replace, our existing bathroom cabinetry.

Here it is. All done.

Don’t I wish.

Here is the actual “alpha test” of the transformed cabinetry.

Since I wasn’t entirely sure my crazy, harebrained idea would work, my darling dragonslayer spent several days of his leisure time on this mock-up using MDF. The trim is basic 3/4″ stock trim from Lowes. The drawer face on the top is the closest to what it will look like, although it’s not completely flush yet. (Lacking hardware, this is the closest we can get and still enable me to open the drawer. Which contains my toothbrush, which makes it a pretty important drawer, which you would know if you woke up next to me every morning.)

My “carpenter” also cobbled together a mock-up for the cabinet doors. This one is actually too wide as there should be a 2″ piece of frame between the two doors.

Here is a closeup of the door. Neither the drawer nor the door received the needed application of wood putty to fill the seams, cracks and nail divots, but I did give both a quick coat of paint for the sake of visual harmony. Pay no attention to the color; the eventual hue will probably be a gray or dove color.

Despite the cheap wood and hasty assembly, I think — with more care — this will actually work out. I hope to begin the “beta-testing” phase with actual wood very soon. The word “I” meaning, of course, that I will have nothing whatsoever to do except stand around with my arms folded and critique the work as it progresses.

In a related story, I received my hardware order from Lee Valley Tools, and while the hinges are perfect, sampling the drawer pulls made me realize the window sash-style pulls just aren’t right for my bathroom cabinets. They’re too prominent and seem to fight with the trim for attention. I need something lighter and more delicate. Stealing even more cues from Brooke Giannetti, it seems that glass knobs are the solution.

So I’ve been cruising the internet in utter disregard for the impracticality of glass knobs in my home — or any home that shelters my two sons. I want something more than the basic, primitive glass knobs with the brad in the center. I’m going for a little glam without ostentation: a pair of classic diamond earrings, except for my cabinets, if you follow me.

These are my faves so far:

Please feel free to weigh in with your opinions. Because if I make a huge mistake, I will blame you completely. And then you’ll feel bad because you derailed my entire remodeling project by not speaking up and we’ll have this awkward tension in our relationship because you’ll be responsible and we’ll both know it. And nobody wants that.

Highlights from Our Fourth

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We spent the 4th of July in Arkansas with my Dad’s family and had a wonderful time catching up with the many branches of our large and far-flung tribe.

My paternal grandparents were married on Independence Day some sixty-plus years ago and it has been “O” family tradition for my Dad and his three brothers, mit familien, to congregate over the 4th. Grandpa passed away almost three years ago and my grandmother has since moved to a “senior living community,” but my mother was gracious enough to host a gathering of our peeps from Colorado, New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Arkansas, Iowa and Tennessee.

My parents live in a semi-rural neighborhood and we kicked off our Saturday morning with a little harvesting at a nearby berry farm. We use to pick blueberries every year when I was growing up, so it was fun to introduce my kids to something I hope will become a tradition in our household.

As you can see, my eldest son was a quite studious picker. His little brother (who evaded the camera) was more interested in picking green berries and attempting to hotwire the berry farmer’s tractor. Ah well.

We came away with a gallon or so of blueberries and several hard-won cups of blackberries. All exertions were deemed well-spent once the blackberries were converted to Blackberry Cornmeal Cake. (I should point out that I prefer blueberries in this recipe but used blackberries in deference to my lord and master. Which said deference did not stop me from adding a couple teaspoons of lemon juice to the batter — a truly appaling omission on Martha’s part, if you ask me.)

Between the consumption all manner of heinous, waistline-killing food, we relished the quietude of the intimate family circle — all four generations and twenty-seven persons of us. Chief among the delights were the great-grandchildren: eight kids ages five and under. Including my two newest nephews, ages four months and two months. Baby buzz.

If you read this blog, you already know my children are cute. That would be a brag if I had anything to do with it, but take these pics as proof I get zero credit. We just have “adorable baby” genes by the truckload in my family. See?

We somehow managed to sleep both my sons and my two nieces in the same bedroom, which defies the theorem of critical mass but still worked. The kids divided their wakeful hours between the inflatable pool and the Toy Story DVDs I brought — both ideas for which I congratulated myself amply. Our boys tend to be a little, uh, destructive if left to their own devices for too long.

On Sunday night, we made a pilgrimage to the minor league baseball park to see the post-game fireworks display. Theoretically a brilliant idea with morphed into a disaster when both of my terrorized children shrieked through the entire show. Oh, and my youngest peed me. Whether it was fright or revenge, he hasn’t ‘fessed up yet. Maybe next year.

My cousin, her husband and their two sons (almost the same age as my boys) are about to depart for eighteen months of language school in Costa Rica before entering the mission field in Columbia; I was thrilled we got to see them before they set out on a remarkable journey of living out God’s will for the sake of the lost. Our best wishes and prayers follow them overseas.

The few family members absent from the reunion were sorely missed but it was a fabulous weekend and I feel fortunate to have such a precious family with whom to spend holidays.

Hope you had a fantastic 4th of July!

Lives, Fortunes & Sacred Honor

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We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. That whenever any form of government becomes destructive to these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness.

Better historians than I have waxed eloquent on the significance of the Declaration of Independence and I have nothing new, I’m sure, to add to the discussion. But even as I spend this weekend enjoying time with my wonderful family, I’m also pondering the incalculable privilege of being a citizen of the United States of America.

Liberty is a blessing — and one enjoyed by far too few people around the globe. I am so grateful to the 56 men who risked their “lives, fortunes and sacred honor” to sign the preface of our freedom story — and to the thousands of men and women who’ve written  the chapters that follow, sometimes with tears and blood.

God Bless America. Happy Independence Day!

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