We are debating having the boys share a room.  It isn’t necessary, but The Mister always enjoyed sharing a room with his older brother and has this idea it will “be good for Mikey and Nico.”  I like the idea because it opens up a room in our house for guests, crafts, and other nice sounding things that will probably never happen.  The room, being in a mid-century home, is plenty big for two twin beds.  In fact, I’m sure its size reflects the assumption that siblings would be sharing the space.  Nicholas’s room is much smaller by comparison.

What are your thoughts on siblings sharing a bedroom?

{The above photo is from the talented Jenny of Little Green Notebook.  Her daughters share a room that she recently redecorated.}

Until today, I had no idea an olive oil cruet could hold such meaning.

This is my favorite corner in my kitchen, and it came around by accident.  It started with the vintage pictures of Buenos Aires I received two weeks ago.  Then, last week, I brought out this old basket (8 years?) I had collecting dust in a cupboard and used it to corral Mikey’s cold medicine.  I have the boys’ vitamins in there now.  The flowers are from the garden, and the container is one of Nicholas’ glass baby bottles because I needed something tall and thin and free of charge.  And then, there is the olive oil cruet.

I’d been admiring my happenstance corner of lovely all week, but it looked even more charming when we came home last night from an early showing of Where The Wild Things Are.  When I pulled into the driveway, I could see through the kitchen window my favorite corner bathed in the soft light from our porch.  It all looked so warm and inviting and picturesque that I immediately thanked God for blessing me as He does daily.

And then I thought it was a shame the olive oil cruet was so circa 1999.

If I took a picture and posted it on the blog, I reasoned, I would have to style it nicely, the way other bloggers do.  The piece of paper detailing how I should dispense the boys’ vitamins would have to go, and I should probably find a third flower, since things look better in groups of three.  The cruet, though approaching ten years of age, is in mint condition.  It would be a terrible waste to buy something new or “I’m trying too hard” vintage just to avoid a shot of faux-Tuscan kitchen accessories.  Maybe I’ll just take it out and replace it with something else for the picture.  Le sigh.  Being disingenuous is hard work.

I took the picture this morning, deciding against all the changes that would make my favorite corner perfectly vanilla.  (Quirky and vintage can be vanilla, too, you know.)  The whole idea bothered me.  It took me a while to figure out why, because I don’t like that olive oil cruet.  It doesn’t match my house and as an actual Italian, the grapes bug me. But, in trying to figure out why I refused to style the picture I realized I also love that silly thing.

I remember buying it.  The Mister and I were newly married and in our first home.  We had invited to dinner his brother, John, our sister in law, Stephanie, and their 9 month old daughter, Brayden.  (You can see all 9 years of our niece in this picture, here.)  They would be our first dinner guests, ever.  I was very nervous and wanted everything perfect.  I rushed out to House to Home (remember that store?) on the day of the dinner and bought that olive oil cruet to hold the chimichurri.  I also bought the matching bowls, appetizer plates, and platter. And steak knives.  I bought steak knives, too.

That night, at our first ever dinner party(ish) we had rib eye steaks with chimichurri, mashed potatoes, roasted bell peppers two ways (stuffed with brie and drizzled with honey or mozzarella and basil drizzled with olive oil) and a mixed green salad.  For dessert I made brownies from scratch, vanilla ice cream, and drizzled that with ducle de leche, also made from scratch. (Do you remember that night, Stephanie?)

At the time, Brayden didn’t like mashed potatoes.  Potatoes at all, really.  But she ate mine, and I had a smile a mile wide for days because my potatoes were good enough to please the palette of a 9 month old who didn’t like potatoes.

Since then, that trendy, trite, and out of style cruet has drizzled more olive oil than seems healthy.  I’ve tossed and sauteed and marinated countless meals over 9 years for family and friends, each time reaching for an olive oil cruet I purchased as a young bride from an ordinary home store in the middle of suburbia.  If our last nine years could waft out of that bottle like jeanie smoke, out would come two homes, a law degree, a layoff, a new job, a few vacations, many celebrations, just as many arguments, a couple of businesses, new friends, old friends, two boys, two dogs, and one happy family.

And that is why the olive oil cruet stayed in the shot.

Does anyone have a recommendation for an Inland Empire photographer who can work with a very limited budget?  If so, send them my way.

{photo via The Newlywed Diaries}

Yesterday on The Bright Side Project we featured Janice Rusnak of Papier Valise.  For those of you who are crafty, she needs no introduction.  She is the go-to shop for the little bips and bobs you need to complete your latest artistic endeavor.  She’s the craftista’s dealer, if you will.

I used to be crafty.  Creative, even.  In fact, in school there were two subjects at which I excelled–reading/writing and art.  Writing the Papier Valise feature reminded me of that, and how little crafting I do these days.  I’ve kind of become a one trick pony–if you consider staying up until 1am reading a trick a pony would do.

I’ve made up my mind to change all that.  Less reading, more action.  To that end, I’m going to start working on projects around the house a bit more.  I’ve already tackled one project, my kitchen back splash, which resulted in THE RED SHARPIE OF DEATH.  At first I hated it because every time I walked into the kitchen I thought SHARPIE!!  But since I was able to clean the furniture, I’m backing to thinking it looks pretty good.  I mean, Design*Sponge isn’t blowing up my inbox, but it doesn’t look like a bachelor pad, either.

This is where you come in.  Who are you reading now for design tips?  I have all the major players in my reader, and now I want some of the new kids on the block I may have missed during the decorating hiatus I took this last year.  Things I like: before and afters, real homes, reasonable budgets, and a healthy mix of modern and traditional.  Every other week I like a different style (no surprise that I am all over the map) but I consistently enjoy Jennifer and Wes at The Newlywed Diaries.   Jennifer always features a nice mix of modern and traditional that doesn’t seem so damn trendy (Hello, cow  hides, antlers, owls, shell rockers, quirky pillows, and ironic posters).  My favorite post hands down is Right Amount of Black, mainly because I am injecting more and more black in my home and love that Martha and I both have cream cabinets and soapstone counters in our kitchen.

So tell me who you are reading, because I need to immerse myself in creative people, get thoroughly intimidated, and then decide to do nothing because it won’t measure up to my insane need to do things perfect on the first try.

Kidding!

Sort of.

But, really, I do want to hear about your favorites.

Yesterday I received an email from friend from law school.  She has two kids the same age Mikey and Nico.  I thought she was going to cancel our lunch date for the 3rd of April (turns out she needed to reschedule) but she also told me the firm she works at has a position open and she wants me to apply.  It’s a workman’s comp defense firm (one of the largest in California) and it’s 2.6 miles from my house.  The salary is very, very low, but they pay for my car, insurance, 401k, and all sorts of tempting perks.  All day I was excited, thinking my problems were solved until it hit me that in order for me to do this Nico and Mikey will be in daycare fulltime, most likely 12+ hours a day.

And then the nausea set in.

Then I crunched the numbers, and figured out daycare would take more than 50% of my salary.

Then I thought to ask her what her billable hours requirement* was, and she told me 300 per month.  I did the numbers quickly, and it looks like I would have to work (roughly) 14 billable hours per day in order to meet my 300 hour monthly minimum.  I sent her another email about this, and she confirmed my calculations, saying she bills 10 to 16 hours everyday, but that it is very manageable.

How is a 10 to 16 hour day manageable with two small children?  My friend supports her family, by the way.  Her husband recently started a business that, so far, has not been able to contribute to the family’s income.  She goes to work early, works all day, picks up the kids from daycare, makes the two hours before they go to bed all about them, and then works from her laptop until it’s time to go to bed.

Again, HOW IS THIS MANAGEABLE?  How do those of you who juggle work and family do it?  How do you afford daycare?  How do you do this 5+ days every week and not want to pull your hair out and gouge out your eyes with a mechanical pencil?  This scenario is a very real possibility for me if the Mister does not find a job that paid as well as his previous one.  The thought of subjugating 10-16 hours my life everyday for a firm…for a job…makes me feel claustrophobic and out of control.

And then I feel despondent when I think of the Mister and thousands upon thousands of dads who do this all the time because it’s expected of them.

The only way you should work 10-16 hours a day is if you are doing something you love.  Something you feel passionate about.  Then all those hours would go by like minutes, and you would come home feeling alive, if not fresh and invigorated.  But this isn’t always possible today.  Instead, we get stuck in jobs and career paths that feed our needs but not our souls.  This saddens me.

But what saddens me most of all is, after all this, a part of me is wondering if I should apply for that job.

[*in order to remain employed, attorneys working in firms have billable hours requirements.  This is the number of hours they need to bill within a certain time period.  Not every hour you work can be billed to a client, however, so working 8 hours in one day doesn't mean you have accrued 8 billable hours.]

I spent Saturday, Sunday, and today watching hours upon hours of bankruptcy practice videos. I need to complete 25 hours in continuing education before I can reactivate my license and purchase malpractice insurance and, thanks to these marathon sessions, I am up to roughly 10.5 hours. Almost half way there, and my eyes and brain are starting to feel it.

Today I was especially lawyerly; I went looking at office space. My friends have nice offices in the Upland-Claremont area, and I thought I might find something similar in my budget. We called around and quickly found some buildings with rooms to sublet. Thank you, economy, for being so piss poor that people are desperate to sublet minuscule rooms to floundering stay-at-home-moms-turned-attorneys. It almost makes up for you turning me into a floundering stay-at-home-moms-turned-attorney. Almost.

The first room for rent was in a cute Greek Revival-inspired one story building on the corner of a charming downtown district. I was excited, especially at the price. My friend, Margerie, and I showed up a bit early, so we took the opportunity to chat up a paralegal situated in a weird area of the building with a pop out. On her messy desk was a book that I read and liked, and it appeared from her equally cluttered office that she collected elephants (my favorite animal), but, really, other than those two redeeming qualities, she was bat-shit crazy. I could elaborate, but you’ll just have to trust me that a person who answers her office door with disheveled hair and striped socks only to tell you about her diabetes, hip replacement, and all the attorneys conspiring to chase her out of town is one taco short of a combo plate.

The crazy person in the striped socks suggested we cut through her office and walk down the hall to meet with the property manager– the only attorney in town without a vendetta against sickly paralegals with a quirky fashion sense. I was hoping the rest of the building would look a bit better than McMurphy’s cell, but nope! ALL OF IT = TURD, CIRCA 1978.

Imagine the interior of cowboy-sailor-English Pub restaurant from the 1970s. You know the one: your parents took you there when you brought home a good report card.

Wagon Wheel? Check.

Anchor with whale rope? Check

Paintings of Beagles on a fox hunt? Check. Check. Check.

Turns out the property manager/only attorney in town without a vendetta against sickly paralegals with a quirky fashion sense forgot our appointment. We almost stuck one of our cards on her name placard in the shape of a captain’s wheel to let her know we stopped by (I can’t make this stuff up, folks!),  but as luck would have it, the door to the available space was wide open.

Remember when Greg Brady turned Mr. Brady’s home office into a lover’s lair? Winner! Winner! Winner! The gold carpet, the faux wood paneling, and the caramel pinch pleat drapes and lace sheers that stopped FOUR FEET FROM THE FLOOR all called out in a sing-song voice, “Far out everybody, a renter!”

Margerie cleared her throat awkwardly and said, “Wow. This is a nice sized space. It looks like you would have plenty of phone jacks.”

I agreed, and eyeballed the large window behind all that fabric. “Well, there is plenty of natural light,” I offered.

We both walked towards the window to look at the view, which happened to be the main street cutting through the downtown district. We pulled apart the lace sheers for a better view, and that’s when we saw them. Piercing the window like a constellation were 5 bullet holes.

Stop. Allow me to repeat that.

Piercing the window like a constellation were 5 bullet holes. Bullet holes! Holes!! Plural!!! I CAN NOT MAKE THIS STUFF UP. And the best part? The part that had Margerie and I clutching our stomaches and wiping the tears from our eyes? The largest bullet hole–the one large enough for THE BREEZE TO BLOW THROUGH–was covered with a meticulously cut 2×2 inch square of clear packing tape. News Flash, property manager/only attorney in town without a vendetta against sickly paralegals with a quirky fashion sense, YOU FORGOT TO COVER THE OTHER FOUR BULLET HOLES.

I’d like to say the next office we visited was better, but it wasn’t.  Oh, sure, it wasn’t RIDDLED WITH BULLETS, but it did smell like the inside of a Wienerschnitzel at closing time.  In the 10 minutes we were there, I swear my arteries hardened.  I left wondering if this was a sign, if I would ever find a place of my own, and if there was a point value for greasy air.

The search for the answers to all of the above continues.

I live in a historically dry area of southern California, so my polka dot rain boots seemed like a frivolous purchase to my family and friends.  As luck would have it, this year has seen heavy rainfall and my boots, plenty of wear.  Clearly, then, my rain boots brought on the rain.  If a new pair of rain boots can bring rain, surely a new wallet can bring money.  I’m looking for a new wallet, and the money to go along with it, too.

I’ve owned two wallets in 17 years.  When I was 19, I  bought a  Coach zip around wallet at an outlet store.  It was similar in style to this one, but in plain, red leather.  I carried that wallet for 12 years until the Mister bought me a new wallet, also by Coach, in the popular Signature pattern.  The wallet is similar in style to this one.  I wrongly assumed it would last me another 12 years, but the zipper has failed to stay on track for 4 out of the last 5 years, and the snap refuses to stay closed.

The wallet has a lifetime warranty, but I am ready to move on to something new.  I liked the Coach brand back when it wasn’t so popular and heavily marketed.  Now, dripping with Cs and logos on all sides, it just smacks of excessive consumerism. Besides, when you see a 16-year-old girl carrying the same bag as you on the way to her job at Hot Dog on a Stick, it’s time to move on.

I don’t want anything heavily labeled, which is almost impossible since that remains the rage.  I don’t like chains or whips or fluorescent patent leather that, I’m sorry, to me screams, Look at me!  I’m a mom and still hip! I’m wild, really.  So totally wild.  Rawrrr.

I’m trying desperately not to like this wallet by Dooney & Burke.  I know this brand is not “cool,” but that is actually part of the allure.  I admit zebra has been done to death, but I love high contrast color combinations like this.  The red trim positively slays me.  It’s preppy and modern and classic, which sums up my personal style perfectly.  It’s also $195, which turns my stomach.  I am not afraid to spend good money on a quality product, but this is more than I am able to spend with the Mister looking for work and me trying to start a law practice.

Any suggestions?  What has been your favorite wallet?  I am open to any brand, large, small, or indie.  I don’t want something cheap if it means I will replace it in less than a year.  I’ve tried Target and Nordstroms, but didn’t find anything nearly as enchanting as that striped number up above.  Maybe that’s my problem–I’m looking only in polar opposite price points and need to start shopping somewhere in the middle.