Your Questions!: An innocent inquiry about deserted islands

I never should have given myself that little taste of freedom... that "one-week" break turned into "four-weeks-of-being-in-complete-denial-about-the-existence-of-blogger.com."

Anyway, looks like I've got some questions to answer! Bless you darling amigos who still have things you want to know about me after all the awkward things I've already divulged here.

If you were on a deserted island, what one item or person would you bring with you? (No Hubster, sorry.)
-Ryan @ Woven Moments

Can I say a fully-stocked cruise ship with instruction manuals? Or Hurley?

Or, I could NOT cheat and pick someone/something already in my life:
On those rare occasions when Husband can't fix my mood, he tells me to call my sister. Wise man, that Husband character.

Choosing to bring my sister to my accidental private island certainly has its flaws. The little sister & I tend to feed off of each others' insanity, like when we recently had to drive the EXACT &^%$#! SAME 180-mile stretch FOUR times in SIX days. Without a radio. By the end we were singing duets entirely with growls and chirping noises, and:

Even better zoomed in.

Yes, I was trying to "claw" my way out of the car at 70 mph.

And she was in the passenger's seat, covering the right half of the windshield with toe streaks and likening it to tending a Zen garden. (See bottom right corner of photo... the perfect epitome of Zen, yes? It just... screams it.)

It gets better. She took my car to fill it up with gas a few days afterwards, and the kindly attendant decided to clean the windshields for her. After squeegee-ing the glass like a pro, he flipped the blade over and started dutifully scrubbing the "claw" marks.

He scrubbed harder.

He leaned in to inspect more closely, and got a look of horrified confusion on his face once he realized they were on the inside of the car. He quizzically looked at my sister, handed her the receipt, and scurried off.

So, having made a short story long, I'd bring my sister to share in my maroon-ed-ness. We'd go bonkers, but sometimes it's what you have to do to survive.

The kitchen sink can kill you

I almost never do dishes. You might be tempted to guess that this happens because I'm such an awesome cook, and Jason demonstrates his gratitude by cleaning up the kitchen every night after I ransack it.

WOW, that's really nice of you to guess that, you flatterer you. But I'm afraid the real reason is much darker; much more treacherous, and foreboding, and every other adjective for the word "sinister." I've seen what that sink and its shadowy cabinets below are capable of. I've seen what they can do... to a brave little beetle named Alazar.

This story takes place one painfully sleep-deprived night before a final presentation.

In architecture school, when you ask someone for the time, they don't say, "Ten-fifteen," or "Eight thirty-five," or even "Noon." They look deep into your soul with their darkened, hollow eyes, and robotically murmur something like, "86 hours 'til." 86 hours, that is, until the end of the world as they've come to know it. 86 hours until their 10-week-long project is due.

On this particular night, it was 3 AM, and I was horrified to find myself at FIVE HOURS 'til. I'd gotten one hour of sleep the night before, and only three the last few nights before that. I was frantic. The design was great, but now everything had dissolved into a frenzied flurry of trying to trace all my final drawings onto a large posterboard.

I'd laid out the final poster onto the largest flat surface in our apartment: the kitchen floor. I was flinging pens, running back-and-forth to the printer, and trying not to cry (not a pride thing, I just didn't want to smudge the ink.)

At around this Five Hours 'Til landmark, I felt my brain starting to lose its grip on reality. You know when you're lying in bed, halfway asleep, and you're vaguely aware of the random-ass chaos your subconscious is churning through? I had those spinning, echoey, nonsense thoughts racing through my head even though my eyes were open-- like somebody flipping through TV channels.

Stacy, can't you see, you're just not the girl for meee

Outside, beyond the vaguely schizophrenic goings-on within my own head, my apartment was undergoing its own strange transformation. It was time for the Bug Parade.

I didn't think much of the first few little creatures that crawled across my poster. But they kept coming. And coming. Soon, there were consistently at least five insects skittering across my poster at any given moment, and I was full-on tripping out like Dumbo during that weird, drug-induced "Pink Elephants" interlude.

At "Three hours 'til" (5 AM), out lumbered The King of All The Bugs. His name was Alazar, and he was a monstrous, gleaming black beetle. He was so large that each step he took made a scratching noise on my poster paper. I was so sleep-and-Bug-Parade-stoned that his bumbling gate easily hypnotized my weakened mind; I hummed my version of "Stacy's Mom" to him and smiled admiringly at his majestic waddle.

Then he majestically waddled across the section of the poster I needed to finish, and slapped me back into reality.

"Sorry, Your Highness, you've got to go for a little ride now," I apologized, and blew at him as hard as I could.

He bounced and skittered loudly across the kitchen floor, and came to a halt below the counters under the kitchen sink. His life was about to change forever.

Within milliseconds of skidding to a stop, THE BIGGEST BLACK WIDOW I'D EVER SEEEEEEEN pounced onto Alazar, King of All The Bugs. I shrieked.

The two of them blurred into a tangle of creepy black legs as I sat, frozen in shock. One of them started making a loud clicking noise, presumably Alazar's battlecry, and I sprung into action. I sprinted into the bathroom.

Once there, I froze with the realization that I had no idea why I'd gone to the bathroom. I looked around. Somewhere in my mind, I thought a can of hairspray was a great idea.

It wasn't.

I blasted the SH*T out of our leggy friends with hairspray, and the spray separated the two bewildered bugs a few inches from each other. I grabbed the longest stick I could find (a yardstick-- thank youuu, architecture supplies close at hand), and contemplated the spider's fate.

I don't like killing things, but Venomous Vicky had to move on to the afterlife that night. Too many small children lived nearby, and I had a grim responsibility to perform. I smooshed her giant creepy body flat onto the floor, whispering "sorrysorrysorry I'mreallysorryVicky OHGOD sorrysorrysorry." Possibly the creepiest I've ever looked/sounded in my whole life, right there.

I turned my attention to Alazar. He was in a horrifyingly disgraceful state, considering his royal ranking: the sticky hairspray had attached every last thing nearby to his body, and a ruthless combination of hairs and carpet fibers had wrapped his legs tightly to his body.

Oh, the guilt.

I grabbed a piece of paper, and tried to scootch him onto it with a pencil. Being the Vicious Warrior King that he was, he grabbed the pencil with his giant beetle-y chompers and held fast. I now had a pencil with an accidentally straight-jacketed King of All The Bugs hanging from the end of it.

With another pencil, I tried to pry the fibers off of his body. They didn't budge. In fact, if I pulled any harder I was sure that I'd rip his body off of his pencil-clamping jaws.

I had to give him a bath.

I took him to the bathroom sink, and held him under the faucet. I resumed my creepy habit of whispering "sorrysorrysorrysorry YourMajestyKingAlazar sorrysorryOHGOD sorrysorry" as I tried to gently pull off his ill-fitting sweater. It wasn't working.

But this dude knew what was UP. He wasn't King of All The Bugs for nothing, amigos. He began, meticulously, this motion that I can only describe as "petting himself" underneath the tangled fibers. And slowly, it seemed that they were loosening.

I acknowledged my inferiority in bug-freeing, set him in the bottom of the sink, and left to resume my architecture work. Ten minutes later, I returned to the bathroom to check on Alazar's progress.

At the bottom of the sink was an abandoned cocoon of maroon carpet fibers, and Alazar was triumphantly trying to sprint up the slippery sink walls.

YEAH F*** YEAH, ALAZAR. Ten minutes HAS to be some kind of hairspray-and-carpet-sweater world record. I was effing PROUD. WHAT A LITTLE STUDMUFFIN.

I offered him the pencil and he wisely (?) clamped on again. I took him back into the kitchen and put him underneath the refrigerator to recover in peace and dignity.

Oh, the adrenaline. I finished my poster in the remaining 2 hours like a champ. When Jason woke up, I proudly recounted The Tale of Alazar, King of Beetles.

He looked at my bloodshot, dilated eyes. He looked down at the fridge. He looked up.

"You... didn't put him outside?"

"JASON E. MATTHEWS. This poor tormented creature was just going for his innocent nightly stroll when he got tossed about in a windstorm, attacked by Venomous Vicky, sprayed down with foul, sticky, burning, suffocating toxins, wrapped up in a straightjacket, WATERBOARDED, and trapped in a frictionless pit. We shall harbor His Highness in our food-scrap-abounding, comfortably-heated apartment for the rest of his little life. HE IS A SURVIVOR.

"Also... you might want to wear boots, or squat on a chair, from now on when you wash the dishes... when *you* wash the dishes. Vicky's relatives want revenge against me."

Shudder.

And that's why I don't really like doing dishes anymore.

Bachelorette Pad

Jason's been in Florida for a week-long Physics conference (he calls it The Big-Kid Science Fair). (I hope there are ribbons.)

Since he left, I've realized: that kid keeps me in LINE. Granted, I exhaust myself every day trying to wrangle little toddlers into something that resembles swimming lessons, but damn. I haven't washed a single dish since Saturday. I'm... building a monument to the Dish Gods?

My mom-in-law has a magnet that says, "I wish they made kitchens that flushed." Amen to THAT, SandiMama.

At least Sally the Soap seems excited about the situation!

...really, really excited.

The mysterious thing about all these dishes is that I haven't really cooked much, either. Normally I pretend like I'm some fancy pro chef and cook elaborate dinners every night, but this week?

BACON AND STRAWBERRIES, BABY.

& the only reason I put it on a plate was so that I could take a photo of it. Fine dining at its fine dining-est.

Fuel for the champion lifeguard/swim instructor. AH DO WHUT AH WAWNT.

I haven't put away a single article of clothing that I've worn. Actually, I haven't even put anything away that I took out just to consider wearing.

And who needs showers when I marinate in chlorinated water all day?

It's getting reeeeeally Klassy over here. And I have less than a day to try to clean it all up (including myself)... wish me luck.


[On Monday, I will tell the epic tale of why I'm literally afraid for my life to wash dishes in this apartment. Literally afraid for my life. There will be illustrations... you might want to get excited.]

Oh, just daydreaming about lighting things on fire

Sometimes (all the time) I daydream about designing houses. And I think,

WOULDN'T IT BE AMAZING TO HAVE A FIREPLACE IN YOUR BEDROOM?

And then I revise that thought:
Nayyy, A FIREPLACE IN THE BATHROOM. 'TWOULD SURPASS THE AFOREMENTIONED LEVEL OF AMAZINGNESS.

SWANKY AS ****.

Mmmm. Fire. Makes me daydream in caps lock.

It started in middle school, when both my unsuspecting parents had to work in the evenings. I'd grab my hidden stash of matches, make a beeline for the bathroom, and select the products with the most dire-sounding warning labels.

Then I'd spray/pour them onto the concrete patio outside and let them duke it out for the Most Impressibly Flammable Award.*

My college roomates didn't know this when they invited me to live with them sophomore year... in a house heated by nothing other than a wood stove.

One freezing, dark winter night in my beloved college home, I took it upon myself to heat the house very thoroughly before my roommates & I went to bed. I built a fire that would put a pyromaniac Boy Scout counselor to shame-- the black metal chimney above the fire took on a faint orange glow.

YAY for college students and their impulse to photographically document every moment of life (...says a blogger)

Soon everyone had changed into boxers and tank tops, and we'd plastered ourselves against the wall furthest from the blaze.

I checked the thermometer in the next room over. IT READ 98°F. IN THE NEXT ROOM OVER. It was a proud, proud moment.

And then... we looked out the window. Everything was blanketed in an unexpected coating of snow. We ran outside in our sweaty pajamas, stuffed the fresh white powder into glasses, then went back inside & added juice & colorful straws. I will never eat a better snow cone in my life.

Sometimes it pays to be a pyro.
(Sorry about the burn marks on the patio, Mama & Papa Bear.)

*(Aerosol foam shoe cleaner won, hands down. The coolest part is that it floats on water, so you can spray it into a water fountain, light it, and watch the floating flames go down the little waterfalls. Highlight of my 13-year old life.)

photo 1 • photo 2 

HURRICANE MARTHA: Part Three

First, do your homework: 

HURRICANE MARTHA: Part One 

HURRICANE MARTHA: Part Two

Well done. You may proceed:

After the four-hour calendar fiasco, I checked the clock. Only two hours until Jason would get home! Spurred on by panic, it was at this point that my conniving little brain thought of a loophole in my no-spending-money rule. We can EAT the decorations when we're done with them. Off to VEELY'S!!

Apples, pears, tomatoes, and... those tiny little decorative pumpkins are edible, right? I guess we'll find out. And, sadly, I did break down and buy $6 worth of (probably inedible) plants.

Bahhh, they're too cute for me to feel bad. Meet Fernadine and Ruffles!

(Poor babies, little do they know that I'm the Elmira Fudd of the houseplant world. I hope they at least survive until we leave.)

 
Regardless, they made Mr. Sad & Hungry Bookcase feel much better. I also gave him branches, fruit, hats & scarves, and topped it all off with the lid of the Marilyn Monroe poster that we found in the closet.

Yes, that Tabasco bottle is purposely paired with Ms. Monroe. And it looks like Ruffles agrees with the sentiment. (BAD Ruffles!! No more inappropriate photobombing!!)

Moving on, let's meet Mr. Sad & Hungry Bookcase post- surgical operation and wardrobe makeover... TA DA!!!!

Avert your eyes from the second shelf up on the right... the Marilyn Monroe puzzle is now topless.

Satisfied, I moved on to the dining room table. I decided the apartment needed a heckuva lot more clashery, so if you're prone to epilepsy, please close your eyes until I say so:

Now, scroll down. Scroll down a little more. Okay, it's gone; you can open your eyes again.

Blinding, wasn't it? I know! I'm so proud. There I stood, hypnotized by my handiwork, when --BLING!-- the arrival of email ice-dunked me back to reality. Jason was on his way home. Ten minutes, people. I still had piles of branches and miniature squash on the floor.

Fueled by rabid determination, I hurriedly arranged little Sveedish nature artifacts everywhere (carefully arranged to NOT LOOK carefully arranged). (You know how us artsy-types are.)

I stood back to survey the construction zone. Amidst all the wilderness now invading our apartment, a giant, blank white wall glared at me from above the couch. I snatched up our map of Lund and ran from room to room, slipping in my socks. How the heck could I get this to stick on the wall?! Now fully tweaked-out from desperation, I flung open the kitchen cabinets.

Oh, hello, jar of honey. You're going to help me out for just a second, okay?

 The front door opened and Jason stepped inside, expecting to see this (minus himself):

But instead, he saw...


J:      Hey, April, how was your-- whoa. One of THOSE days, huh?

A:     (nods with crazed grin)

J:      Good! Uh, wow... it's awesome! Hey, how'd you get the map to stick on the wall?

A:     atinybitofhoney SOooo, what should we do for dinner?

J:      WHAT?! (laughs nervously as though I'm kidding)

A:     ......


To make a long story short, we compromised by using itty bits of bubble gum to keep the map up. (And once I explained to him the original alternatives, he was VERY glad I had used honey instead of peanut butter.)

 Observe the Matthews-er in his new natural habitat... he LOOOVES it!

HURRICANE MARTHA: Part Two

Please read HURRICANE MARTHA: Part One, if you don't want to be confused while reading this post. And if you want extra credit points, go read about what our apartment looked like when we first moved in. 

I've already gloomily acknowledged that we can't have any IKEA sprees while living here in Sweden, since we can't take stuff back home with us. But for the love of Pete, the Hubster was decorating the apartment with t-shirts. I set out to see what I could do with our glamorous zero-million-dollar budget.

Bundled up and cheerfully roaming the streets, I soon accumulated an armful of daisies, colorful (but thorny) branches, and snowberries. I was then delighted to come across a giant 4-foot-long willow tree limb, torn off by the wind. I added it to the collection and dragged it behind me caveman-style as I headed home.

Looking back, I now realize I looked like a giant, deranged bird in a human body, manically collecting nesting material. A few passersby switched to the other side of the street as I approached. But at this point, nothing could stop the Martha in me. Especially after seeing my sweet husband's desperate attempts to "add a little color" to our apartment.

I had almost made it home when an acorn dropped to the ground in front of me. With my jacket smeared in dirt, hands bleeding from thorns, random foliage in my arms (and hair), and a frantic glint in my eye, I surveyed the ground for more "Festive Fall Adornments."

It also probably didn't help that I was humming "Santa Claus is Coming to Town." Don't ask.

Having stuffed my pockets with nuts (no, I didn't stuff my cheeks. I have to draw the line somewhere), I accepted that I couldn't carry anything else, and should probably head home before I had to explain myself to Swedish law-enforcement.

As a reminder, this is what I had to work with when I got home (minus Mr. Matthews-er, who was working hard at school and had no idea about any of this):

First, I faced that damn bookcase. The one that looks sad and hungry, for lack of possessions to display. Well guess what, Bookcase? You're the one with a problem, not us.

I did my own little version of Gastric Bypass surgery and took out half his shelves. HA!

This still left one large, open space which just screamed, "Cheesy Seasonal Display!!" So, by the power vested in me from years of watching Martha Stewart Living as a child... one Cheesy Seasonal Display coming right UP, Mr. Sad & Hungry Bookcase.


Materials:
    •    pumpkins & candles
    •    scavenged leaves & twigs
    •    appropriately color-themed book
    •    string and clothespins I found out on the patio
    •    Jason's old research papers
    •    every last drop of ink in the only pen I could find 

Time:
    •    I wasted FOUR freaking hours tearing all those pieces of paper (because I lost
         the scissors again) and tracing the words/dates onto them from my computer screen.

Cost-Benefit Analysis:
    •    NOT worth your time.

Yes, the calendar's in Sveeedish.
YES, I said "LUMOS!!" as I lit Harry's candle.
NO, they don't really celebrate Halloween here, and this probably looks insane to our neighbors.

Part Three coming tomorrow: the rest of the bookcase, & the rest of the apartment.