Random Thursday (ˈrandəm ˈTHərzdā): the day on which Sarah plunks down all the odd bits and pieces she’s been sent by friends or has otherwise stumbled upon this week in an effort to avoid writing a real post, the assembly of which usually ends up taking twice as much time as sitting down and creating actual content.
Shiny!
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Subtlety is for the Birds
But not this one.
This is a Tufted Coquette.
There is nothing else it could be.
I’m still not sure it wasn’t photoshopped out of several different birds and a drag show . . .
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Victorian Trek
Janeway and Data, Stardate . . . 1845.5.7?
And, courtesy of Stephen J. Connell,
Lieutenant Riker (I assume)
in all his swashbuckling glory.
If Steampunk Trek fanfic wasn’t already a thing
(and you know it is)
these would be the inspiration that launched
a thousand new Ao3 accounts.
Maybe they will anyway—the needs of the many and all that.
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The Raining Beauty
This waterfall graphic print is in a train station in Japan.
It is the awesome—especially when two small children walk up to it.
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Monkeycakes!
The girls and I had pancakes for dinner the other day
and I used Jane’s batter squirter dispenser.
I’m getting pretty good at squirrels,
so I decided to stretch my repertoire
and made a happy monkey.
When I showed the picture to my husband,
he said, “Wow! You’re really getting good at that!”
I was pretty pleased, before I realized that he was looking at it upside-down.
But then I thought,
it takes some serious mad skillz
to make a reversible happy monkey pancake without even knowing it.
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Oh, Bother
Jim Cummings Pooh Bear, Tigger, and Darkwing Duck read a selection from a galaxy far, far, away:
This wouldn’t be particularly interesting, if it weren’t for the seller’s favorite color.
They really like purple.
Really.
Like.
Purple.
There’s nothing wrong with this, of course.
Color obsession isn’t a moral failing, and at least the shades aren’t fighting each other.*
I do have to wonder, though, looking at the rest of the house,
whether this is actually a case of one ex-spouse saying,
“Yes, fine, I’ll pay for the staging of the house, but I get 75% of the profit after the sale.”
And the other spouse just smiling in agreement,
while pictures of purple sugarplums and “Price Reduced” signs
dance in his or her head.
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FIVE DAYS
Until I see these guys in concert!
I can’t wait, Dee!
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No, Mr. Bond . . . .
I expect you to SIT.
Yes, I know this chair is more Blofeld’s style than Goldfinger’s
but I couldn’t bring myself to think about allowing
a long-haired white cat
in the same room with that upholstery.
Talk about a view to a kill . . .
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Khövsgö Lake
Youri DeFrance (aka Youri Blow) is a musician and song writer who plays a variety of instruments.
Including all parts of his voice box.
Remarquablement . . . convaincant, non?
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*I confess that I’m just a tad little disturbed by the shag rug bathtub . . . And the leather bowl chair next to it. I’m not judging . . . but I’m thinking.
I believe I’ve mentioned once ortwice the tactical warfaresheer parental bliss how much I enjoy clothes shopping with Jane.
Last week, I was insane privileged enough to try it with both kids. At the same time.
Sunny finally outgrew her shorts this summer, which shouldn’t have been the surprise it was, considering the labels said “3 Toddler” and she’s seven now.
Jane, who outgrows things every Thursday and has apparently developed Ideas about style—without parental permission, mind you—as well as simply . . . developing . . . needed long shorts she could bike in, and better foundation undergarments.*
So after lunch, we headed to Kohl’s and Target, both of which were having sales. They’re also right next to each other, so we parked in the row between them and sallied forth.
Sunny, as it turns out, is still a peanut, something we discovered when she stood up after pulling on the smallest pair of shorts we could find from the 7-16 Girls section and was suddenly wearing them around her ankles. We backed up into the children’s section and, lucky for us, her actual size–5 Toddler, as it turns out—was easy to find. That she really doesn’t care if her wardrobe comes from the discount racks was a lovely bonus.
That took us roughly two trips to the changing rooms and twenty minutes.
The other two and a half hours of our trip was all about Jane and her size, shape, sense of fashion, and sensitivity about all three versus the limitations of my credit limit, my discomfort** over the undeniable fact that my eleven-year old has a cup size, and my Ideas about the amount of room there should be between an eleven-year old and the fabric of her clothes.
Add in one bored seven-year old who was feeling neglected and marginalized while I ran in and out of the dressing room, fetching different sizes for her increasingly frustrated and rude sister,*** and it was not a particularly fun time.
But we lived through it and—with the lack of common sense and short term memory usually found in horror movie victims or party guests in The Game of Thrones—decided to hit the next store.
Again, Sunny was easy—two pairs of leggings, two of biking shorts, and one watermelon-striped sunsuit, no dressing rooms, everything on sale.
Jane, however, had decided during our struggles at the first store that if I had forced her^ to shop for adult sizes, then she would rather die—or put a hit out on me, from her expression—than touch any size other than extra-small or small, regardless of the difference in designs or designers.
Sometimes this worked.
Most of the time, it didn’t.
And while I understood the self-esteem issues that can come with wearing adult sizes at her age,^^ I wasn’t about to buy a twenty dollar tee-shirt that wouldn’t fit her in two weeks or a pair of pants that didn’t fit her now because of a number.
At that point, it wasn’t even the money; it was the horrible thought of having to do this again so soon.
But we survived and I drove the hard-earned spoils of two spoiled kids home,^^^ put up my feet, and kept ’em there until dinner.
And that was that, until yesterday, when my MIL said, “You need to buy Jane more long shorts. Those don’t fit.”
I looked and they didn’t but it wasn’t my fault. “Those are her old shorts. I bought her two pairs of new ones. I’m done clothes shopping for a while.”
“But what about the wedding? Sunny has her Easter dress, but does Janie have anything to wear?”
“I don’t think so.” It dawned on me that I didn’t have anything to wear, because the last fancy-schmancy wedding I attended was in 1998. “It’s on the twenty-first,” I said, shuddering. “We have time.”
“It’s on the twelfth.”
I ran to the calendar. Oh, $#!%.
Guess who’s taking her overexcited pre-teen shopping this afternoon for wedding outfits?
Help . . .
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*As in, undergarments with actual foundations built into them.
**Stemming from my memories of being that eleven-year old, at a time when the only bra options for me were of the 18-hour, industrial-grade, blade-seamed, torpedo-cupped, saw-banded kind, with loose-ended straps that would suddenly let go of the clips on one side in seventh grade math class—the class with the hard-of-hearing teacher whose loud questions about why exactly I needed to visit the bathroom ensured that everyone was staring at my lopsidedness.
***And, it might be noted, passing on all suggestions that I buy her costume jewelry, perfume, or a rhinestone-encrusted watch to heal her hurt feelings caused by my lack of parenting skills.
^Presumably through the combined powers of genetics and having credit cards in my name.
^^Boy, do I understand it, and have worked damn hard to keep the body acceptance to a maximum in our house. This was a lot easier once my kids acquired peers.
^^^Yes, that remark was snide and unfair. No, I’m not taking it back.
Random Thursday (ˈrandəm ˈTHərzdā): the day on which Sarah plunks down all the odd bits and pieces she’s been sent by friends or has otherwise stumbled upon this week in an effort to avoid writing a real post, the assembly of which usually ends up taking twice as much time as sitting down and creating actual content.
I’m gonna pop some tags Only got twenty dollars in my pocket . . .
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Octodress: The Conversation
Watson: Alas, it’s 20 years too late for your big day…
Me: For that dress, I’ll get remarried. Sheer, Ugly, AWESOME.
Watson: There’s always Jane and Sunny.
Me: Jane will want to dye it black and go as Ursula. Sunny will give me that Look and say, “Are you serious?”
Watson: Tint the whole picture pink—Sunny’ll at least give pause. And prom IS coming up,* an Ursula dress might fit the theme of “under the sea” or even “Bon voyage”.
Me: Yes. I will be buying my children $5,000 designer dresses for prom.
Watson: She’s crafty. She’ll make it herself .
Me: That’s not particularly comforting.
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Outclassed, Part One
Tom Hiddleston, on villiany.
Sorry—was there supposed to be a car or something in this?
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No kidding:
This little jumping guy can’t help doing everything with style.
Still creepy as hell, though.
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Outclassed, Part Two
Sir Ben Kingsley’s presence.
Mark Strong’s voice.**
Tom Hiddleston’s expression.
Still not seeing a car . . .
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Suessdress
The formal wear of choice for fathers who have daughters.
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The Ukeslayer
I’m not the biggest Slayer fan
(’cause my brother-in-law is about a foot taller than I am***)
but I think I might be a die hard Rob Scallon fan.
Who?
Why?
This:
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*In FIVE YEARS, Watson, at LEAST. And that’s if your brother allows them to date before they’re thirty.
**I’m actually a little embarrassed at my reaction to Mr. Strong’s timbre. You’d think all my exposure (so to speak) to Benedict Cumberbatch’s vocal qualities would have given me immunity, but I’m sitting here blushing, for pity’s sake.
***Plus Metallica got there first and took up most of the room.
It’s School Picture Day today for Sunny, and miracle of miracles, we had no arguments over her outfit or her hair—the child is stylin’—nor did she sustain damage from the Wesson Family semi-traditional, pre-Picture Day, concrete faceplant this weekend, as was so lovingly captured in her 16th month photo above.
She said her tummy hurt, but I decided to go with my mother’s patented No Fever, No Excuse policy, in the hopes that if her discomfort actually exists, and is caused by a more pernicious bug than butterflies, any repercussions of my parental Blinders o’ Optimism will hold off until the photographer snaps the shutter.
We’ll see.
But tomorrow is Janie’s Picture Day, which is a potential concrete faceplant of a completely different nature.
There’s a standard equation for these things, and the math isn’t pretty:
Picture Day + Precocious Pre-Teen + School Dress Requirements + Responsible Parents = Armageddon
You could argue that every kid is different, of course, and that I’m weighing heavily on the side of pessimism. And I won’t argue.
I mean, Jane’s already chosen her favorite dress, which looked stunning on her last Christmas . . . when she was four inches shorter . . . and only just starting to wear training undergarments that have since lost their amateur status.
So there’s that, plus weather predictions for tomorrow that appear just a tad too Brazilian rainforest for woolen knit—and an overheated Jane is not a Sweetness & Light Jane®, whom her teachers much prefer.
I’ve been gently suggesting alternative outfits all week, but I’m not sure I’m getting through.
Shoes might also be a problem, since her best pair of black flats disintegrated immediately upon contact with her feet—or so she claims—and the heel of one of her dressy-enough-boots fell off at the beginning of summer. Her barefoot state is all the fault of her neglectful parents, of course, as we didn’t immediately go hunting for new winter boots among all the sandals and flip-flops.
In other words, those of you who live in our hemisphere might want to close your windows between 7pm and 7am CST, in case we get a little loud.
Earful of Cider 