Even My Dogs Smell Like Christmas (but for all the wrong reasons)

I've compiled a list I've found vaguely interesting and very personally informative as I've been preparing for the holiday season. Perhaps you, too, will be intrigued. (Perhaps instead you will be alarmed. I understand completely. If you find you are more disturbed than amused, you should totally find a more relaxing blog with a more sensible writer.)

• We have 8 bins for Halloween decorations, but only 3 for Christmas decorations.
• One of those Halloween bins is labeled "GRAVEYARD" and is an enormous bin on a high shelf so I can't really access it. I'm just saying there may be an actual graveyard in my storage room and I have no way of knowing for sure. Ce la vie.
• One of those Christmas bins is so ridiculously enormous that I usually just grab the items I need and carry those upstairs individually. Did not get that memo to my husband, who hauled the giant bin upstairs and said "whatever is in that bin needs to be separated into two smaller, lighter bins" as he huffed and puffed and grabbed his back. His look of incredulity when I announced there are actual bricks in that bin (cute preschool-painted Christmas bricks) was totally worth the price of admission.
• At least one of our dogs has upgraded from treating the Christmas tree water as vitamin water and gulping it down with wild abandon to actually nibbling on the tree. We assume to freshen his breath. Or maybe for extra protein. We will be keeping the candy canes high up on the tree per the usual this year. Because what the world does not need this holiday season is two naughty Corgis jacked up on sugar.
• Speaking of naughty Corgis, remember that cute frame my niece procured as a cute little hostess gift (actually a "thanks for getting us a place at the beach" gift) back in the summer? She visited again in October and brought the above photographed fabulously-pine-scented soy candle, which if memory serves she procured at the Memphis Farmer's Market. She totally gets MVP in the gift-giving category, because it smells divine.
• I once bumped into Morris Day of Morris Day and the Time at a church. I was reminded of this when thumbing through old preschool Christmas program pictures of the girls. Yep, they went to preschool with Morris's child. And no, I did not go up to him and sing "Ohweeohweeoh!"  while performing the accompanying dance moves, though it was encouraged by one of my dearest friends from college. We were in church, people. It didn't seem appropriate, though it was wildly tempting. (Watch a video of Morris performing Jungle Love here, but serious dancing does not commence until the 3:30 mark.)
• When in need of a tacky Christmas sweater, I would totally rather sew lights onto an old sweater than go to Goodwill to purchase a tacky Christmas sweater. And did so. Evidence below.

XO --


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Show and Tell

I know I've promised not to craft on this blog. Or pressure you into organizing anything, or painting anything, or planting anything. Please do not misconstrue this post as craft-like pressure.



Because heaven knows Back to School season (can we go ahead and call it a season? Because it is. And I swear it pretty much starts before I've gotten the kids home from the last day of the previous school year) is already uber stressful. There's registration, purchasing the right back pack, gathering school supplies, returning school supplies after meeting teachers and discovering they want completely different supplies, and of the utmost importance: procuring the perfect first-day-of-school outfit.



Also, you have to find the perfect lunch box. I suggested my husband might want to upgrade his mode of transportation for his midday meal a few years ago, as perhaps it could be misconstrued as unprofessional to tote one's sammy and banana in a torn Wal-Mart plastic bag to a Fortune 500 company. As a joke I purchased this lovely 1940s era lunch pail at Scott's Antique Market in Atlanta and offered to pack his lunch for him. He said he'd only take his lunch in this when he wanted to catch himself a little tetanus, so we have called this the Tetanus Lunchbox ever since.


The Tetanus Lunchbox is enjoying its day in the sun, y'all.



Anywho, my sister introduced me to this lovely blog called Talk of the House. There are a million kazillion blogs about lovely homes, but this one's my new fave. She does all this fun and creative decorating around the seasons, which inspired my little Back to School entry table. So thanks, Kelly, for the fabulous idea. And giving me the excuse to pull out the Tetanus Lunchbox, along with the girls' elementary school yearbooks and other school-themed books.

Which of course led to digging out pictures of the girls in preschool. Which made me sit in amazement at the many ways they have changed, and the many ways they have stayed the same. Which led to a bizarre mix of exaltation and melancholy, which may or may not have led to me eating some of those Smarties candies. (By the way, my sister suggested mixing in some Dum Dum lollipops to see if anyone caught it. Genius idea which I sadly never implemented.)

The best part is 95 percent of this stuff I had around the house. Which is good, because it left time for me to take care of other Back to School emergencies, like:




XOXO ---

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Smelly Plant, Smelly Plant, What Are They Feeding You?

So I decided to spiff up my office with a plant. Problem is, I am a known plant killer. It's so bad, whenever I purchase flowers or plants I think I can hear them saying "please, please .... don't take us to your house to die!" It's like a plant version of Silence of the Lambs. Which is obviously a whole other problem. Unless y'all hear plants accuse you of being a serial plant killer, too. Then I'd feel much better.

I found this plant (actually, I'd call it more of a potted shrub) and you don't have to water it. Ever. You occasionally are to spray it with a little water and that's it. I was so excited I didn't even hear this plant talking to me.

Though if it did, I wonder if it would have told me it stunk to high heaven. Because it does. It smells like a mixture of rotting dirt and hairspray and the 80s perm smell and pigs. And not just if you're right up on it ... the minute I hit the stairs to head down to the office I start gagging.

I hope this awful odor wears off. And soon. Otherwise I will take it as a sign I am not meant to overtax myself, and keeping my children and dogs alive should be my chief focus in caregiving.

I promise to be back soon with useful writing and marketing information for your business. In the meantime, I am going to spray that plant with some Trapp room spray in lieu of water. I may kill this plant yet.

XO---