"Goat Uprising" or "Sheep Go to Heaven...."
Showing posts with label Holiday Happiness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Holiday Happiness. Show all posts
12 December 2008
31 October 2008
Boo!
SCENE: A DARK AND NOT SO STORMY NIGHT
MAMA
Tomorrow's Halloween. Do you know what we do on Halloween?
LITTLE DUDE
Yeah! We det some tandy!
MAMA
And who are you going to be?
LITTLE DUDE
I be SUPER WHY!!! And you be NOTHING!
MAMA
Tomorrow's Halloween. Do you know what we do on Halloween?
LITTLE DUDE
Yeah! We det some tandy!
MAMA
And who are you going to be?
LITTLE DUDE
I be SUPER WHY!!! And you be NOTHING!
06 January 2008
It's gone, baby, gone
Yup-- shaved it clean off.
I knew him before he had a beard, but he's always had a beard since we've been together. Then the day we got back from our Christmas trek he was trimming it and suddenly decided to just go all the way.
I have to say-- I kind of like it... but it was like learning to kiss a whole new person.
I knew him before he had a beard, but he's always had a beard since we've been together. Then the day we got back from our Christmas trek he was trimming it and suddenly decided to just go all the way.
I have to say-- I kind of like it... but it was like learning to kiss a whole new person.
29 December 2007
Christmas Times Seven
I would wish you all a Merry Belated Christmas, but when the final Christmas even went down (a fairly full glass of Bailey's while watching the HD Yule log on cable) I was officially done.
Don't get me wrong--As Christmases go, it was a good Christmas. There were no major breakdowns or crack-ups. Little Man was a perfect little traveler and did more than tolerate the gaggle of new people constantly thrown at him. But it was an exhausting Christmas, probably because we celebrated it at least seven time. Count 'em:
"Christmas" morning at home on the 21st.
Hubby's Dad's family's Christmas on the 22nd.
Brief Baptismal interlude on the 23rd.
Hubby's Mom's family Christmas Brunch on the 24th.
My Grampa's hardcore Italian Christmas Eve Fest on the 24th.
Christmas morning with Jason's parents--including Mass on the 25th.
Christmas dinner with my parents and grandparents on the 25th.
Gift opening orgy with my parents on the 25th.
Mix all of that together with being physically drained from traveling with a baby and emotionally drained from dealing with the idea that this would probably be the last Christmas back in Akron for a long while, and I was done. I love Christmas, but after all of that I was done. Finished. Finito. Kaput.
So no Merry Belated Christmas from me.
Here's the thing: it's all just a little too much. Maybe a lot too much.
As I stood Christmas eve, trying to pacify my toddler with cookies while my grandpa said the blessing, tears streaming down my face, I realized that he got it right in the midst of all the chaos of that event. It's not about the amount of presents you get anymore -- let's face it, most of them get returned anyway. It's not even about the stress of cooking and planning the perfect holiday meal. That's all just window dressing. But when he thanked us all for coming and commented on how important it is that we (all 26 of us- all 5 generations present) do get together and celebrate. How important it is to take a moment and think about those would couldn't make it--those who have jobs that have taken then far away and those who are no longer with us. I think that part of why I feel so weary now--so exhausted about the whole thing is that all the whoop-la of gifts and cookies and food and holiday perfection often makes us miss the real reason for it all. To be together. To create moments we remember always, rather than moments that seem like a hazy blur.
And so, despite having a lovely time at each and every single event. Despite enjoying seeing everyone who we saw, I find it strange and yet not unexpected that my favorite moments were the quiet ones. Women around a kitchen table. Talking softly late into the night around a lit tree. Christmas tea in gold rimmed cups. A doll-like infant snuggled on a couch, fast asleep in the midst of chaos. And a cup of Bailey's, straight-up over ice, when the house is quiet and the windows dark.
Don't get me wrong--As Christmases go, it was a good Christmas. There were no major breakdowns or crack-ups. Little Man was a perfect little traveler and did more than tolerate the gaggle of new people constantly thrown at him. But it was an exhausting Christmas, probably because we celebrated it at least seven time. Count 'em:
"Christmas" morning at home on the 21st.
Hubby's Dad's family's Christmas on the 22nd.
Brief Baptismal interlude on the 23rd.
Hubby's Mom's family Christmas Brunch on the 24th.
My Grampa's hardcore Italian Christmas Eve Fest on the 24th.
Christmas morning with Jason's parents--including Mass on the 25th.
Christmas dinner with my parents and grandparents on the 25th.
Gift opening orgy with my parents on the 25th.
Mix all of that together with being physically drained from traveling with a baby and emotionally drained from dealing with the idea that this would probably be the last Christmas back in Akron for a long while, and I was done. I love Christmas, but after all of that I was done. Finished. Finito. Kaput.
So no Merry Belated Christmas from me.
Here's the thing: it's all just a little too much. Maybe a lot too much.
As I stood Christmas eve, trying to pacify my toddler with cookies while my grandpa said the blessing, tears streaming down my face, I realized that he got it right in the midst of all the chaos of that event. It's not about the amount of presents you get anymore -- let's face it, most of them get returned anyway. It's not even about the stress of cooking and planning the perfect holiday meal. That's all just window dressing. But when he thanked us all for coming and commented on how important it is that we (all 26 of us- all 5 generations present) do get together and celebrate. How important it is to take a moment and think about those would couldn't make it--those who have jobs that have taken then far away and those who are no longer with us. I think that part of why I feel so weary now--so exhausted about the whole thing is that all the whoop-la of gifts and cookies and food and holiday perfection often makes us miss the real reason for it all. To be together. To create moments we remember always, rather than moments that seem like a hazy blur.
And so, despite having a lovely time at each and every single event. Despite enjoying seeing everyone who we saw, I find it strange and yet not unexpected that my favorite moments were the quiet ones. Women around a kitchen table. Talking softly late into the night around a lit tree. Christmas tea in gold rimmed cups. A doll-like infant snuggled on a couch, fast asleep in the midst of chaos. And a cup of Bailey's, straight-up over ice, when the house is quiet and the windows dark.
18 December 2007
A Holiday Ditty for Your Enjoyment
On the first day of Christmas break my toddler gave to me--
one nasty little cold.
On the second day of Christmas break my toddler gave to me--
two tiny sneezes and one nasty little cold.
On the third day of Christmas break my toddler gave to me--
three used tissues, two tiny sneezes, and one nasty little cold.
On the fourth day of Christmas break my toddler gave to me--
four boogers on my shirt, three used tissues, two tiny sneezes, and one nasty little cold.
On the fifth day of Christmas break my toddler gave to me.....
Five sleepless nights.
On the sixth day of Christmas break my toddler gave to me--
six hours of screaming about his ears, five sleepless nights, four boogers on my shirt, three used tissues, two tiny sneezes, and one nasty little cold.
On the seventh day of Christmas break my toddler cost to me,
seventy dollars for anti-biotics, six hours of screaming,
fiiiiiive sleeeepless nights,
four boogers on my shirt, three used tissues, two tiny sneezes, and one nasty little cold.
On the eighth day of Christmas break my toddler gave to me,
8 million conjunctivitus bacteria all over the house, seventy dollars for anti-biotics, six hours of screaming,
Fiiiive sleeeeeplessss nights,
four boogers on my shirt, three used tissues, two tiny sneezes, and (still) one nasty little cold.
On the ninth day of Christmas break my toddler gave to me, a nine hour car ride that should take 7,
8 million conjunctivitus bacteria all over the house, seventy dollars for anti-biotics, six hours of screaming,
Fiiiive sleeeeeplessss nights,
four boogers on my shirt, three used tissues, two tiny sneezes, and (still) one nasty little cold.
On the tenth day of Christmas break, my toddler gave to me,
ten hours of "Christmas tree mama, now mama, christmas tree, christmas tree, christmas tree!!!!!!!!!!,
a nine hour car ride that should take 7, 8 million conjunctivitus bacteria all over the house, seventy dollars for anti-biotics, six hours of screaming,
Fiiiive sleeeeeplessss nights,
four boogers on my shirt, three used tissues, two tiny sneezes, and (still) one nasty little cold.
On the eleventh day of Christmas break I gave up, packed it in, and hunkered down until all of the germs around our house have either died off or have mutated and begun eating us alive.
Merry Christm-achooo
one nasty little cold.
On the second day of Christmas break my toddler gave to me--
two tiny sneezes and one nasty little cold.
On the third day of Christmas break my toddler gave to me--
three used tissues, two tiny sneezes, and one nasty little cold.
On the fourth day of Christmas break my toddler gave to me--
four boogers on my shirt, three used tissues, two tiny sneezes, and one nasty little cold.
On the fifth day of Christmas break my toddler gave to me.....
Five sleepless nights.
On the sixth day of Christmas break my toddler gave to me--
six hours of screaming about his ears, five sleepless nights, four boogers on my shirt, three used tissues, two tiny sneezes, and one nasty little cold.
On the seventh day of Christmas break my toddler cost to me,
seventy dollars for anti-biotics, six hours of screaming,
fiiiiiive sleeeepless nights,
four boogers on my shirt, three used tissues, two tiny sneezes, and one nasty little cold.
On the eighth day of Christmas break my toddler gave to me,
8 million conjunctivitus bacteria all over the house, seventy dollars for anti-biotics, six hours of screaming,
Fiiiive sleeeeeplessss nights,
four boogers on my shirt, three used tissues, two tiny sneezes, and (still) one nasty little cold.
On the ninth day of Christmas break my toddler gave to me, a nine hour car ride that should take 7,
8 million conjunctivitus bacteria all over the house, seventy dollars for anti-biotics, six hours of screaming,
Fiiiive sleeeeeplessss nights,
four boogers on my shirt, three used tissues, two tiny sneezes, and (still) one nasty little cold.
On the tenth day of Christmas break, my toddler gave to me,
ten hours of "Christmas tree mama, now mama, christmas tree, christmas tree, christmas tree!!!!!!!!!!,
a nine hour car ride that should take 7, 8 million conjunctivitus bacteria all over the house, seventy dollars for anti-biotics, six hours of screaming,
Fiiiive sleeeeeplessss nights,
four boogers on my shirt, three used tissues, two tiny sneezes, and (still) one nasty little cold.
On the eleventh day of Christmas break I gave up, packed it in, and hunkered down until all of the germs around our house have either died off or have mutated and begun eating us alive.
Merry Christm-achooo
24 November 2007
Ho Ho Ho
One of the things that my parents got unequivocally right was the whole Santa thing.
Growing up, Christmas was a religious holiday first--no presents were opened until we went to mass on Christmas morning--but it was also a magical holiday. My parents did Santa like no one's business. My brothers and I all believed in the big guy until at least 4th grade or so. When all of our friends already "knew," we still were adamant in our belief.
It was easy to believe, in part, because Santa seemed so far out of my parents' realm. When we were young, my parents didn't buy random things whenever we asked for them. It just didn't seem like they could possibly come up with the mountain of gifts that awaited us each Christmas morning. But it wasn't just about the gifts.
To start with, Santa brought our tree. For about a month before Christmas, we'd wake up each morning and rush down the steps to see if the tree had appeared yet. Then, one morning about a week or so before Christmas we would start down the steps and the scent of pine would greet us. There it would be-- the biggest, fattest, Scotch Pine you could imagine, laden with ornaments and ablaze with colorful, old fashion lights. Somehow we never noticed the trees in the backyard waiting to be put up or that my parents seemed more tired the next day. To a 5, or 6, or 7 year old, a tree magically appearing over night seemed a magical feat.
We looked forward to visiting the mall Santas. We wrote him letters that disappeared from the mantel. We got calls and letters from the jolly old elf. We read stories about Christmas-- The Gingerbears, a book about Silent Night and a little mouse, and of course, the Grinch. We watched Christmas movies for a month--each explaining a little more thoroughly just how Santa managed his magical endeavors. And each Christmas eve, before bed, we would curl up with my dad and he would read us Twas the Night Before Christmas. It's really the only time I remember him reading to us--and it was his thing to do that evening.
And then, on Christmas morning, my brothers and I would sneak down stairs before dawn and stand amazed in front of a tree overflowing with gifts. The stockings were always filled, always with some sort of theme. And it seemed impossible that my parents the ones who were so cost conscious could have even begun to produce that mountain. Where would they have hid them all? How could we have missed them wrap them?
No. Santa was real and true and the best part of the holiday. It was the anticipation, the waiting and wondering that made it all wonderful. The butterflies in your stomach if you wondered if you were really good enough.
J didn't really grow up with Santa. When he was 5 or so--maybe younger-- he asked his mom if Santa was real and she said no. That was the end of it for him. I'm surprised and happy that he's on board with wanting to give Little Man Santa. I know that those memories are some of my happiest. And I know that something changed irrevocably the first Christmas that I was on the other side of the suit and beard. Sure, I finally got to help pick out the tree. Sure, I got to stay up to the early morning putting it up. But Christmas morning lost that anticipation. The sparkle was gone because the surprise was gone. There was no doubt that Santa would come, that there would be another mountain of gifts.
I know that Christmas shouldn't be about the gifts--I don't think Santa is. I think, though, that the magic of the season when you're still young and you still believe is important. Children grow up so fast. The world, with all of its realities and wars and horrors will be theirs all too fast. Santa holds all of that at bay for a while. It's an age old tradition, and in those few magical years, our 21st century children are no different, no more modern or grown up than their 19th century counterparts. They can be innocent for a little while longer.
Growing up, Christmas was a religious holiday first--no presents were opened until we went to mass on Christmas morning--but it was also a magical holiday. My parents did Santa like no one's business. My brothers and I all believed in the big guy until at least 4th grade or so. When all of our friends already "knew," we still were adamant in our belief.
It was easy to believe, in part, because Santa seemed so far out of my parents' realm. When we were young, my parents didn't buy random things whenever we asked for them. It just didn't seem like they could possibly come up with the mountain of gifts that awaited us each Christmas morning. But it wasn't just about the gifts.
To start with, Santa brought our tree. For about a month before Christmas, we'd wake up each morning and rush down the steps to see if the tree had appeared yet. Then, one morning about a week or so before Christmas we would start down the steps and the scent of pine would greet us. There it would be-- the biggest, fattest, Scotch Pine you could imagine, laden with ornaments and ablaze with colorful, old fashion lights. Somehow we never noticed the trees in the backyard waiting to be put up or that my parents seemed more tired the next day. To a 5, or 6, or 7 year old, a tree magically appearing over night seemed a magical feat.
We looked forward to visiting the mall Santas. We wrote him letters that disappeared from the mantel. We got calls and letters from the jolly old elf. We read stories about Christmas-- The Gingerbears, a book about Silent Night and a little mouse, and of course, the Grinch. We watched Christmas movies for a month--each explaining a little more thoroughly just how Santa managed his magical endeavors. And each Christmas eve, before bed, we would curl up with my dad and he would read us Twas the Night Before Christmas. It's really the only time I remember him reading to us--and it was his thing to do that evening.
And then, on Christmas morning, my brothers and I would sneak down stairs before dawn and stand amazed in front of a tree overflowing with gifts. The stockings were always filled, always with some sort of theme. And it seemed impossible that my parents the ones who were so cost conscious could have even begun to produce that mountain. Where would they have hid them all? How could we have missed them wrap them?
No. Santa was real and true and the best part of the holiday. It was the anticipation, the waiting and wondering that made it all wonderful. The butterflies in your stomach if you wondered if you were really good enough.
J didn't really grow up with Santa. When he was 5 or so--maybe younger-- he asked his mom if Santa was real and she said no. That was the end of it for him. I'm surprised and happy that he's on board with wanting to give Little Man Santa. I know that those memories are some of my happiest. And I know that something changed irrevocably the first Christmas that I was on the other side of the suit and beard. Sure, I finally got to help pick out the tree. Sure, I got to stay up to the early morning putting it up. But Christmas morning lost that anticipation. The sparkle was gone because the surprise was gone. There was no doubt that Santa would come, that there would be another mountain of gifts.
I know that Christmas shouldn't be about the gifts--I don't think Santa is. I think, though, that the magic of the season when you're still young and you still believe is important. Children grow up so fast. The world, with all of its realities and wars and horrors will be theirs all too fast. Santa holds all of that at bay for a while. It's an age old tradition, and in those few magical years, our 21st century children are no different, no more modern or grown up than their 19th century counterparts. They can be innocent for a little while longer.
23 November 2007
Truly Thankful
Yesterday, the in-laws drove almost 8 hours to celebrate the holiday with us. Although I missed having the craziness of my family, having a quiet and stress-free Thanksgiving was wonderful. Dinner was perfect--The turkey wasn't overdone, the vegetables were perfectly crisp, and the homemade rolls were almost better than any of the rest. And the wine....mmmmm. Such a beautifully delicious Bordeaux. Top it all off with homemade pies, a little Bailey's, and you have a wonderful holiday.
It was a bit strange to have such a small Thanksgiving; I'm used to big dinners with at least 12 people involved eating a 22 lb bird. But as we move into this Christmas season, I'm coming to terms with the fact that what I might have always known may not be what my own children know. This will be my last Christmas where the tradition will be what it's always been. But even this year it won't be the same. Things change, people change, and traditions change. I think that it's good to have a little change, even if it's hard to come to terms with. As each generation adds, subtracts, and adjusts traditions, the holidays become more meaningful rather than less.
I have much to be thankful for-- and I love this holiday less for the food than for the fact that it forces us to take a minute and realize what we are grateful for. Too often it's so easy to see only the clouds and disappointments that punctuate our lives, but I think it's important to realize how much we have. How much we are given. How much we have to give.
It was a bit strange to have such a small Thanksgiving; I'm used to big dinners with at least 12 people involved eating a 22 lb bird. But as we move into this Christmas season, I'm coming to terms with the fact that what I might have always known may not be what my own children know. This will be my last Christmas where the tradition will be what it's always been. But even this year it won't be the same. Things change, people change, and traditions change. I think that it's good to have a little change, even if it's hard to come to terms with. As each generation adds, subtracts, and adjusts traditions, the holidays become more meaningful rather than less.
I have much to be thankful for-- and I love this holiday less for the food than for the fact that it forces us to take a minute and realize what we are grateful for. Too often it's so easy to see only the clouds and disappointments that punctuate our lives, but I think it's important to realize how much we have. How much we are given. How much we have to give.
22 November 2007
11 November 2007
Holiday Road
The holiday's are approaching, it seems, at breakneck speed. It's taken me quite a while to get excited this year, what with some of the changes to family traditions and all. But slowly and surely, I'm starting to get more into the spirit. After all, I've already heard "The Christmas Song" at least 5 times this weekend--how could I not be getting into the Christmas mood.
We've gotten a good start on Christmas shopping, we have the Thanksgiving menu all planned out, baby bro has confirmed his New Years/Birthday visit with us, so we've started planning the menu for that. The one thing I can't get excited about is receiving gifts. My parents want their usual Christmas list from us, but I had the hardest time thinking of things to tell them. The thing is, there's a whole lot of stuff that I'd love to have, but it's pricey and upscale and unnecessary in our small house. And, I don't really feel like I have any right to ask people to buy that sort of thing. I drool over the monthly Crate & Barrel catalog, but I really don't need a set of matching tumblers just for mixed drinks or the hammered steel serving bowl I've had my eye on. And as much as I would love to go shopping for clothes, I don't really need any clothes. Having someone else pick them out takes the fun out of the hunt and the purchase. Plus, they've just opened a Banana Republic at the local mall, and I've gotta say, I'm in love. But even if someone was willing to buy me something from their racks, it wouldn't be as much fun as picking it out myself. That's the thing about living on the grad student budget--every purchase is scrutinized. No more happy day shopping trips.
So I'm having a lot more fun thinking about what others might like and planning menus for our holiday dinners. I have to say, the recipe for Roasted Baby Pears with Herbed Goat Cheese (wrapped in bacon) is getting me pretty excited about New Years.
We've gotten a good start on Christmas shopping, we have the Thanksgiving menu all planned out, baby bro has confirmed his New Years/Birthday visit with us, so we've started planning the menu for that. The one thing I can't get excited about is receiving gifts. My parents want their usual Christmas list from us, but I had the hardest time thinking of things to tell them. The thing is, there's a whole lot of stuff that I'd love to have, but it's pricey and upscale and unnecessary in our small house. And, I don't really feel like I have any right to ask people to buy that sort of thing. I drool over the monthly Crate & Barrel catalog, but I really don't need a set of matching tumblers just for mixed drinks or the hammered steel serving bowl I've had my eye on. And as much as I would love to go shopping for clothes, I don't really need any clothes. Having someone else pick them out takes the fun out of the hunt and the purchase. Plus, they've just opened a Banana Republic at the local mall, and I've gotta say, I'm in love. But even if someone was willing to buy me something from their racks, it wouldn't be as much fun as picking it out myself. That's the thing about living on the grad student budget--every purchase is scrutinized. No more happy day shopping trips.
So I'm having a lot more fun thinking about what others might like and planning menus for our holiday dinners. I have to say, the recipe for Roasted Baby Pears with Herbed Goat Cheese (wrapped in bacon) is getting me pretty excited about New Years.
30 October 2007
Hoochies Unite!
Tomorrow is Halloween. Little Man will be unveiled as Elvis, we will have our first real Halloween part, and women everywhere will put on the bare minimum amount of clothing.
I don't really get it, to be honest. Sexy is one thing. Slutty is quite another.
Apparently, if you happen to be a female, Halloween provides ample opportunity to whore it up a bit. For instance-
You can be a witch-
Apparently, the only thing that you need to be a witch is a pointy hat.
Or, if the macabre isn't for you... sail the high seas as a pirate!
The sword is really what gives the costume that certain something, don'tyou think?
And how can you not want to take a walk down a yellow brick road when you're stepping out as Dorothy? She's not from Kansas any more boys and girls...
I'm not even sure I understand this one-- and
gangster bunny. Since when do bunnies even
run liquor?
And just in case Dorothy was too tame-- why not dress up as
the kind of nun all little catholic school boys fantasize about?
Maybe I'm just jealous that this raunchy little trend wasn't around when my body might have possibly made one of those costumes work. But, really, how many people out there can make those silly costumes work? From the looks of the fairly average college girls trying them on at the local Halloween shop, not very many. You just kind of want to pull them aside and say, "Sweetie, no matter how you work it, that little bitty thing you think is a nurse outfit doesn't make you look sexy, it makes your completely normal and fairly average body look just exactly that."
But what I really want to know is when did Halloween become just a holiday for the guys? Sure, there's something exhilarating about dressing like the slut you (secretly) wish you could be. Inhibitions, be damned! But for what?
A student of mine said today that Halloween is the day girls can dress up and not be judged. Then what's the point of hoochin' it up? Don't they want to be judged? Isn't that the point?
Anyway- we'll be having a nice, tame little Halloween party. No body shots with toddlers running around. But I think it's better that way. After all, what hoochie out there is taking home both the King and the Wolfman home with them when it's all over? And I'm not even breaking out the garter belt.
I don't really get it, to be honest. Sexy is one thing. Slutty is quite another.
Apparently, if you happen to be a female, Halloween provides ample opportunity to whore it up a bit. For instance-
You can be a witch-
Apparently, the only thing that you need to be a witch is a pointy hat.
Or, if the macabre isn't for you... sail the high seas as a pirate!
The sword is really what gives the costume that certain something, don'tyou think?
And how can you not want to take a walk down a yellow brick road when you're stepping out as Dorothy? She's not from Kansas any more boys and girls...
I'm not even sure I understand this one-- and
gangster bunny. Since when do bunnies even
run liquor?
And just in case Dorothy was too tame-- why not dress up as
the kind of nun all little catholic school boys fantasize about?
Maybe I'm just jealous that this raunchy little trend wasn't around when my body might have possibly made one of those costumes work. But, really, how many people out there can make those silly costumes work? From the looks of the fairly average college girls trying them on at the local Halloween shop, not very many. You just kind of want to pull them aside and say, "Sweetie, no matter how you work it, that little bitty thing you think is a nurse outfit doesn't make you look sexy, it makes your completely normal and fairly average body look just exactly that."
But what I really want to know is when did Halloween become just a holiday for the guys? Sure, there's something exhilarating about dressing like the slut you (secretly) wish you could be. Inhibitions, be damned! But for what?
A student of mine said today that Halloween is the day girls can dress up and not be judged. Then what's the point of hoochin' it up? Don't they want to be judged? Isn't that the point?
Anyway- we'll be having a nice, tame little Halloween party. No body shots with toddlers running around. But I think it's better that way. After all, what hoochie out there is taking home both the King and the Wolfman home with them when it's all over? And I'm not even breaking out the garter belt.
09 October 2007
As Promised....
Presenting....
Little Man as "The King" (the later years)
Little Man as "The King" (the later years)
The Costume
Back View
Hunka-Hunka Burnin' Love
Thank you.... Thank you very much
Elvis has left the building.....
I'm usually fairly modest-- but is this not the greatest toddler Halloween costume ever??
Back View
Hunka-Hunka Burnin' Love
Thank you.... Thank you very much
Elvis has left the building.....I'm usually fairly modest-- but is this not the greatest toddler Halloween costume ever??
07 October 2007
Elvis lives... but I can't say the same for the sewing machine
I have a ridiculous amount of work to do-- papers to grade, midterm grades to post, fellowship stuff to prepare. Oh-- and then there's that whole dissertation thing.
But despite the 90 degree October weather, I've been doing nothing but playing with Halloween stuff. Remember back when I said I was going to turn Little Man into Elvis? Mission almost accomplished. This weekend I got out the old sewing machine (and old is the operative word here. The thing is at least from the early 1960s) and got busy on those little scraps of white material I had cut out a few weeks ago. It turns out that I can actually sew. Not well, mind you--Elvis probably won't have the straightest seams--but I did complete one tiny white jumpsuit, complete with sparkley red bell-bottoms and one very small cape. I'll post pictures soon, but first I have to be-dazzle the thing with some faux rhinestones.
J is still in a bit of disbelief that it's done.
The sewing machine is also done. It's really my grandma's--an old Singer that weighs about 10lbs and only sews in a straight line. It's just too temperamental for someone who doesn't know a whole lot about sewing to deal with it. Just as I was only 3 or 4 seams away from finishing, it decided it was done. I wasted over an hour just trying to get it to sew something without the thread snapping. The Singer is going back to Ohio for Christmas and staying there for good. There's no way I am going to wrestle with it while I make the baptism quilt. The material was too expensive to screw it up with the old machine.
In a few short days, I'll have the brand new computerized machine that I found on Overstock.com. I can't believe that this is making me excited, but it kind of is. I have the baptism quilt to finish by Christmas, but before then, I need to finish Elvis, make myself a costume, and turn J into a Werewolf. With 80-some stitch patterns, I should be good to go. (Watch, I'll probably only ever use the straight stitch.)
Because Halloween is only a few weeks away and we are having a real Halloween party this year, complete with all the cheesey goodness that Halloween deserves. The kids in our two respective departments are just barely old enough for me to use them as an excuse. Although, at this rate, maybe we should have a luau instead....
But despite the 90 degree October weather, I've been doing nothing but playing with Halloween stuff. Remember back when I said I was going to turn Little Man into Elvis? Mission almost accomplished. This weekend I got out the old sewing machine (and old is the operative word here. The thing is at least from the early 1960s) and got busy on those little scraps of white material I had cut out a few weeks ago. It turns out that I can actually sew. Not well, mind you--Elvis probably won't have the straightest seams--but I did complete one tiny white jumpsuit, complete with sparkley red bell-bottoms and one very small cape. I'll post pictures soon, but first I have to be-dazzle the thing with some faux rhinestones.
J is still in a bit of disbelief that it's done.
The sewing machine is also done. It's really my grandma's--an old Singer that weighs about 10lbs and only sews in a straight line. It's just too temperamental for someone who doesn't know a whole lot about sewing to deal with it. Just as I was only 3 or 4 seams away from finishing, it decided it was done. I wasted over an hour just trying to get it to sew something without the thread snapping. The Singer is going back to Ohio for Christmas and staying there for good. There's no way I am going to wrestle with it while I make the baptism quilt. The material was too expensive to screw it up with the old machine.
In a few short days, I'll have the brand new computerized machine that I found on Overstock.com. I can't believe that this is making me excited, but it kind of is. I have the baptism quilt to finish by Christmas, but before then, I need to finish Elvis, make myself a costume, and turn J into a Werewolf. With 80-some stitch patterns, I should be good to go. (Watch, I'll probably only ever use the straight stitch.)
Because Halloween is only a few weeks away and we are having a real Halloween party this year, complete with all the cheesey goodness that Halloween deserves. The kids in our two respective departments are just barely old enough for me to use them as an excuse. Although, at this rate, maybe we should have a luau instead....
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