Let’s try this again. Last week I didn’t get around to 7 Quick Takes Friday, at Conversion Diary. I’m barely making it this week. Last week it was a rodent thinking he had himself a phat pad in far depths of our SUV, this week it’s plumbing troubles. Let’s combine weeks, pretending none of that ever happened, with a promise to be kind of short and sarcastically sweet, shall we?
Highlight of last week: Getting to meet one of my Cathsorority sisters in REAL LIFE: Krystin!
She is just as I’ve come to know her through our Facebook group: Military momma of 6: sweet, but no-nonsense, but with a light-hearted, joyful humor. Her children reflect that. We met at a playground so our children could self-exhaust.
-1 out-of-diaper experience,
-1 very slight boo-boo.
Out of 9 children combined, I count the meet-up as a win.
My favorite thing about talking to other moms is that our conversation is always, always, always a little hectic, with only half of our brains invested in concentrating enough to communicate, as we keep track of the chicken nuggets hopping around:
“Oh, so how did you decide to homesch– EMMETT!” …*I zip away, chasing Parking lot Wanderer, and return with sweat upon brow*
“Well, after our third baby was born— wait...” Krystin trails off and starts counting heads “…three, four…five… okay wait, where’s– Oh, there he is. six. okay…”
And then we parted ways because everyone was starving. Because “well, they’re awake.” Krystin put it, as she dashed my hope upon the proverbial stone that this 24/7 feeding frenzy dies down at some point –save for the part when they’re sleeping.
If one were to ask me to pull up my iTunes on my phone and name the first song listed, I’d have no answer because I have no music stored on my phone at all.
I know, cold hearted wench am I.
I promise I really do love musica.
I wrote about another fave song a few weeks ago, see?
My husband and I came across this song a few weeks ago, and after looking at each other going “Whaaaa?”, we immediately decided the song is redonkulous perfection.
The brilliancy of singing simple, child-like lyrics in a musically highbrow way is not unheard of, yet still excellent to see it be done again and again. The absence of sexual allegory instills a hope that one might enjoy a beat without trying to ignore nasty lyrics (*nod to “Blurred Lines”*).
I can blare this song in our living room and make the ridiculous noises along with my 1, 2, & 4 year old with no baggage of deeper yet lacking meaning attached to the song.
The entire production is a satire of pop music as a whole, while simultaneously trumping it. BOOM. This applies especially as the song rises in popularity. And I think that’s ludaaaaaa.
I like to think this song might be something The Beatles would dapple into if they were all alive in their 20’s today. Alas, McCartney forever sings “Hey Jude”.
nah, nah, nah, nah.
I have been wanting to talk for eons about a color that bristles in my ears when I hear it’s name be spoken, and sends daggers to my eyes when I see it enter my house as a new permanent monument in the form of furniture or appliances.
Disclaimer: I give thanks daily for a roof over my head, a seat fer me bum, and carpet to soften the ground upon which I traipse. I am thankful.
But let’s get one thing straight: The color Burgundy, Ron Burgundy, BURGUNDY has been stricken from the Ten Commandments of color appreciation inside my head.
I HAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY tchu.
Why such a loathing?
Because the color has invaded my home, with cat-like tread. The Penzance kind of cat-like tread, that is.
We could not have avoided the way the house is built: dentist countertops, dungeon-like dark marble flooring.
We didn’t have the moula, and wouldn’t go in debt, to buy new furniture (and after the boys’ breakfast dance in the living room every morning, I’m thankful we didn’t), so we were very grateful to receive hand-me-downs from our family.
Like I said above, thankful thankful thankful.
When all was said and done, however, I realized we are up to our scratching eyeballs in burgundy.
Everyone else knows the awfulness of the color. Because the generosity we received is Burgundy Rejectamenta.
How do I handle this situation? Well there’s nothing I can do at present but to laugh at it. It’s a dry humor at how everything we’ve been given just happens to be this matching burgundy color. It’s like God said, “Let there be Burgundy at Bumpy Bridge House.”
And there was.
And it was good.
This is good for me, people. It really is.
Sometimes it takes a
vain lover of beauty something like waking up daily to BURGUNDY in order for her to find herself truly thankful for even… well, Burgundy.
Even then, these loathsome, burgundy banes to my existence are still comfortable.
I know they feel perfectly at home with their matchy-matchiness, and I cannot begrudge them that –okay, yes I can. But they are part of our Bumpy Bridge House, and for that, this wretched eyesore is home to me. I even looked at the recliner this evening with a fond gaze as I prepared to sit there and drink a cup of tea.
“….for who could ever learn to love a beast?”
Well buy me that golden ball gown, darlin’, cause yer lookin’ at the dang Mater Burgundias.
And with a What Does The Fox Say kind of paradox, my favorite Nail Polish color happens to be this:
Oh, sweet torture.