floor hell

I'm wicked proud of my man. He spent the past two summers ripping up that uber-funky green carpet out of our house and installing the most beautiful hardwood floor. I don't have many "before" photos to post (they're all on my old computer which is currently in a coma) so you'll have to just scroll through my old posts or just use your imagination.

Last summer we did the living room, dining room, foyer, and hallway. The foyer wasn't carpet. It was bright white ceramic bathroom tile. Gag. Notice the curtains in the dining room, or should I say "curtain". The cat managed to tear most of it down for us. I suppose it was his way of protesting the use of old-lady lacy crap in our house. Can't say I disagree.

The bedroom was such a pain. The bed is way too big and heavy to disassemble and move out of the room, so we had to shift it around during the whole process. The results were worth all the shoving and glue-scrubbing and bickering. He did not appreciate how I kept sneaking out when he wasn't looking to watch the Olympics.

We also have a room that we really didn't use much until we finished the floor. This room is begging for a pool table, but I doubt we'll ever get one. I spent almost $150 (ouch!) on these curtains and the rod, so an additional five grand for something we'll use twice a year is not too likely. But we can still dream.

All in all, the house looks great, a huge difference from what it looked like when we bought it four years ago. My man and I did purty good, if I do say so myself. Drop me some comments and let me know what you think!

integers

Tomorrow marks ten years to the day that Jonathan and I first met. We always get snickers and quotes from "American Pie" when I mention that we met during band camp. Yeah, yeah, "this one time...at band camp..." we've heard it all. Of course it doesn't help matters that I'm a redhead.

Ten years is a long time, people. That's more than a third of my life.

I'm really proud of us. Both my folks and my in-laws have been happily married since 1971. There are very few divorces in our families and I have to give them all some credit in our success. I don't know if there's really any secret or formula to a happy marriage. It's only been six years (not all that much longer than J-Lo and whatshisface) so I doubt that I am one to be giving out advice. I will say that it helps tremendously pick the sort of person that I did.

Jonathan is pretty much my opposite. I remarked to him the other day that we really didn't have all that much in common. At least we could agree on that. He's one of those analytical types who can sit in front of CNBC for hours, watching that ticker stream by. The price of gold and platinum are the only things on that channel I have much use for. He can sit in a deer stand at 5am, completely motionless, patiently waiting for that monster buck he's dreaming of. I just want the jerky and summer sausage. I am constantly finding little slips of paper with amoritazation formulas and stock picks all over them. Those notes could be in Greek, for all the sense they make to me.

But at the end of the day, I'm glad he's not too much like me. I can be quite a handful to deal with, and a huge pain to live with, so I try to cherish the differences.

I love you, sweetheart. Thank you for choosing that little redheaded flag girl you met at that party on Olive Street. As different as we may be, I wouldn't have you any other way.

a tale of two moles

Last month, while Jonathan and I were on vacation in Kentucky, I allowed my mother to have some professional portraits taken of my sister and I. This sort of nonsense is not something I would normally concede to, but I figured we weren't going to be getting better looking as the years pass, so we should "strike while the iron is hot". This particular guy had taken some of my cousins and the results were fantastic, so my sissy and I fluffed our hair, pulled together some coordinating outfits, and went.

It wasn't the photographs that surprised me. It was my reaction to them that caught me off guard. I felt like I looked too good.

At first, I just assumed it was my overly self-critical nature that caused my inital dissatisfaction but in reality, it was quite the opposite. When I looked at myself in the pictures, I saw myself, just minus all my freckles and moles that have become part of who I am. I can say with much certainty that there are very few adult redheaded women who have flawless, porcelain-like skin. Freckles are part of the package. I also have two moles on my right cheek and chin which were noticeably absent in the pictures. When I was an art student, I always included them in all of my self-portraits; I guess I felt that leaving them out would be lying in a way.

As these feelings came over me regarding these photographs, I started to feel something else...pride. I thought about how I would have reacted to these pictures ten years ago and the difference is striking.

1998: OMG...my ears are so goofy. They are way too small and too low on my head. (My husband would later refer to them as "Shrek" ears.)
2008: OMG...I have the same ears as Tony Romo. Sweet. (In case you are a hermit or not from Texas, Tony Romo is the QB for the Dallas Cowboys and is super hot.)

1998: Ugh, I am so pale.
2008: Redheads look skanky with tans. It's just not natural. When it comes time to get an IV or have blood drawn, I say a little "amen" for the big blue veins puffing out of my little white arm.

1998: No one will ever love me if I don't get some boobs.
2008: I prefer quality over quantity. And sleeping on my stomach if I so choose.

I could go on and on like this. In spite of my loving mother's best efforts, I just felt unbelievably insecure about myself when I was a teenager. Of course, so did everyone else. I probably felt as badly as the girl who laughed and pointed at me in the gym locker room in junior high or the one who announced to the class that I was ugly. Coming of age in the 1990s was no easy task; self-loathing seemed to be part of our lives, just like watching 90210 or reading Seventeen magazine. Even now, I still grapple with some of the old criticisms and body issues. I no longer feel that my value in the world is in any way connected with my bra size, although I wish I fit into certain pieces of clothing a little better. I always seem to show a lot of gum when I smile, but I try to see it the way my husband does, as something imperfect but beautiful.

I doubt I am going to ask the photographer to change the touch-ups on the photos. I still look like me and it's honestly not enough of a deal to ask him to give me back my two moles and two hundred freckles. He's a photographer, not a plastic surgeon. Just the fact that I saw an idealized version of myself and prefering reality instead was such an important moment for me. It's a feeling that I will be able to keep with me and can't be blotted out so easily.

the world's worst iPod playlist

Sometimes I feel the urge to just troll around on the internet, looking for anything remotely interesting that does not require upgrading my software or a credit card number. Blogspot.com allows you to check out random blog sites, with interesting results. Tons of people on here post pictures of their kids (not everyone is so lucky to have a cat like me), others are trying to sell whatever crap happens to be collecting dust in their basement. The right wing nut jobs and the yellow dog democrats just make me tired. Truly cool pages that hold my attention are hard to come by. Then I found a lovely young lady from Texas who made me smile. After a long day at work looking at numbers and percentages and treading carefully through the house, trying to avoid the mess Jonathan is making (it's hardwood floor time again) it was a pleasant surprise. She appreciates good spellers and hates tomatoes, so I give her an A. And she posted a list of lame songs she's not ashamed to love.

Be still my heart.

So here is my mix tape of music that makes me terribly uncool:

1. "Uptown Girl" by Billy Joel. I dunno how I first discovered this song, or how I procured a copy of it, but I remember being on long drives to my grandparents' house and playing it over and over and over again, never tiring of it. I think my record was 27 times nonstop. I'm still that way, cranking it up in the shop whenever it comes on. Much to the chagrin of my employees.

2. Pretty much anything by Phil Collins. When I was in college, I got busted listening to his greatest hits album in my woodworking studio by some older, cooler art students. They stopped dead at the doorway, looked at each other, and silently walked away. Oh well, I have a real job now and they're probably still in funky apartments living off vodka and ramen noodles.

3. My personal trainer assured me that I was the only person at 24 Hour Fitness who worked out to ABBA. "Dancing Queen" is a personal favorite of one of a straight male friend of mine (crazy, I know) and it kinda grew on me.

4. "Something to Believe In" by Poison. I dig the ballads by the 80's hair bands. Honorable mentions in this category go to Damn Yankees' "High Enough" (that's my boy Tommy Shaw again) and Mr. Big's "To Be With You".

5. "Glory of Love" by Peter Cetera. Uber-cheesy. Makes me want to go rent The Karate Kid, Part II.

Pretty terrible, huh? I could go on and on, but my bedtime and pride have stopped me. And thanks to http://tracianne.com/ for inspiring me to come out of the closet with my iPod playlist.

P.S. No, Jonathan. There are no Styx songs on this list. The only song of theirs you like is Mr. Roboto and nobody likes that one. Not even Styx. But I still love you, babe.

boot scootin'

I think it was in the seventh grade or so when I got my first pair of cowboy boots. They were super-cool for 1993, white (fake I'm sure) leather with some sort of fringe on the sides. I don't exactly recall, but I most likely begged my mother for them so that I could wear them when we went to Libby's for some live music and two-steppin'.

Note: I couldn't for the life of me remember the name of that place. Kept wanting to call it "Dollies", but that was a strip club just across the Tennessee line where several people I knew acquired employment. Anyone who was at Murray State during my tenure knows that place was legendary. But anyhoo..

I always had a blast when my folks would take us out to Libby's on Saturday nights. We'd have some food and we'd watch the bands play just a few yards from the stage. We were the priviledged few who sat in the Beaver booth.

Oh, you heard me. The Beaver booth. My mom was a sales rep for the local country radio station, The Beaver 101 FM. I don't think I knew that the word beaver was a double entendre until I was in high school. Folks down here in Texas think it's a hoot whenever I talk about it. Especially their annual remote broadcasts called The Show Us Your Beaver Summer. That one always gets a big laugh.

So, yeah, we'd all sit in the Beaver booth and listen to the sub-par acts do their covers of Garth Brooks, Patsy Cline, and Alabama songs. Saturday night was the good night. Fridays were open mike, so anyone with a sequined jacket and a microphone could get up there and belt out, "These Boots are Made for Walkin".

That's pretty much what I think of when I think of my first boots. I bought my second pair today, after weeks of soul-searching and trying to figure out if I wear a 6-C or a 7-B. By the way, thanks mom. I can credit your genetics for my having to search high and low for a boot that is wide enough to accomodate my goofy pinkie toe knuckle.

Oh, these bad boys are sweeeeet. You can't tell from the picture, but the crocidile skin on the front is actually a greenish color, not brown. And I dig the little copper studs all around it. They make me feel like a real Texan. Yee-haw. Definitely an upgrade from 15 years ago.