I See a Brown Table and I Want to Paint It ________.

I'm really challenged in the grown-up furniture department.  There are like three pieces of furniture in our house that are not from IKEA or Craigslist (even though, who cares, right, because IKEA and Craigslist are awesome!), and the few actual nice things we have came from Matt's mom.*

Anyway, we used to use this little computer table as our end table between our two recliners (one from Goodwill, one from Craigslist), but then it was always covered with cords and Reese's cup wrappers and coasters and cameras and crap, so I decided that we needed something that had storage.

Then, a few months back, I picked up this little fun table at a used furniture store by our house for $10!  And Matt and I both love it, except that I would love it more if it were painted.

Are you so jealous of Mitchell fur tumbleweeds?

It should be noted here that Matt does not want me to paint the table, and it's only been after several weeks of, "Yeah?  You're sure you want to keep that table that ugly shade of scuffed up brown?" that he's even been worn down and agreed that I can paint it.  But his agreement is all accompanied by eyeball rolling and slow head turning and shoulder shrugs, and now I'm a little conflicted because I want Matt to want me to paint the table.  And at that point we're basically Vince Vaughn and Jennifer Aniston from that crappy break up movie, and even though we look like them (totally identical twins), we don't really want to go down that path because if we broke up we'd have to change our Facebook relationship statuses.

So you know what?  I don't care if he wants me to paint the table.  He's not going to be mad at me if I paint it, and there's a good chance that he'll realize afterward that I was totally right.**

Now, I've got some options here, and I want your opinion.  This table will be going in our ultra-white-with-bright-accents living room, and I can't decide if I should be conservative with it and paint it black.

Or if I should be more bold and do something like yellow?

 [source]

 Or orange?

[source]

Or turquoise?

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Or purple?

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And now I want your vote.  What should it be?  The grown-up black?  Or one of the more colorful, exciting, fun alternatives?



*Without Matt's parents and our wedding registry, Matt and I would basically have an office chair and a rusty knife.  Sounds like the scene of a scary movie, huh?  


**See, also: parmesan cheese really does taste better when you shred it yourself; we should have an adventure honeymoon instead of an all-inclusive one; the dog should sleep in the bed.

What Is Normal, Anyway?

Take a quick look at my brother's Facebook profile picture.

And at my sister's.

(She's the one on the left.)

And tell me I'm not the normal one.  Or at least the closest.

Happy weekending, y'all!

How to Avoid Grading Papers

School's back with a vengeance.  My eleventh graders, you see, will be taking the State of Georgia's writing test--the one they must pass to graduate--at the end of the month (Sept. 29th to be exact), so we begin the school year with intense focus on persuasive writing.  And, as you all know, writing takes practice and more practice and more practice, so I start the year by grading lots of big stacks of essays.  Since the stakes are so high, I know that I have to put everything (time and energy) into grading these essays, too; there's got to be good, thoughtful feedback if I want my students to be able to improve. 

But I didn't really feel like grading essays this weekend.

Initially, I thought that if I just sat down and did them Friday night, then I wouldn't have to worry about them for the rest of the weekend. 

Yeah, right. 

 Instead, I found ways to procrastinate. 

(It's really similar to when I was in college.  Back then, if I had a big paper to write, I'd find all manner of ways to occupy my time--anything, really, would be better than writing the paper.  It was during these times that my sock drawer would call out to me to be reorganized, that I'd decide to write a letter to that long lost friend.  Now I do the same thing, except that now I'm the teacher, and I'm supposed to be better than that.   I'm not.)

Here's what I did to avoid grading essays this weekend:

• I baked a cream cheese poundcake.

• I drank way too many glasses of wine.
• I talked to Matt for hours and hours.
• I wrote blog posts.
• I cleaned and reorganized the office (the room that had become a catch-all for garbage during the Lagoon and Deep End makeovers).
• I scrubbed every little nook and cranny in the bathroom.
• I arranged flowers.
• I went to Wiley's BBQ with Matt (and ended up having to share a table with two of the most irritating people on the planet--two irritating people who were on a first or second date--two people who said things like "Let's see if these collards are anything to write home about. . ." and "Sorry doesn't pay the bills."  We probably should have gotten takeout.)
• I wiped our walls with bleach (and made myself sick with the fumes--super smart).
• I went to Target (home away from home).
• I went to Kroger (I hate Kroger, but they have cake flour and Publix doesn't).
• I labeled and organized the paint that I've used in various rooms around the house. (Seriously.)

• I took pictures of Mitch.

• I made spinach dip.
• I talked on the phone.
• I looked through cookbooks to do meal planning for the next week or so (more on that later--it's super exciting).

• I got so hungry after looking through cookbooks that I ate a potato chip sandwich.  Judge away (but try it, too--jalapeno chips on wheat bread = delicious). 

• I checked Facebook 200 times.
• I read magazines that have been sitting around for a month. (Why is Garden & Gun so good?)
• I touched up the paint in the Deep End.
• I did all of the laundry (and, hell, one day I might even put it away).
• I went grocery shopping with Matt.
• I spent time with friends, and my favorite little girls in the world, Iris and Opal. (We made chocolate peanut butter ice cream.)
• I vacuumed.
• I dusted.
• I cleaned all of the fans in the house.
• I cleaned the globe on the light of our ceiling fan (and, at that point realized that I was running out of things to do.)
• I even--if you can believe it--got myself interested in Matt's fantasy football draft.  And it was then that I knew that there was nothing else for me to do than grade papers.  So I did them while he did his second draft (no bitterness here).  And then I was proud of myself. 

And I won't have another big stack of essays to grade until. . .oh crap--tomorrow.  Get here, September 29th.

A Message from the Future?

Yesterday Matt got an email alerting him about a Facebook message he'd received.  Here's the message.

Okay.  Let's address this.

1. We do not know anybody named John Appleby.
2. We do not know anybody who knows John Appleby.
3. I am not with child.

I am so confused right now.  I mean, Matt and I have been pro-baby for 24 days, which is a record.  Basically, I've been possessed by biology.  It could still go away--school will often do the trick--but so far this year I'm even finding ninth graders adorable.  WHAT HAPPENED?

It's a sickness.

So, here's what I'm thinking.  Maybe John Appleby was writing to Matt from the future, because in a few months they'll become friends.  And in the future I'll go by Amanda instead of Mandy, you know, because of the newfound maturity or something.  That's a reasonable explanation, right?  More reasonable than the idea that perhaps there's someone else out there with Matt's name?

No. No. No.

Came across this picture this evening, after I became a fan of "Not Being Pregnant" on the Book of Faces. 

Needless to say, I'll be getting my tubes tied tomorrow afternoon. 

Father of the Decade[s]

Storytime!

So, my Grandpa Bill, my mom's dad, is a loser. He was brilliant when he was younger, but too arrogant to do anything with his brains (brains that have now, it seems, completely deteriorated), he was lazy, he was a philanderer, and he was and remains a terrible father. A deadbeat. Grandpa Bill, the deadbeat.

I'm not really a member of the Grandpa Bill Fan Club.

And I would put a picture of him up here, but I haven't seen him since digital cameras were invented, and I don't have a scanner.

The other day, while on Facebook (which is where I find out all information about my family), I learned something new about Grandpa Bill.

While living in Delaware and working at the local Wal-Mart, Grandpa Bill met the newest "love of his life," a woman who is 24 years old. Grandpa Bill will be turning 69 next month. And let's be clear: Grandpa's not got a Paul Newman quality. He's not one of those men who age gracefully or who were ever that handsome to begin with. And he's not charismatic or charming. But apparently he's charming enough to earn the love of his 24-year old lady friend, a woman whose hideaousness I can only imagine.

And as if knowledge of this relationship wasn't disturbing enough, I learned (on Facebook, as did the rest of my family), that Grandpa Bill recently became a daddy again, to Verity Jade, born February 13.

Grandpa now has children who are 47, 45, 42, 34, 33, 26, and one month old. Matt says he's trying to have a child of every generation. I want to puke all over myself. Jordan says it says something about the genes, and he's going to start wearing tighty whities and drinking Mountain Dew.

But, anyway, happy belated birthday to my new aunt, Verity. Poor kid.

Idea?

Me: My new thing should be that I have to spend as much time ellipting as I do on Facebook.

Matt: You'd die from overexertion after three days.