This was HARD, and I wrote it! To answer it, I learned how to use italics - and was even tempted to try colours. It's crazy!
If I could get away with it, I'd steal Julia Gilmore's talent, dedication, eye for beauty, impossibly charming son, and beautifully decrepit house in the country (her husband is nothing to shake a stick at either, but I adore my Steve) because damn it, they should be mine.
I sometimes buy Martha Stewart's magazines, because I lust after a clean orderly home where everything is done better - not faster and easier.
If you came over to my house to play and broke my blue-gray crayon, I'd be a little bit mad at you forever. (Because the colour was retired in 1990 - get this - because Crayola thought this colour and its name was too dull to appeal to today's kids. Jerks.)
Neon colours should only be used in fungal remedy packaging or if human waste were to be redesigned.
The colours used in vintage children's book illustrations
make my heart feel like it is full of happy kittens frolicking in a sunny, grassy meadow.
Tequila makes me break out in gooberous pustules (or else I just don't like it, but I'm too nice to say it.) (Or else I had way too much one fine Saturday afternoon and woke up naked except for an apron and with the dog licking my salt-and-lemon-slimed hand.)
I might get sick or die if I touch or ingest cigarettes (really - an anaphylactic reaction will ensue!), or look at Precious Moments figurines and other future landfill items marketed directly at faux sentimental fools who don't really want to explore what they're filling an empty hole in their life with. (I don't want to be harsh - a few make a lovely display. Hundreds mean you need help.)
Reading Family Circus cartoons and touching squeaky clean glasses give me the heebie jeebies and I might need to seek therapy if I even think about them further.
I love the feel of cashmere, and running my hand through flour so much I have a primitive urge to stick some down my pants (cashmere more, flour not so much).
No one should have to watch me eat warm flourless chocolate tortes with molten centres and brittle crusts served with hand made vanilla bean ice cream and accompanied by a fine, strong dark coffee, or perhaps a glass of really nice red wind , because really If I were eating some in private, I'd be quite a pig about it.
I would rather chew tinfoil and shave my head with a cheese grater than eat things with glutinous textures. Everything that goes in my mouth should be silky and creamy, or moist and tender or crisp and brittle in delightful way.
I DON’T follow recipes because I view them as inspiration and a sense of proportion - but I never have all the ingredients or the energy to pull a book out. Besides, there'll be this wonderful recipe that assumes everyone in the world has a food processor - and I won't be able to figure out how to to it without one so I re-design it for myself. Or else it will sound perfectly wonderful, except for something gross like anise oil.
For Marla, "White Shoulders" perfume will always smell like her laid-out dead grandmother. I feel that way about well, White Shoulders of course. But I also hate love hate love hate the smell of Final Net hairspray with all the same mixed sentiments that come up in scent-evoked memories.
If I could, I'd perfume my own farts and those of my loved ones with the scent of hazelnut coffee, with a lemon pound cake chaser .
I have TOO MANY plans and hopes and dreams and thoughts, and not enough time and energy and follow-through and desire to make them happen in the way that gets other women featured in a Reader's Digest article.
Gadgets are for taking up precious drawer space that could otherwise be used for collections of paper clutter like vintage books, photographs and fine examples of period graphic art.
When people have kind, sweet and nice things about me, they're usually talking about how well I behaved on that particular day - but I probably went home questioning everything I did or said, convinced I was a spaz and that they hate me.
I can't be upset if people dis me about being bossy, sarcastic and having a remarkable grasp of the trivial, because it's true.
If I could have any talent in the world, I'd choose to paint, and use it to speak with pictures, not words and sounds.
You are given an hour and twenty dollars to spend in one of these places, childfree. Choose one, or write your own:
A flea market, where you might find neat treasures and still have enough left over for some home made baked goods from that nice granny's table. (DUH, I wrote this and it's first for a reason, you know. Second choice is the pub.)
A picturesque pub, where a couple of great drinks and a nice tip might lead to some interesting conversations.
A craft show, because you really need to find a few more things made from twigs and yarn.
A gourmet food store, because food for the tummy is food for the soul.
A fancy and expensive boutique, because you'd rather have one lipstick from a great place than ten lipsticks from a dollar store.
Wherever! Whatever! Just give the twenty dollars to whomever's caring for the offspring so you can have more time to yourself!
And here's the last chance to make sure that you're not going to get a "Jelly of the Month" club membership when you're expecting your bonus for a swimming pool:
It is important to me that the items chosen for me have a winsome, homey, unique and thoughtful quality. The dictionary gives, and my own opinion concurs with, the definition of winsome as "charming, especially because of a naïve, innocent quality" - or as Steve would call it "badly painted homely shit that they couldn’t get rid of at a garage sale." I also hope that my gifter has fun - this is inspiration, not a shopping list.
(Examples: respect my Wal-Mart boycott, are vegan, aren't made by child or sweatshop labour, can be stuffed down my pants)
If I could suggest that you read only one post from my archives,: this would be it
If I were to name the Holiday of my choice for this exchange, it would be: Christmas circa 1957.
The draw will be held on Thursday December 1, over at Andrea's blog Beanie Baby performed by the WBBE,BN who just happens to be a dead ringer for Cindy Lou Who.
Um, this one:
(Google image searches are SO fun!)
By the way, I moved the other relative posts below this one by changing the dates - Blogger sucks that way.