Chester's First Hair Cut

Remember Chester?



The cat of very little brain?



The one who once tried to play with a candle and got wax all over the place, including on her own face?

Yeah, her.

She's sweet.  She's cute.  She has a lot of fur and a really puffy tail.



This evening, my kids have friends over and Boo and her friend were busy at work, creating all kinds of things out of duct tape.  We were all down in the basement and Chester had been resting quietly, but decided she needed to investigate the closet as soon as she heard me open the door.  I ruined her evening by closing the door before she could get lost deep in the depths, so she had to find something else interesting.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her suddenly take off and noticed something white attached to her tail.  It took a split second for me to survey the scene, process and realize that she had gotten duct tape stuck to her tail.

Crap.

She came flying back into the room and performed a quick STOP, DROP and ROLL to dislodge the offending tape.  Of course, that only made it worse.  She ran a few steps, stopped and tried licking it off.  When that failed, she just took off in a panicked sprint as if she was going to run so fast, it would just fall off.

Knowing the situation was dire, I sent the kids to corner her before she made it any worse.

(I laughed a lot too.)

I knew there was no way were were going to rid her of her duct tape demons without scissors.  And I hoped that it wasn't going to require trimmers.

It's a good thing the dumb cat is so docile.  Between KJ, Boo and I, we managed to hold her still and cut the duct tape out of her tail without anyone bleeding.



I hope she's learned her lesson, but I am not going to hold my breath.

Day Two

Day two started out with a bang, quite literally.  I got the kids to bed, tucked myself into my too-big bed and promptly fell asleep to the sound of the wind whipping around my house, whistling through my windows and banging the front porch swing against the house.  Since I am an Olympic-caliber sleeper, it didn't bother me much.  Remember, I slept though a tornado once.
My dear daughter doesn't have the sleep-stamina that I have and woke me up from a dead sleep about 1:00 with terror in her voice.  She wanted to know if I had heard that loud noise.  Um, obviously, "No."
"It was so loud it shook" her bed.
Nope, didn't hear a thing.
But, since I am a single parent for the next ten days, I got up to investigate.  (Note to self, be more grateful for the times that JJ does this.)  I looked out the window and noticed that the garbage can had been blown over.  Obviously that must have been the noise.
As much as I wanted to leave the stupid thing where it was, I put on my sweatshirt and shoes and trudged down the driveway and dragged the garbage can and recycling bin back into the garage.  Did I mention that the wind was gusting to 50 mph, it was after 1:00 am and I was only half-awake?
I got back in the house and Boo was still a little shaken.  She wasn't convinced that the garbage can had made the noise that had shaken her bed.  She asked if I had checked the mailbox. (The reason that our mailbox is on a temporary stand is a long story, but no, I hadn't checked the mailbox.)  And of course, she was right.  The wind had blown the mailbox right over.  The mailbox that is (was) solidly attached to some 4x4 posts.  The heavy heavy mailbox and temporary stand.
I left it where it was.
I didn't need it being blown over and shaking her bed again. 



I got up this morning, stood it up and tied it to the porch railing.  I couldn't find the bungee cords, or I would have used them.  I think that bungee-corded mailboxes that are barely attached to temporary posts just scream "high class" don't you?

My twine looks less solid and more like a spider web, but it didn't fall over again, so we'll call that a victory for Shannon. Yay me!
The rest of the day was pretty uneventful.  And I am grateful for that.

Riddle me this, Batman

 I made a mistake earlier.  I lit three yummy apple cider-scented candles to make the house feel warm and cozy.  The mistake wasn't in lighting the candles; the mistake was in forgetting about the kitten.

Chester strikes again.

J walked into the dining room to find two candles burning.  The third had been flipped over on its top with wax sprayed for a good two feet, all over my dining room table.

 Since this is November, the month of Thanksgiving, let's see if I can focus on the positives here

I am thankful that she managed to flip it over upside down and the flame went out.  I shudder to think about what would have happened if that flame had kept burning.

I am thankful that she didn't set herself on fire.  She is a puffy cat, after all, with a big, puffy, feather-duster of  a tail and tufts of hair growing between the pads of her paws.  My first cat, Galileo, got too close to a candle one winter and singed his whiskers.  The smell brought me running and there he was, blinking and confused.  He never got near a candle again.  I'm not sure that Chester is that smart.

I am also thankful that I had some of those handy-dandy Pampered Chef scrapers in the kitchen.  They made quick work of the wax without scraping my table up.  Thank you Pampered Chef. Let me add that it's a good thing it is the winter, so it's cooler in the house.  That allowed the wax to come up off the table much easier.

All in all, it wasn't nearly as much of a disaster as it could have been.  For that I am grateful.  But here's the mystery.  I can't find any wax on her.   You would think that for all that mess that she made, her fur would be covered in wax.   For sure, there has to be some wax on one of her paws, or in all of that tail fur.

There isn't.

Upon closer inspection, which she loved, I found one single drop of wax inside her one ear.  ONE DROP.  She reeks of Apple Cider Yankee Candle, but all I can find is One. Stinking. Drop. Of. Wax. 

How in the world did she manage that?

For your enterainment...

I was going through old pictures today, trying to delete some so that I don't end up on some "Hoarders: Digital Files" reality show, when I came across this affront to nature.
The setting: Valentine's Day, 2008. I was still a stay-at-home mom at this point in time and thought that I'd follow that old Fifties textbook ideal of how to be a proper wife (but just this once.) I put my hair in curlers while putting on some make up. My hair doesn't take curl very well, so I made sure to put lots of gel on it and leave those curlers in for an extra long time.
When I took those curlers out, I was hoping for long, flowing tresses. What I ended up with was Napoleon Dynamite. Am I wrong? I think that my hair shortened up a good 6" from those "long flowing curls." It's quite fetching, don't you think?
"Why do you still have this photo?" you may wonder. It's a question that is begging to be asked. "Why even take a photo in the first place?" is probably an even better question. I could give you a long philosophical answer about how strongly I feel about documenting my life, as well as the lives of the people I love. But I'll save you the soapbox lecture and say that I took this picture because it's hilarious. And I keep it, honestly, because it's hilarious. I don't ever want to take life too seriously. Life it too short to worry about projecting an image of perfection. If you can't laugh at yourself, well, then, life just can't be very fun.
My favorite part? Check out my shirt: "Defy Gravity" indeed.

You'd think I'd know better

DH is in Singapore. While I do miss him terribly, I am enjoying my time to myself. Mainly, I am putting the kids to bed and trying to learn photoshop a little better. For the most part, I am stumbling around, figuring things out by sheer dumb luck. But, I've read a few tutorials, downloaded some more actions but I can't help myself. I keep going back to Pioneer Woman's Vintage action and it keeps failing me.

There has to be something about the vintagey tones and my eyes that produce this glowing, terrifying alien look. Maybe this would make a good Halloween shot?

Why all the self-portraits, you may ask? That's because my children are now boycotting my camera. I have resorted to taking photos of myself. It's a sad state of affairs at my house.

Now I get it

You know that whole "rule" about removing batteries from devices that you don't plan to use for a long time?
Yeah. I get it now.
My sister and nephew were coming for a visit. I needed to clean up the guest/storage/oh-crap-there's-someone-coming-over-and-I-need-to-hide-my-mess room.
I picked up our trusty old radio, the one that's covered in drywall dust and has seen us through many a home-improvement project. The one that's so old, it doesn't have an ipod dock. And I found all kinds of white powdery crystal-ish stuff all over the hardwood floor.

Yep. It was battery acid. Not one, not two, but three of the batteries (that have been in there since the dawn of time) leaked.




















This one was so bad that is was misshapen and felt noticeably lighter. (On a side note, the science teacher in me wants to say, "Had noticeably less mass, but I decided that would be way to nerdy and weird. )










Mild fascination aside, I was pleased that the only damage to the hard wood floor was this small, dark spot. It will never be noticed amid the green and purple scuff marks from when this was my son's room and Buzz Lightyear had many an adventure.
And please, don't let this happen to you. Don't put batteries in a radio for a tailgate party and then forget about them for, ummm, let's say, three years.

I'm a little bit messy

So, I've mentioned that I love fountain pens. The problem with the fountain pens is that they sometimes dry out. And when they dry out, they need to be rinsed with water. Because the inks are waterbased, this works well, except for the fact that one's hands end up covered in ink. See Exhibit A.
This wasn't too bad. There have been times I have ended up with it on my face. Sometimes the pen gets clogged and one must blow through the pen like a straw to clear it. And then one ends up with ink on one's face.
No lie. This is a typical event in my life.

Photoshop Failure, part deux

So, I have photoshop. I have some free actions. I checked out a book on photoshop. I am taking an online class and have had exactly one tutorial on editing flowers.
That's how I end up with stuff like this.
My favorite action right now is Pioneer Woman's "Old West." I applied it after lightening and sharpening our eyes.
Now we have glowing "I am posessed" eyes.
Straight out of a horror movie, huh? I wish I could remember the name of the movie I am thinking of. It was full of kids, in a school, they all had white-blonde hair and glowing blue eyes. I think we belong in that movie.
Maybe I need more practice.

Photoshop Failure

So, I downloaded the free 30-day trial of Photoshop. And I kind of hated it until I allowed myself to download some free actions. Dangerous, very dangerous.
I started with this photo of me and my lovely, wonderful, beautiful sister and tried to make us look even better. It's a cute picture of the two of us, taken on a weekend that we spent in the Windy City.
Allow me to rephrase. It WAS a cute picture of the two of us. I have managed to make her look cute and me look like some sort of circus freak.
I started out by using an eye brightener. All of the cool kids are doing it. Then I ran a Pioneer Woman Action called "Lovely and Ethereal." And we were lovely and ethereal.
Could I leave well-enough alone? Is the Pope Methodist? Does the Bear crap on a toilet? I had to try Pioneer Woman's "Vintage" action. While I sat here and waited for it to work its magic, I kept imagining how amazingly awesome and old-fashioned it was going to look. Like, "Frame it and hang it on the wall" awesome.
And then this showed up on my screen, and I nearly busted a gut laughing. It would seem the Vintage Action looks great on pretty, fair skin like my sister has. Not so much on my more tanned face. And boy, so those brightened eyes of mine stand out. Freaskshow!!
Oh well, at least my teeth are pretty and white!

I should have trusted my nose

It's like a train wreck or a car accident, right? The carnage is devastating, but you cannot look away.
My grandmother gave me these, her precious Tupperware measuring cups (from nineteen-ought-six) almost 10 years ago. She was moving out of her home as it had gotten to be too much for her. She was nearly 90 at that point. I promptly chucked my Wal-Mart cheapies and got to baking with these lovely Harvest Gold babies.
I've been washing them in the dishwasher for years and never thought anything about it. The day before yesterday, I noticed a funky-burning-plastic smell coming from my dishwasher. Being the trusting individual that I am, I ignored it. When I unloaded the dishwasher yesterday, I found that this little guy had somehow fallen off of the top rack and ended up down near the heating element.
Mystery of the Funky-Burning-Plastic Smell Solved!
Ugh. I have some guilt because these were a hand-me-down from my Grandma. I can hear her now, tsk-tsking because I didn't take better care of them. Or maybe she's looking down on me, saying, "Shannon, they are older than you. Don't worry about it." Either way, no more dishwasher for this little guy. He can still work for me, although I don't think he'll stack as nicely as he used to!