Things I Forgot To Tell You

Remember my Blogiversary contest? I actually did pick a winner, I swear, I didn’t just make all that up and buy myself a present, although I did sort of want to, because I am a bad person.  A very bad person. Anyway, the winner was Rachel and I hope she got the Anthropologie gift card I sent her…Rachel?  Also, Rachel does not have herself a blog but she does have 1. an awesome sister and 2. a super cute two year old, so I fully support her decision to buy herself some fancy $50 Anthropologie earrings because she totally deserves them.  Sometimes a lady just needs some sparkle in her life. Especially anyone who is a mom of a two year old.

I have a raging case of writer’s block, which is conveniently timed with the start of 31 for 21 on October 1st.  That would be tomorrow.  That means I’ll be posting every day in October, and you can look forward to reading even more self centered drivel than normal about how I can’t think of anything to write and how much I hated the sucky sucky Trader Joe’s Gluten Free Brownies (oh holy hell, NOT GOOD), and about how my mood has shifted from cranky to lacking the energy even to talk about how cranky I am and how it feels like I’m slowly being smothered by a heavy lead dentist blanket. Fun! Times!

I still haven’t chosen a paint color for my living room, or knobs for my cabinet.  I did decide that the cabinet was too blue so I threw some red crap in there and it looks a lot better.  Obvs this necessitated searching for more red trinkety hoo ha for hours on Etsy. And I’m not done yet! Go me!

Remember my quandary of the duvet covers?  Couldn’t figure out what I wanted?  I ordered one (below)

and it was ok.  In theory it fulfilled all the requirements, it didn’t clash with my curtains and Mr. E did not hate it. It gave my bedroom a nice mellow modern look.  It’s a much nicer green in person.  And it wasnt too girly.  However, I will be honest and say that I didn’t love it.

Then I found this duvet cover

and it went against all the requirements I was looking for and I bought it anyway, instantly, because I loved it from the moment I first laid eyes on it. I just got it and put it on my bed today and it is the duvet cover of my heart.  It have the strong urge to cuddle it. Now we have two duvet covers which means that one can be on the bed and one can be washed and I know, you never knew how exciting life could be until you read about my two duvet covers.  I know, I know.

Mr. E and I actually went and did something without! our! child! this weekend and it was A. Freaking. Mazing.  Despite  the ass hattery use of cell phone cameras and my general dislike of crowds.  This picture doesn’t do it justice, but I will never forget this for as long as I live.

It was like being in church, the forest, and heaven, all at the same time.  If only I had taken a picture of it on my cell phone! Ass hats.

We visited an open house while we were walking around San Francisco, and while on the one hand, the price was so high (900K for a 2/1) that I felt no pangs of “I wish this were mine”.  On the other hand, I couldn’t help it, I did make some unfavorable comparisons between the decor and my own.  The perfect crown  molding and the perfect chair rails and the cove ceilings and the expensive furniture sort of got to me.  Although it swung a tidge towards “old person who shops at Eddie Bauer” for my taste, it was just so NICE and CLEAN and Pottery Barnish.   Mr. E pointed out that any ahole with a charge card can turn pages in a catalog and say “I’ll take this, I’ll take this, and I’ll take this” but let’s be honest, we are rocking the garage sale chic hard at our house, and some times I can successfully give myself the pep talk about how true style takes time and actual people LIVE in our house and some of our future plans are pretty good, but other days I wonder if it just takes a checkbook and a professional to make things look how I want them to.

I haven’t started my Pulitzer reading list but I’m reading The Gathering, which is on the Booker Prize List, and it’s not going well.  It’s great writing, but boring AND creepy. A rather non magical combination, if I do say so myself.

Also, I have written exactly 0 words on my book I vowed to write, so that’s going well. I am actually percolating an idea, though, despite the fact that it’s not a good one.  My real problem is that I just want to write Prep.  And yet, someone’s already written it! Sucks to be me, eh?

OMG, Luke Is So Hott!

Remember those book lists that are always going around the internet, where you’re supposed to say which ones you’ve read, which ones you’ve started but never finished, and which ones you haven’t read? I’m pretty sure I’ve done that here, at some point, but I don’t put too much credence in it because any list that has The Five People You Meet In Heaven on it just doesn’t really impress me with its dedication to the great literature of our time.

I’ve read a string of really terrible books lately, and the other day I was forced to realize that the whole “read all the books lists as “great for teens”” thing wasn’t really working out.  Really good young adult literature is my very favorite stuff to read, ever, but in between books like Speak and The  Only Alien on the Planet and Star Girl and Just Listen and Sloppy Firsts and The Cheerleader and Walk Two Moons and The Westing Game and Youth In Revolt, well, in between all of those books there is a mountain of dreck, and I don’t want to name names so I will just say that it feels like I’ve been reading it ALL, a veritable slew of terrible books put together by some computer program which simply rearranges, in random order, the words “hot” “mean” “Luke” “parents” “cute” and”girls”.

So I decided that instead of reading the dreck, I would read the best, by which I mean I am going to read, in random order, all of the Pulitzer Prize winners, and then I am going to read all of the Booker Prize winners.  I would read all of the Michael Printz (the Young Adult Fiction version of the Newbery award) winners but I’ve already read all of those.  And I’m making one exception and I am not reading The Road, because thanks to 9-11 and Battlestar Galactica, I already have nightmares about a postapocalyptic wasteland about once a month, and I think we can all agree that to preserve my mental health I deserve a pass.

The list is below.  I’ve crossed out the ones I’ve already read.

Wish me luck!  And feel free to play along.  Or better yet send me books in the mail! I have the feeling some of these might take me more time to get through than checking them out from the library might allow.


2008: The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz
2007: The Road by Cormac McCarthy
2006: March by Geraldine Brooks
2005: Gilead by Marilynne Robinson
2004: The Known World by Edward P. Jones
2003: Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides
2002: Empire Falls by Richard Russo
2001: The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay by Michael Chabon
2000: Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri
1999: The Hours by Michael Cunningham
1998: American Pastoral by Philip Roth
1997: Martin Dressler: The Tale of an American Dreamer by Steven Millhauser
1996: Independence Day by Richard Ford
1995: The Stone Diaries by Carol Shields
1994: The Shipping News by E. Annie Proulx
1993: A Good Scent from a Strange Mountain by Robert Olen Butler
1992: A Thousand Acres by Jane Smiley
1991: Rabbit at Rest by John Updike
1990: The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love by Oscar Hijuelos
1989: Breathing Lessons by Anne Tyler
1988: Beloved by Toni Morrison
1987: A Summons to Memphis by Peter Taylor
1986: Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry
1985: Foreign Affairs by Alison Lurie
1984: Ironweed by William Kennedy
1983: The Color Purple by Alice Walker
1982: Rabbit Is Rich by John Updike
1981: A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole
1980: The Executioner’s Song by Norman Mailer
1979: The Stories of John Cheever by John Cheever
1978: Elbow Room by James Alan McPherson
1977: No Award
1976: Humboldt’s Gift by Saul Bellow
1975: The Killer Angels by Michael Shaara
1974: No Award
1973: The Optimist’s Daughter by Eudora Welty
1972: Angle of Repose by Wallace Stegner
1971: No Award
1970: Collected Stories by Jean Stafford
1969: House Made of Dawn by N. Scott Momaday
1968: The Confessions of Nat Turner by William Styron
1967: The Fixer: by Bernard Malamud
1966: Collected Stories by Katherine Anne Porter
1965: The Keepers of the House by Shirley Ann Grau

Welcome to a World Record Amount of Totally Unneccesary Capitalization and other Hackneyed Writerly Devices: Population You

This is a totally rude and ungrateful thing to say, but eh, par for the course around here, right?  Anyway, I think I’m TATGMP (Totally About To Get My Period) (TMI, I know) but sometimes I have these days where it feels like every interaction and every transaction and every brush with someone just gives me a little something and gets me through the day and then I have those days where it feels like every brush with someone takes something from me, and then takes a little more, and every thing just steals a little piece of me and today is one of those days.  By the end of it I feel as though I am almost invisible, almost not really here.

Then I don’t write because I don’t know how to talk about that without sounding depressing and lame and complainy. I would love to be one of those people who is described as never complaining, but dude, that is just not one of the gifts I got when they were giving them away.  I suppose I could Try Harder and all that biz boz, but honestly, I love to complain.  I’m probably better off trying to become the Worlds Best Complainer than making any attempt to cut it out.

Did any one else go through a phase, maybe in Junior High, when every time they said “Cut It Out” you would do the hand motions to go with it, like you mimed actually cutting something with your fingers? No? Guess I was just that much cooler than all ya’ll.  And I totally never do cut it out hand motions anymore, of course.

Anyway. Moving On.

Today is Day Number Five of Gluten Free Jamboree round these parts.   I am not sure of Senor Pants yet as I don;t speak Wookie, so I can’t say if “Eh. Eh. Eh. Eh. Eh. Eh. Eh. Eh. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeh.”  means he feels better or not, but holy goodnight, this is the first time I haven’t felt like hot garbage in what feels like forever, so yes, I do think I totally have Celi@c Disease. I haven’t done anything official like a blood test because for that I would need actual child care, and if I do ever find actual child care I shall be using said opportunity to sit in a dark theater and eat (gluten free) popcorn and drink a world record sized amount of Diet Coke , rather than having needles jabbed into my veins. But using scientific deductioning (eat gluten=feel like ass, don’t eat gluten=don’t feel like ass) I have deducerated that I am not going to eat any more gluten, and to all the pizzas I will never eat again, I salute you.

Somehow in Mr. E’s extensive Life With a Crazy Woman Training, he missed the session on Proper Birthday Management, and so last year he didn’t ask me what I wanted for my Special Birthday Dinner, and so I had a Total Emotional Breakdown, Elizabeth Style, and so this year of course Mr. E has been asking me every two minutes or so what I want for my Special Birthday Dinner and for serious, the only thing I want is pizza. Gluteny gluten pizza topped with Gluten, with a side of gluten.  And maybe with some more Gluten on the side, in a cup, sprinkled with gluten.

Shit, I’m outside writing this and I think something just bit me! Damn nature.

Anyway, like I said, no verbal confirmation yet but I STRONGLY suspect that Senor Pants got the Gluten nod from god as well because he has gone to bed at nine oclock for two nights in a row and damn! I will take 9 PM over 11 PM any damn day of the week.  Perhaps it is the steady diet of Trader Joe’s Peanut Butter cups I shove in his face on a daily basis and maybe I am just fooling myself but he also appears to be slightly fatter? Maybe?

Although no nap today, suckily enough.  And I think I am going to have to buy gluten free dog food from now on, if you get what I mean, and I think you do, and yuck.  Have I mentioned I am so not a dog person?  Recipe for disaster = Combine one hyperactive, barky, not too bright, filthy, shedding maniacal fence jumping pain in the ass (the dog) with one anal retentive high strung bitchy neurotic clean freak (me) . God. I am so over my stupid dog.

Remember I painted my cabinet blue and white and put it in my dining room? Well, then I decided I hated it, because every time I walked by the damn thing it reminded me of this crazy church in Oregon that we visited one time on a school field trip.  The altar at the front of the church had a clear glass front and inside the altar was an entire lady – what they claimed was a perfectly preserved dead saint.  Uh huh.  It was one of the creepiest things I’ve ever seen, and although I can’t find any mention of it on the internet I swear I didn’t make it up and my cabinet totally makes me thinkof that every time I see it.  I’m going to put some wrapping paper or something on the inside of the door.   Is the birch tree paper thing so over, or no?

Maybe I should just give up and shove a wax figurine in there and call it religious art.  The Patron Saint of the China Cabinet.

That reminds me, when we lived in Ann Arbor, there was a house a few blocks up the street from us which had an entire naked lady, a white plaster sculpture, permanently seated on front the porch. It was so insanely awesome, we used to drive guests by it whenever anyone came to visit, and sometimes Mr. E and I would make up scenarios, how that lady got there, like the mom of the family raised her four kids and then when the last one went off to college she decided to take an art class and she really found her muse and decided she was going to cast herself naked and put it on the front porch and her husband at first was like “man, I don’t know about that” and she started crying and yelling “You don’t support my art! No one believes in my dreams!” and that’s how they ended up wiht a giant white naked lady statue sutting on their front porch railing.

I miss that lady.  I really hope she’s still there.

Also, I would totally say that Mr. E and I didn’t get out much, to explain why were having these fake conversations about Naked Plaster Lady instead of partying like rock stars in the street,  but the amount we got out seven years ago when we were childless and 24 was um, way more than we get out now, so let’s just admit we’ve always been this lame and move on.

Also, this is crazy but I decided to grant myself a little Free Diet Pass for a bit, just until I got a handle on the whole gluten free thing, because I didn’t want to lose my shit trying for some insane combo of no carb + low fat + locally grown + kid and husband will eat it.  Despite that fact I have totally been losing weight.  The jean capris don’t lie.  Crazy huh?  Cut out all cake, cookies, bread, pancakes, pizza, mcdonalds, doritos, pasta, donuts, and cupcakes, and lose weight! Who knew?!

Is anyone else totally nervous that Lindsay Lohan is going to assert her inevitable Lindsay Lohanness any day now and break that poor little Samantha Ronson’s heart?  I’m rooting for you crazy kids, I surely am, but that Lindsay just makes me nervous.  Maybe it’s the red hair.

Maybe “I” should dye my hair red again. No? Mr. E hates it when it’s red, but I could use some extra sass in my life right now. And you have to admit red hair does bring the sass.

Also, if John McCain weasels himself or Unfunny Canadian Tina Fey out of ANY of the debates, I am going to be so so so so so so pissed.  Oy. I understand we can’t all be *Master Debaters, but you know, if you want me to even consider voting for you, not that I’m going to, but you need to be able to at least pretend to talk intellegently about our country and tell me what your plans are.  Boo.

*Obvs the only reason I even wrote any of this was so that I could use the term Master Debaters in a post.

I so rule.

Camp Never Again

Dudes, you know how sometimes you just have this overwhelming feeling that you’re not in the mood, at all, to do something that you’ve had planned? My mom calls it Symphony Syndrome and it happens to me all the time.  Friday morning I was digging camping shit out of the garage and harassing Mr. E into calling the pediatrician and googling “are m and m’s gluten free?’ and although I gave myself a stern lecture and told myself to get over my bratty little snit, the truth is that although we’d been planning a trip to Yosemite for a month and although I was eager to check it off my “list of cool places I’ve never been” and although normally I am a big fan of camping, I just was so not feeling it.

Friday night I turned to Mr. E and said “Unfortunately my dream weekend has come to me very clearly in a vision right at this exact moment and it is this: A baby sitter appears out of nowhere and takes our son for an entire weekend, free of charge.  We eat crusty pizza and drink too much wine and watch old episodes of Felicity, until we fall into bed, exhausted and sort of drunk. We sleep late and have ice cream sundaes for breakfast, and then we spend the entire day at the movie theater.  Sunday morning we go to a very fancy brunch place and drink extra strong whole milk lattes and then come home and take naps and read trashy novels and then collect our tiny boy and eat spaghetti and meatballs and watch Sunday night tv and Eli has magically had his bedtime reset and he goes to bed at 7 PM and you make out with Itunes and make mix CD’s and I read blogs and then we go to bed.”

What we actually did was not as much fun as all that, you might be surprised to learn.

We spent Friday night fighting crowds in Trader Joes, fighting over what constitutes “gluten free”.  Unpacking groceries and packing up waaay too much camping crap.  Fighting over whether or not bringing beef stew for dinner was likely to attract bears, and yelling “What the hell else do you want me to make?! You so don’t appreciate me!” at each other.  Although maybe I was the only one yelling that last bit.Perhaps.

Saturday we drove and drove and drove, only to find that once you arrive at Yosemite, more driving awaits you.  We tried to take Senor Pants on a hike,  only to find that unless he was left to wander on his own, at the speed of a very slow possibly half dead turtle, he would wail ceaselessly in a particular pitch I like to think of “my parents are abusing me and ruining everyone else’s time in the cathedral of trees known as Yosemite because they insist on doing actual things with me outside of the house like total jerks.”

Once all of our stuff was unpacked and the tent was pitched and the bugs started to come out, Eli moved on from wailing, into the sort of full body histrionics one would think a baby would reserve for special occasions like having a leg broken.  Instead he chose to deploy these hearing loss inducing all over body shaking screams simply because his asshole parents politely requested that he not fling beef stew all over Bear Country USA.

It was around this time that camping began to lose its luster.

I figured a change of scene might be nice, so I carried my screaming child into the tent.  Being separated from the One, the Only, The True Light of His Life (his father) caused him to really ramp up the screaming level to Breaking the Barriers of Sound and Time. Luckily every other camper in the entire area had their tents pitched right up our ass about two inches from ours, so we all got to enjoy that medley of screaming together.

When Mr. E unzipped the tent, poked his head inside, said “Fuck it. Let’s get out of here,” I have never loved him more.

I don’t know that we’ve ever packed a car faster.

Sunday morning we got to sleep until 10 am, and when we woke up I asked Mr. E if he regretted not seeing Half Dome, if wished we had stuck it out, and he just looked at me like I had lost my mind.

So this was far from a dream weekend. You will note I can’t even eat pizza anymore, blasted Celi@c Disease and all that.  And we drove about nine million hours just to realize that our son can’t quite handle what we wish he could handle.  And we continued our bickering over yard work, our adventures in gluten free cooking which landed us at Wendy’s on a Sunday night, and ot some point last night I sat straight up in bed and declared that I was just going to have to buy a shot gun so I could shoot the dog that barks ALL NIGHT LONG somewhere in our neighborhood right in the eye, followed by his owners. (I may settle for a nasty note slipped in their mailbox. Advice? Ideas?)

However. Compared to sleeping in a tent on the hard ground next to a “spirited” nineteen month old in a campsite filled with maurauding bears, mosquitos, and nine million other people, this weekend was downright fricking magical, filled with sunshine and light.

No more camping for me, at least not until the kids are twenty five years old, or the worlds “Hilton” and “Hotel” are involved.

Make A Difference With Just One Comment

What a wonderful way to celebrate the birth of a daughter.

For every comment Cass gets on this post, she is donating a whopping $9 to breast cancer research! So go comment away and let’s help get rid of breast cancer for us, and for our daughters, for once and for all.

Fat Boy Slim

Gawd. Sometimes it would be so helpful to not have just the ONE baby as your whole frame of reference for what to do with just the ONE baby.

So the other day I took Eli to the new doctor, as I mentioned.  A new doctor because we just moved from desolate burg to much better town.  When we left the old doctor Senor Pants weighed 21 pounds something or other, putting him in the 3rd percentile for weight, and she mentioned that she wasn’t worried about his weight, but that our next doctor might be, since he has always been small and had lately been falling down the weight charts.

Because my number one fear in life is being yelled at,  or getting in trouble, or being told I have not done what I am supposed to do, this struck terror right into the very core of my heart, and I spent the next three months living in a sort of panic about what sort of lectures we were going to get when we went back the doctor and Eli had only gained a few pounds in three months.

But we found a new doctor and checked his references and called the insurance and got all signed up and I dragged Eli up to the fourth floor of the medical center, by myself, for the first time – Mr. E can’t take time off anymore to do things like doctor’s appointments and admittedly I was already kind of nervous and maybe I am just the sort for whom ordinary everyday things like taking my son to the doctor that you all do every day without a second thought give me the nervous tummy but I was sort of scattered and freaky at the appointment.  All that undressing and wrangling of sippy cups and forms and cards and it was September 11th and the Copying Teamsters hadn’t yet made copies of the old medical records and long story short, when they weighed him he only weighed 20 pounds. In three months, he lost weight.  He is now in the 1 percentile. Ish.

And all that up there was just a blathery way of telling you that for some reason, even though I did tell the doctor that we were concerned about his weight, I forgot to actually mention that he’d lost weight.  I don’t know why, I have no idea why.  I think I was just so relieved that I wasn’t going to get yelled at that I just didn’t mention it.  I really did like the doctor and he actually did the perfect thing – he neither freaked out nor yelled at me, but he also said he didn’t want to just ignore the weight thing, so he told us to come back in a month for a weight check, and we made another appointment on our way out.

Then I got home and I started to tell myself all the things I have told myself after all the other doctor’s appointments.  That everything was fine and that mah baby is perfect and fabulous and that he is meeting all his developmental milestones and that he is just a really busy child and he thinks food is boring and eating is for losers and we are trying as hard as we can and I can’t force food down his throat and his father is tall and skinny and looked just like this when he was a baby and that I was a small kid and that it was fine! fine! fine!

But that 1% stuck there, in the back of my head.  This time it did not go away.

And then I realized I forgot to tell the doctor that he lost weight.

And then I sat down and I wrote an email to Moxie, asking her about the sleep thing, because have I mentioned the sleep thing? If not maybe it’s because I am tired.  But let me just tell you that the sleep thing is KICKING OUR ASSES.  Eli takes one nap during the day, ok, but then at night, he cannot go to sleep.  He starts acting sleepy at about six thirty, and we try to put him to bed starting then, but he just sits in his crib, hysterical, and screams.  We go to get him, soothe him, and try to put him to bed again, all night long.  Till 10:30 or 11, every single night.  And it sucks. Man, does it ever suck. We have no time to ourselves, we have no time to just talk about our day or just to sit and watch a movie together.  The only time I am not taking care of Eli I am foisting him off on Mr. E.  Have I mentioned it SUCKS? And not to be too TMI but let’s just say that if this is indeed a concerted only child campaign, well, it’s working. Quite effectively.

At the end of the email to Moxie I mentioned, just as an off hand aside, the weight thing, the percentages, how little he is, even though I was pretty sure it had nothing to do with the sleep thing.

And then when I saw it all spelled out there in black and white, the not sleeping, the not eating, I don’t know. Something just clicked in the back of my brain and that something started to tell me that things are not right.  Something just isn’t right.  He is losing weight and he isn’t sleeping and I just think something isn’t right.

And then I started to examine it all, to plug it all into Google, to sift through the results and the blogs and things began to hang together in a way they never had before.  How I am 5’2″ even though my brother is 6’5″.  Eli’s unexplained low birth weight (5 pounds). How sometimes every thing I eat makes me sick.  How by the end of the day Eli’s little stomach is pooched out so hard we can’t help commenting on it.  How much he poops and how mushy it is (gross, I know, but moms of nineteen month olds, are these things normal?).  How very very very small he seems. The not sleeping. The whining.  The clinginess.  The fact that his hair doesn’t really seem to grow.

When we go back to the doctor in three weeks, I am going to tell them that I think something isn’t right. I am going to be sure to mention the lost weight, and to tell them we need to have Eli tested for Celi@c Disease. I will tell them that I take it back, that I’m worried now.  That we leave food out for him to eat all day long but that he mostly ignores it.  That he only likes grapes, cucumbers, and m and m’s. That he never stops going  and he can’t sleep and we don’t know what normal is anymore.

A part of me desperately hopes that he has Celi@c Disease, because hell, I can cook.  I know where Trader Joes is.  That, I can work with.  That, I can fix. I just want the kid to grow.  Because to be honest, it is starting to get hard.  I am starting to look at the row of clothes that he is wearing for a second fall in a row and I am starting to get nervous. I am starting to look at pictures of two year olds with a nervous lump in my throat.  I starting to get really really worried.

And I know that there are many people out there who have it much much worse. I know we’ll get through this. I know that there are children out there who won’t make it past TODAY, for god’s sake, and in the face of all that we are lucky to have these problems.  And that we are lucky to have insurance and doctors and that we will figure this out.


But I can’t help it. A part of me thinks of sending a note with my child to every birthday party he ever gets invited to for the rest of his life explaining that he can’t eat the cake.  And I think “but wait! This is not what I ordered. This is not what I signed up for.  I am not ready for this.”

And yet, here we are.  Ready or not.

Dining Room Update. Otherwise Known As Snoozeville.

Remember my cabinet, the one I was painting white?

It’s finished, minus the knobs on the bottom drawers. I ended up painting the inside blue, just for kicks.

Please note the hummingbird feeder of death can be seen in the reflection in the door.

I was going to put my cookbooks inside, but they’ll only fit on the top and I wasn’t crazy about how it looked.

So instead I filled it with my blue dishes.

Have I mentioned how I feel about my blue dishes?  Well, I have VERY SPECIAL feelings for my blue dishes, let’s just say.  The sad thing is this isn’t even all of them, I have more – a different kind, in another cabinet. But these are my favorites.

I like the cabinet, but it ended up looking a tiny bit…um, precious, maybe? A wee bit twee?  A little bit like a fairy tale land cabinet?  So now I am wondering if maybe the blue bird knobs are not the way to go, if maybe instead I need to use something a bit more sophisticated to tone down the overall Hansel and Gretel vibe of the thing.

Something like these (in orange) or these in black or red or these in blue?

Although feel free to tell me you love the bird knobs because those are the knobs of my heart. Uh. Hmm. Well, you know what I mean.

I think what I mean is that I spend way too much time thinking about knobs. True story, the other night I couldn’t sleep because I could not stop obsessing over which knobs to put on this damn cabinet.  And it’s at times like these when I wonder why my husband doesn’t just put Prozac in my coffee every morning.

Also, I’m not leaving that stuff on the top there, that is just a temporary resting home for those two items.

We have also concluded our very scientific and well thought out paint choosing color process.

We are painting the room this color, the horrifyingly named Texas Leather. It’s the one in all the tear sheets on the right side of the wall.  If you have determined that my scientific paint choosing color process involved hating all colors ever including every color on every paint chip at the Benjamin Moore store and then opening the Pottery Barn catalog and pointing to a picture and saying “I like this color” then you might be correct.

Anyway, then we’ll add either a chair rail or a picture rail, in white.  I’m going to put black and white photographs above the rail, and then Mr. E and I will have a fight to the death about whether or not I should be allowed to put a giant red letter “E” on my dining room wall.  Oh, and did I mention that my bff”s mother heard about my thing for elephants and brought me back a wooden elephant head from Thailand?  That’s going in the dining room too.

I would also like to add this print, and this gas station number, but I am worried that 1. the gas station number is huge and 2. a giant number 4 sitting on top of my cabinet will weaken my giant Letter E argument. But please do let me know if you think the giant red number 4 is a must buy because at this point the smallest argument in its favor would persuade me.

I am getting new dining room chairs for my birthday, and I think some of those Flor Tiles in Coir. I really want just a plain sisal rug, but the thought of what is thrown on my floor on a daily basis is making me think the interchangeable Flor Tiles might be a better idea.

I am still searching for the perfect chandelier, but so far everything I’ve found has either been too modern, too old persony, or too five thousand dollary.

In conclusion, I love knobs, red crap from Etsy, my blue dishes, and my long suffering husband.

Now where IS that Prozac Brownie?