NTOTD No. 6: Shaun The Sheep

Today's New Thing of the Day is courtesy of my husband's amazing Netflix-surfing abilities...

And that's all I've got to say about that. Shaun the Sheep can speak for himself.

Culture No. 14

In a rare moment of youthfulness, Bert and I stayed up way past our bedtime and went to the drive-in this past Friday. I won't lie: I have a love/hate relationship with watching movies outdoors on the big screen. Yes, they are terribly nostalgic and super cheap, but I always (without fail) end up sleeping halfway through the second movie and waking up with an incredibly sore backside. This, my friends, I could do on the comfort of my own couch.

But there is something very romantic about camping out in your hatchback, bingeing on chocolate bars and potato chips, and watching Cars 2 with a parking lot full of rambunctious children and leering teenagers. (I slept through about 75% of Pirates, so I really don't feel comfortable in saying I "watched it.") Bert and I both agreed it was not one of Pixar's finest, although our opinion may have been swayed by the fact that (*Spoiler Alert*) the bad guy turned out to be a Jeep/Landrover hybrid. Our second child (after the cat, of course) is a 1986 CJ-7. Evil off-roaders don't really fly in this family.

Regardless, it was a fun night and we both ended up sleeping in till about 10:30 the next morning. A new family record? You better believe it!

I've discovered that the more I edit photos, the more pixelated the become. Picnick, you've been so great - don't let me down!

Why yes, we did manage to park behind my only Saturn twin in the entire parking lot. Got to <3 the Tupperware!

Bert discovers that Geoff the Mazda does not come equipped with any sort of tie-down or hook. I guess "drive-in neighbor friendliness" is not a design consideration in Japan.

*First drive-in date ever!*

Top 100 Ways You Know You Live In NEPA No.99

99. The local preschool is using a middle-aged woman in a bikini to flag down cars for its lemonade stand. No joke. Check that place off the list for any future Bertlings...

Cooking No. 7

Mama V. came down for a visit this past week and brought us the cutest round watermelon and two bottles of Avery's soda - root beer for Bert and black cherry for moi. We usually don't drink much soda, but regardless, neither bottle lasted very long. So good! Apparently, if you visit Avery's bottling 'barn' in New Britian, you can make your own soda. How cool would that be?

Culture No. 13

Today, I will present you with the facts. (As opposed to a usual day, when I tend to slip in an opinion or two.) The facts speak for themselves and I hope you listen, learn, and avoid repeating my mistake. Let's begin...

***Exhibit A***

A shredder. Bert’s shredder, to be precise. (My shredder still retains its Connecticut residency.) Handy for destroying old bills, junk mail, and other odd bits of incriminating evidence. Black. Dusty. Uses sharp teeth to grind paper, plastic, and – incidentally – light PVC.

***Exhibit B***

A vintage perpetual calendar I found at a Berkshire barn sale several years ago. Cost me $1. Has remained one of my most favorite tag sale finds, encouraged my husband to propose so he could "have it," and been featured in classic photos like this shot of a slightly-younger and state-quarantined Nora:

Don't let that sweet face fool you. Do you know why cats are quarantined? Because they have rabies!!!

Also, in the interest of full disclosure, please note said calendar's proximity to Bert's shredder:

Note to self: The shredder does not need to be turned "on" when you're not using it.

***Exhibit C***

One of the date cards to said vintage perpetual calendar, post-simultaneous proximity with Bert’s shredder and a well-meaning member of my extended family. Black. White. Shredded.

***Exhibit D***

A vintage Formosa perpetual calendar, designed by Enzo Mari in 1963 for the Italian company Danese Milano. Considered one of the classic icons of 20^th century designs and can be found in modern museum collections all over the world. New versions of the calendar currently retail for over $250.

And the cards are not sold individually.

***Exhibit E***

:*-(

Me. Today. Post-unhelpful eBay search.

The verdict?

Google tag sale finds when you find them, not after you destroy them. Also, don't put valuable antiques above your shredder. That's just asking for trouble.

Case closed.

Top 100 Signs I Married the Right Man No. 89

89. He puts up with my horrible renditions of "Teardrops On My Guitar."

Craft No. 5

My uncle is a carpenter. Ever since I was a wee bug, he’s been making amazing kitchens for Connecticut’s rich and famous. And over the years, as my family and my aunt’s family moved back in state, he’s even made kitchens for his in-laws. (And an office for Papa V.!) His latest project was a new kitchen for Sister V. and, even though I haven’t seen it yet, I’m sure it’s as beautiful as the rest.

But there’s a problem with growing up with an amazingly talented carpenter uncle (who cut short his snowbird season – during the worst winter ever – to come to our wedding because he is just that awesome). You get spoiled. You assume every kitchen is as nice as the ones in your family. And then you run headlong into a mess of barely-laminated particleboard and receive a very rude awakening indeed.

Cue our kitchen. The room itself is the largest in the house – its one, true saving grace – but the rest leaves something to be desired. I’ve been complaining about it for a while now, but since I’ve recently spoken to others with the same amount of counter space and less overall room, I’ll keep the whining to a minimum here. I can’t do much about most of it, but there is one thing I can change: the knobs.

Cute in a Holly Hobbie sort of way, but not my style. Those flowers have got to go.

The transformation started with a serious scrub down for both the cabinets and the knobs. Everything was covered in that sticky grime that comes with grease, time, and a particular disdain for cleaning. (Don’t judge. We’ve only been here two months. This stuff was years old.) I decided to paint all the knobs and pulls silver because I’m all about retro-fabulous. And what screams “1950s!” more than chrome?

In my craft trunk - yes, it’s an actual trunk - I had a can of silver spray paint leftover from my senior year of high school when I decided to ditch 20 years of childhood collections and paint everything in my room one color. (I was coming off a year of living out of a suitcase. I couldn’t handle the clutter.) Did my can of almost-ten-years-old spray paint work? Why yes, yes it did. (Actually, it leaked all over my hand, but it did that when it was new too.) Did I like it? Eh. Not so much.

I almost missed the flowers at this point. (See the unlaminated underside of my counter? Grrr…)

The knobs came out less silver and more gray, which was not the look I was going for. So on to Plan B. When in doubt, what do architects do? We make things white. Perfect. I even had a slightly-younger can of white spray paint in my trunk. (This can was left over from the time I made a disaster of a model and tried to salvage it with paint. Did that work? Not so much...)

And you know what else? It didn’t really work this time either. You'd think I learn.

Snap, crackle, pop. What a disaster.

So I finally broke down and went to Michael's for a new can of 21st century paint. I returned a bottle of black Rit from an ancient project that never happened, so the paint was, in a sense, free-to-me-now. (Thank you, past self, for working so hard to support my craft habit.) The paint went on much cleaner, albeit super thin, so I had to do about 15 coats to hide the gray and reach a nice finish. (Poor Bert. It's tough to open the silverware drawer without its knob.) But at long last, may I present to you, my slightly improved kitchen:

Notice anything? Why yes, my secret to better "after" photos is clearing off my counter (or at least moving it out of the frame). But that's not what I'm talking about. Look closer. The pulls on the top cabinets are all missing. And there lies the disappointing part of this whole undertaking. Spray painting the pulls - even with new and improved paint - simply didn't work.

It ran. It pooled. It splattered. It refused to dry. It dried too fast. And at the end of the day, it just looked like crap.

So I'm on to Plan C for the pulls: sand them down and paint them by hand. Plan D? Throw them out and splurge at Anthro. Sometimes, there's so much even I can do. ;)

Top 100 Signs I Married the Right Man No. 90

90. He turns off his white noise machine when he gets up so I can wake up to the sound of the rain. <3

Culture No. 12

Sometimes people have a hard time understanding what it is a trophy wife actually does. I myself used to be in that boat until I jumped ship for the bliss of unemployed and childless matrimony. At first – I won’t lie – I was ashamed. It’s kind of an awkward spot to be in, especially if you move to a new state where no one knows anything about you. One side will think you’re lazy and come up with all sorts of creative euphemisms that boil down to the same patronizing refrain – “Get a job.” – while the other will judge you for not spawning as soon as nuptially possible. (The latter group is particularly amusing in the fact that these folks always seem to be the most miserable around their own children. Indeed, misery does love company.)

But while learning to not define myself by what I do – I never felt particularly “architectural” anyway – or how many fetuses I can produce in a given decade has truly been a gift to my self-confidence, both of these groups are missing out on one, important, usually-omitted-for-the-sake-of-not-looking-like-a-cat-lady fact: I do have a child. Her name is Nora and she’s four, furry, feline, and fabulous.

Got all of her mother's sass...and some.

Since the wedding, Nora has latched onto Bert – literally – with no claws barred. They eat breakfast together every morning. She prefers his lap to mine. If I say no, she knows who will give her the affirmative second opinion. She loves her new dad, so I guess it seems only appropriate that Bert’s first-ever Father’s Day gift consisted of a bird foot, a wing, a beak, and an assemblage of (I’m assuming) bird guts, all delivered straight to our back door. (Usually she leaves the presents on the sidewalk, but I guess a special day calls for going that extra-special mile.) Bert was gracious, as always, but it confirms to me that the Speed Spawners obviously did not take the “Plant, Pet, Person” route. Let’s just say: I look forward to that Father’s Day when I can clean up after a child who just made breakfast for their dad, rather than a cat who left her latest, ant-covered sacrifice on our welcome mat.

Nora and her daddy, bonding in the early days. (2007)

Thankfully, the rest of Bert’s first Father’s Day involved no more deaths. After lunch, we went up to Francis Slocum State Park for a few hours of hiking around the lake. The park is only about 15 minutes from our apartment, but other than a quick drive-by to check it out, we haven't spent any time there at all. Yesterday was the perfect day to break the ice. We could not have asked for nicer weather and it was particularly lovely to be in the woods without acquiring five ticks for every step. I love you, Connecticut, but Pennsyltucky’s got that one on you, no contest.

Bert, playing Mario Brothers.

The lake was created in the late 1960s as a means of flood control (just in time for every NEPAns favorite hurricane, Agnes, to arrive) and the Park opened soon afterwards. It was named after a five year-old girl who was kidnapped in the late 1700s by a group of Delaware Indians. She tried to escape but failed, and lived with the Delaware for the rest of her life, going by her new name, Maconaquah, because she could not remember her given one. She married twice, had four children, and refused to return to Pennsylvania later in life when her siblings found her living on a reservation in Indiana.

So what does that make her? You got it: a trophy wife. The original, Pennsyltuckian trophy wife. You see? I’m not the only one.

Frances Slocum: the trophy wife who started it all!

(Ugh. I don't know why I'm pixelated. Blogger is not my friend today.)

Top 100 Signs I Married the Right Man No. 91

91. He is slowly but surely acquiring Violette-esque habits, beginning with the cardinal axiom Half the day is over by the time the sun gets up.

(Bert, on waking up at 5:30 a.m.)

"I'm not a morning person yet, but I am someone who gets up in the morning. I kind of enjoy it now."

Culture No. 11

I took Architectural History in a very dark room very early in the morning. The professor – a man with large, Gollum-esque eyes – would instinctively turn down the lights for the PowerPoint as soon as class began, which (as you can imagine) was probably the worst possible thing he could do to an auditorium of college students at 9 a.m. in the morning. Ipso facto: I slept through a lot of it and am left with only fuzzy impressions of whom I did and didn’t like. Le Corbusier? No thanks. Boullée? Rock on!

But until recently, I didn’t realize I missed out on something else as well. I vaguely remember going over the Georgian style, Federalism, and other periods of American architecture, but apparently I slept through that one topic that would’ve been helpful in my present situation: the architectural anomaly that is Pennsylvaniaism. For your educational enjoyment, here are three facets of local architecture that I’ve yet to understand:

Porch Carpeting

In a recent, informal, systematic survey, I discovered that 9 out of 10 NEPA porches – unfortunately including both of ours – are carpeted. Yes, you read that right: carpet. And not just any carpet! Carpet, in fact, may be a kind misnomer. It’s more like AstroTurf. The gross kind you find at cheap mini golf places. Minus the melting ice cream and plus the unidentifiable/terrifying stains left by previous tenants. That kind of carpet. Lovely, just lovely.

I’m assuming NEPAites use it on their porches to avoid painting or staining or any other sort of maintenance for as long as humanly possible, but it begs the question: how do you keep it clean? The wind doesn’t do it for you. (Tried it.) You can’t sweep it. (Also tried it.) Recently, when the level of dead plant matter on our front porch was mistaken for a compost pile, I resorted to pulling the Dyson outside, but even that was a little iffy. (My fault, not the Dyson’s. The Dyson can do no wrong. I was worried about clogging it.)

And speaking as someone who wears as little footwear as possible all summer long, ancient AstroTurf is pretty much the least pleasant thing possible to walk on. I’ll take splinters from a wood porch any day. Or burning hot pavement. At least then my soles will be scalded clean.

Metal Awnings

When I see a metal awning, I generally think one of two things:

1. “Oh, look! It’s a store!”
2. “Oh, look! Fifty years ago, a builder forgot that the sun exists and tacked on an ugly glob of metal to cover his mistake!”

The majority of metal awnings in NEPA - and there are a lot of them - fall into the latter category, just without the vintage appeal, i.e. metal awnings are still a happenin’ architectural statement here. Unfortunately, I identify them with the Rust Belt cities of my youth where, more often than not, they were hanging on by a mere bolt, just waiting to be pulled off and scrapped. They are house pimples. Big, metal house pimples. And since when is acne a desirable thing? (This is not an opinion I’ve shared with my neighbors. Please help me keep it that way.)

7/52 Decorating

If this were a real architectural history class, we would now start a long, drawn-out, nap-inducing discussion on “Form Follows Function” and why architects should never decorate anything. (Fun Fact: Architects are terrible with color. This is why Bert won’t let me play with his Prismacolors.) Okay. Fine. Whatever. (See? You would fall asleep too!) None of that would fly in PA. Why?

Because people here like to decorate. For everything. And its mother.

Christmas? Of course. Everyone decorates for Christmas. Even I decorate for Christmas. (Minus the blow-up snowmen, of course, because they frighten Mama V.)

Halloween? Oh man. The ‘ween gives the ‘mas a run for its money. Pennsylvanians are serious about the black and orange. Not my taste, but I guess someone has to keep Wal-mart in business before they can roll out the Christmas stuff.

Thanksgiving? If I wasn’t from New England, I would’ve thought Pennsylvanians modeled for Norman Rockwell’s Freedom from Want. Yes, they are that festive, just not that picturesque. (Another Fun Fact: The models were from Vermont. Because according to HBO's John Adams, New Englanders are more American because we started this whole show.)

St. Patrick’s Day? Mother’s Day? Father’ Day? Oh yes, now we're getting more obscure. But the decorations continue. How do you decorate for Mother’s Day, you ask? You rig a projector outside your house and use your siding as a backdrop for ‘motherly’ images, usually of the flowery persuasion, that’s how. Super classy and super creative, I’ll give them that.

Did you stay awake in Architectural History? Can you explain to me what is going on in my neck of the woods?

Culture No. 10, Part 2

(You can read the first part of this post here.)

I was reviewing my list of “Future Blog Posts” last night (Oh yes, I keep a list. That is how much I love you guys.), when I realized I never finished posting about our trip to Minneapolis or our fabulous dinnertime cruise around Mystic Harbor. I’m sorry – totally dropped the ball on that one. So since I’m currently waiting for my latest project to dry - ten year-old spray paint is not kind - here’s the long-overdue update!

C.’s wedding was scheduled for eleven on Saturday morning, but we mosied over around ten to help set up. (We were in charge of organizing the table cards. I have never alphabetized so many Johnsons and Carlsons in my life. Got to love Minnesota... :) Our rental car with Colorado plates proved no disguise – as soon as we hopped out, a beautiful bride came running across the courtyard, shouting our names with wild abandon.

I was so impressed. The best I could manage in my dress was a fast walk, and even that was perilous. Way to go, woman!

The wedding was held in Northwestern College’s beautiful Nazareth Chapel, which I unfortunately have no pictures of because I’m terrible taking photos of large, indoor spaces! The reception was held in an adjoining room and can I just say (at the risk of sounding shallow): it is so nice to EAT at a wedding! Bert and I had a great chat with a woman at our table who was an interior designer and I got to meet C.'s mom, dad, and brother, which was really great after hearing about them for so long. (We found out the next morning that her brother even stayed in the same hotel as us!) C. and D. both flew out to Connecticut not-that-long-ago for our wedding and we had a fantastic time flying out to Minnesota to do the same for them. Congratulations you guys! You are a beautiful couple and we can't wait to see what God has in store for both of you! :)

There’s some photos on the college’s website that really do the chapel justice. You don’t want to see my blurry, dark ones.

The reception ended in the early afternoon, but Bert and I weren’t flying out until the next morning. (Can you believe it was cheaper – even with the hotel and meals – to stay an extra night than to fly out on Saturday?) Our plan to explore the city was threatened by some pretty heavy rain, but things cleared up just in time for us to take a stroll around Lake Calhoun. By the end of that trek, we were absolutely famished (We were still on EST. Dinner at 4:30 was totally called for.), so we went downtown to Nicollet Mall and got some munchies there.

Our flight on Sunday morning was direct and we got back to Hartford on time and without any issues other than me yelling at the “Sign Up for a Delta Credit Card and Get Free Flights” man that I never wanted to fly Delta ever, ever again. (Sometimes I embarrass my husband in public. Poor guy, but I won't lie: it’s kind of fun.) Sister V. picked us up at the airport, we swung back to the homestead for a quick bite to eat, and then we hit the road once again for my cousins' graduation party down in Mystic.

My cousins - let's call them Big E. and Little E. - just graduated from college and high school (respectively), so in lieu of separate celebrations, we had one big party on the schooner Argia. The weather had been similarly dicey in Connecticut, but it cleared up by mid-afternoon and we had gorgeous night for a sail. The view was spectacular, the food was delish, and the company? Fantastic, as always. I love spending time with the fam. I am absolutely spoiled.

As evidenced by this photo, the company is also good-looking and considering a career in modeling.

The cruise left from a dock right outside of Mystic Seaport and continued out to the harbor through two drawbridges. (One was the normal up-and-down type, one spun around like a top. Bert was amazed.) We sailed for several hours before returning to dock, accompanied by some (unplanned) fireworks. We got home pretty late that night and I think Bert fell asleep even before his head hit the pillow. A long weekend, but totally worth it!

We're sailing! We're sailing! We're sailing!

Congratulations, E. and E.! We love you both and we know you're headed on to exciting things!

Craft No. 4

When winter ended here in NEPA (What was that? A week or two ago?), I had grand plans to build a “secret garden” in our side yard, a little stamp of dirt that’s hemmed in by our neighbors’ fences and very much unkempt. (One neighbor said the tenants who lived in our apartment several years ago tried to grow pot there, which explained why sometimes I get a whiff of it in our office. And here I thought Nora was just going through her rebellious years...) Our bedroom window looks out into this tiny space and I thought it would be lovely to see a nice garden instead of a rotting leaf/trash depository. So a month or two ago, I measured the yard and designed a planting schedule. I asked Bert to rake it out. I even priced plants at different nurseries to see where I could get the best deal.

Then another neighbor – who happens to be a landscaper and knows a whole lot more about these things than I do – pointed out that my secret garden didn’t get very much sun. In fact, once he mentioned it, I realized it doesn’t really get any: a few minutes in the morning, maybe, but if my ten square feet of dirt was a planet, it would be somewhere out there with the rock-formally-known as Pluto, chillin’ out and supporting zero life. Our side yard is not a patch of dirt due to neglect. It is a patch of dirt because photosynthesis is logistically impossible. Just my luck.

So my secret garden plans hit the fan and all my gardening since then has been consigned to pots and boxes. I bought three baskets of impatients – two for our front porch and one for our side – not because I like impatients (I actually hate them. Buying impatients is like eating white chocolate when you could be eating dark.) but because a wholesaler had them priced at $5 a basket and that was the only way I could afford three. The compromise was necessary because I blew the budget on basil plants, which I deemed much more important because you can actually eat them. (Food = Priority. 'Nuff said.)

To bolster the lackluster impatients, I transplanted a few marigold and zinnia shoots into two old clementine boxes and put them on our front steps. I’ve had these boxes forever – previously, I used them to hold toiletries in the bathroom – and I absolutely love the way they look: bright, fun, and unexpected. I might add a few more plants once they take off, but I want to make sure there’s no overcrowded for now.

In a rare moment of attentiveness, Lardbutt guards the home front.

In another randomhappy circumstance, I discovered we have honeysuckle growing in our front yard. Well, “discovery” may be a bit of an overstatement. It’s actually taking over our front porch and hedge, so “called in my Southern husband to verify the species” may be a bit more accurate. Georgia Boy confirmed that the amazing smelling flowers were indeed honeysuckle and then showed me how to pull the honey out with the stamen. Too cute. Does this stuff not grow in New England? I'm not sure if I've ever seen it before. (Granted, I did spent five years in Virginia without noticing any outside of my roommate's tattoo. I may just be oblivious.) Regardless, I've embraced its pest-like race to overtake our front yard and help train its tendrils up our front porch everyday. A new addition to my top ten favorite flowers? You better believe it.