Monday, November 14, 2011

Nerd Alert

I recently acquired three bookshelves, bringing the total number of bookshelves in my room to six.  I wasn't 100% sure I had enough books to fill all 3, but, much to my delight, I do.  I can't properly explain how much I love reading. A friend told me once that reading fiction was ridiculous (he prefered non-fiction). I almost died.  I don't know how to tell someone what fiction, poetry, hell, the dictionary, means to me.  Everyone I come into contact with should be on high nerd alert.

I had a birthday about a week ago. In two (very) short years, I will be 30. I am by no means a wise person, I don't learn lessons easily, I make mistakes in spades, and I don't know half of what I hope to one day, but I do know this: At 28 years old, I am a nerd. And I also know that I am absolutely comfortable with that fact.

There is no telling what B will remember about me or his childhood in 23 years (when he is 28). I often think about my childhood and my parents and what I remember about those days. And I don't mean the big memories -- the birthdays, the Christmas mornings, the school programs. I mean the little things. The small details that really matter.  I mean those random memories that creep up when you least expect them. The memories you didn't even know you had.  The memories that are triggered by a smell, or a song, or the way someone pronounces a word.

I remember how excited Taylor and I were when it snowed in Dothan that one year. I remember how my Dad's excitement matched our own (and how funny we all thought it was when Bailey, our dog, peed in the snow). I remember my Mom patiently placing all of my long blonde hair in pink sponge rollers at night and how she would let me then tangle play with her hair. I remember how my Mom and I made fun of the way my Dad said "milk." And how they made fun of the way I said "magenta" (I was eight. How was I supposed to know it wasn't "mag-neta?"). I remember how my Mom settled the WWIII caliber "Who Rides in the Front Seat" argument of 1992 (One of us got odd days, the other even). I remember (and still have) every note of encourgement, love, and even the occasional note of disappointment (I still have those, too). I remember my parent's reaction the day Taylor smashed my pinky finger in the trampoline spring and then again on the day I hit him in the back of the head with a golf club. I remember the way my Mom smelled back then. To this day, a Garth Brooks song reminds me of my Dad. I remember Taylor playing football with himself in the front yard.  I remember a million little details. 

But most of all, I remember reading. I remember huddling under covers and in closets, finding a little space of my own in this big world.  I remember solving mysteries with Nancy Drew. I remember sobbing uncontrollably when Kirsten's best friend died on the ship during their voyage to America. I remember when my friends and I tried to create a Babysitter's Club. I remember when my aunt gave me The Secret Garden and how mad I was that I didn't have a secret garden of my own. I remember when I thought high school would be just like Sweet Valley High. I remember Arthur Cluck and Amelia Bedelia and Sarah, Plain and Tall. And I remember that my Mom loved to read. She and I both read multiple (and by "multiple," I mean at least five) books at a time. We surround ourselves with stacks of books and pencils. In this way, we are identical. In 23 years, my go-to memory of my Mom will still be that she has always loved to read.

I can only hope Beckett remembers the same thing about me.

Monday, November 7, 2011

Mismatched Furniture Fix-Up

Like every single girl who has been a student for the better part of her life and has moved frequently over the years, I own a whole mess of mismatched furniture. So, about a month ago, I decided it might be time to try and make some of it match. Actually, I started this years ago. Basically, instead of having merely mismatched furniture, I have furniture that is painted two diferent colors. Exhibit A:

This is a bookshelf my Dad built for me while I was in college. Because it was made for a dorm room, it's pretty simple, but because I am a sentimental sap, I ca't bear to part with it. Plus, I have a bunch of books that need a home. As you can see, it's got some amazing quotes on the shelves (namely, one from a DMB song.....ah, college). As you can also see, the outside white and the inside is black. Looks great.

A couple of years ago, I decided to try to make this look a little better. B was about 3 or so, and I (wisely) let him help. Exhibit B is the result.:

Yup. B helped. And since I gave up on the project shortly afer I realized B could open a paint can on his own, the shelf retained this glorious exterior. And then, my sentimental side took over for a minute. I mean, B did this. So, I took a picture and moved on. But this is not the only problem with the bookshelf. There's Exhibit C:

This bookshelf saw me through three years of undergrad, one newborn baby, and three years of law school. The coffee rings were inevitable.  And finally, Exhibit D:

This picture best illustrates why one shouldn't give up on projects when they are only half finished. B had opened the paint can, spilled paint, and tried to paint the shelf. The spilled paint dried around the can and I just let it.  Later, when the paint can was moved, it left this amazing paint ring. 

Basically, this bookshelf has been begging me to fix it for years. I started painting it (comletely) black about a month ago. And then abandoned it again. Poor little bookshelf. It does, however, look infinitely better now. I am painting a design on the side that wound up taking me a lot longer than I anticipated. I had to abandon the bookshelf for the second time because I just couldn't deal with all the books being on the floor. I haven't taken a picture of the bookshelf's progress yet, but when I do, I'll post it here.

I must again admit that my Pinterest obsession is bordering on unhealthy. But, in light of my need to fix my bookshelf, I think this may be my next project:


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