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.

Phone personality test

Do you ever wonder how people would judge you if they went through your phone photos? For instance, what kind of person do you think would snap pictures of:

Creepy figurines?

My favorite part is that they capitalized "Special."

Friendly pink balloons?

A very mysterious mystery girl, who appears to be so hungry that she wants to lick her dino tattoo and then eat the phone?

A dirty Easter card?!

Wait... is that a pile of...... CPR PRACTICE BABIES?

 
And then this handsome fella who appears quite concerned about the whole situation?

Yeah, I have no idea who would want to document all those 'special moments' either. Noooo idea.
(Care to share yours?)

Computer Armageddon : (

I think it's safe to say I'm having some slight technical difficulties.

Friday night, as "the Bible guranteed it," my four-year-old MacBook laptop was raptured. Literally, its little light went out. Poor old 'Pooter (short for Compooter).

Luckily, I had just bought a new iMac (desktop), and kept right on computin'.

Well, apparently both my computers are saints-- because the iMac screen just died too. I wish I were making this up. (The desktop's name was 'Pootation Station, just so you all can properly grieve/rejoice for its saved little soul.)


So until I can get this figured out, I will miss writing here, & miss commenting on your blogs too!

I guess I should go look up some porn or online poker with my phone (what I'm writing with now-- not fun) before the Almighty Motherboard in the Sky deems it worthy of salvation as well.

My leg hair's 9-month adventure

Sometime earlier this spring, I realized I hadn't shaved above my mid-shins since August. I announced this to Jason. He gave me a high-five (aaaaand that's why I married the guy).

Here's the gratuitous photo:

Kidding. Those are Jason's legs. But it's an accurate representation, other than his enviable quadriceps. Okay, if you MUST-- here's mine. Yeaaaah-heah-heah-heahhhh BABY. Pretty sure mine are even hairier than the mister's.

Oh, my little strings of keratin. You've been through a gamut of adventures since August:

You began your journey of growth whilst frolicking about Disneyworld.
You kept me as warm as a wooly mammoth in Sveeden.

You've been to recent physical therapy appointments where--SURPRISE!!-- the doctor asked me to change into shorts. Awkward.

Then you accompanied me to another appointment where the doctor put that weird therapy tape on my knee:

except way hairier

...and then you went to another doctor appointment a week later where I had to rip off the $&^% TAPE and HOLY FLAMING HELLFIRE I SWEAR I WILL NEVER TRY WAXING IN MY LIFE. I made my poor (male) doctor do it because I literally could not will myself to pull on the tape. (So for that, and just for being awesome, I'll give him a little plug here: Dr. Gervais will fix your injuries AND rip off your leg hair for you-- without even cringing at all the hair stuck to the tape.)

But this week... alas. The weather got hot and I had to run a timed 6K (3.7 miles) at my gym. Not something I wanted to do in sweatpants.

THE TIME WAS NIGH TO HARVEST ZEE CROPS.

The idea of it tortured me. My leg hair had grown on me, and I was rather attached to it (I'm SORRY, I'm SORRY, it's not even funny, but was two puns in one sentence and I just couldn't let the opportunity pass me by).

But really, amigos. I'm serious. I was sad. I stroked my fuzzy knee caps wistfully, and reminisced: I hadn't shaved my legs all fall, winter, and spring, because, dammit, shaving my legs is a completely pointless societal expectation, contrived by giant pharmaceutical companies so they can sell more razors. And it's really really boring to do. And I WILL NOT STAND FOR IT.

...that is, until I actually have to wear shorts in public. Way to walk the walk, April.

I thought of all that work those little follicles had accomplished; I'll bet they were so proud. I thought of all that protein that my bloodstream had lovingly set aside for a little decorative somethin'-somethin' for my legs. Nine looong months of tedious hair-building, gone with the effortless swipe of a razor.

* * *

Forty minutes and three decimated razors later, my fall foliage was clogging the drain and I was rushing into the gym five minutes late.

We stepped outdoors to begin the run, and I felt a strange sensation on my left thigh. A... rustling, if you will. I looked down.

I had missed a chunk. A little oasis of lingering wildlife amidst a clear-cutted massacre zone. And the rustling sensation was it gleefully blowing in the breeze.

It enjoyed the 6K run like a dog with its head out a car window (believe me, I speak fluent folliclean).

And now it's three days later... and I still haven't shaved it.
I love stories with happy endings.

Elevator Music

Happy weekend, amigos!

 [via]

I've had a fantastically busy week which has been terrible for blogging, but wonderful for, well, LIFE.

Here are a few links that have made me laugh, think, or do a double take:

• Whoa: Matthews(ers), tumblr style. Thanks, Google!
• Life's too short for the wrong job.  
• Jason watched every single one of these these little cat videos in one sitting.
• More than a little obsessed with tilt-shift photography.
• Aaand on the other end of the scale: microscopic views of everyday items. 
• One dog saves another dog's life! This brought tears to my eyes.
• Luckily for us, wildlife are curious about cameras.

And one random thought that's puzzled me this week*:

[via]

How the heck does Disney make us think one deer is a BOY deer and one deer is a GIRL deer? This fascinates me. Any ideas?
*picture me contemplating this as I stroke my silver chin hair. I named him Gandalf, FYI.

See you on Monday-- my talkative side has been bubbling up and is going to explode allll over this website next week. I have the most appealing way of phrasing things, I know.

Pest Protection: Tales of a Tiny Triage

Oh, spring break. What a marvelous vacation from the computer screen you were. Relieved my bloodshot eyes, you did. A huge backlog in blog posts I need to read, you caused. Made me talk like Yoda, you did.

So, you know those little habits you don't think much of, until you hang out with your parents and see the same quirk mirrored in an older version of yourself? Last week, I experienced yet another epiphanous moment of proof that I'm turning into my Mama & Papa Bear: we save bugs.

For as long as my memory stretches, I've rarely been able to talk my conscience into ending a tiny little life just because it annoyed me or creeped me out. (Sorry PETA, eating them is another story. Yes, I'm a hypocrite.) Eventually, it got to the point where I wasn't just letting them live-- I was going out of my way to save them. 

I think it's part of living in the country, but my parents' house has always had ants. Little tiny ants (that are actually pretty cute compared to the gnarly carpenter variety). Little tiny ants that get into everything.

The purpose of this photo was to show you that they were the cute ones, not the creepy ones. But apparently it's impossible to take a non-creepy photo of an ant. So I tried to show you how cute and tiny they are with that little zoom-out, but it isn't working. I can feel your judging eyes.

Holy long photo caption, Batman. So anyway-- in the high school years, I once left a jar of honey open on the counter at my parents' house. And of course, I returned an hour later, horrified to find dozens of tiny little ants writhing helplessly in the jar's golden death bait (yes, my inner dialogue is always this dramatic).

It was my fault, clearly, for leaving it open. I grabbed a plastic fork, and snapped off all but one tong. Dipping the point into the honey, I pulled up one of the victims, holding it close to my face to assess its welfare.

Assessment: not good. Pulling it out of the honey had further entangled its limbs in the viscous bee-barf, and its tiny antennae were flailing in panic (because I know how to interpret antennae movements, yes).

I transferred the honey-and-ant conglomeration onto a napkin, set the faucet on a slow dribble, and rinsed the honey off the ant, hoping it could hold its breath. I set the tortured insect on a second, dry napkin, and watched it instantly soak all the water off the ant. He scurried off in a frantic zig-zag. Success.

[Repeat for forty-five minutes, or until all helpless little anty-lives have been spared.]

When I moved off to college, there weren't as many ants, much to the relief of my over-active conscience-- but there was a Jason. And it took months to convince him to let me take the spiders, ants, and flies outside instead of him killing them, but I did it. 

Fast-forward to last week, while visiting my dad's house over spring break: We went out to dinner, and somehow a stowaway ant made it onto the table in front of my dad. He let it climb onto a napkin, and pondered out loud if the restaurant would make a happy home for it. 

Lots of food? Plus. Lots of cleaning with bleach? Uh-huh. Not ideal in a happy ant home. And with a quick shake of his wrist, he flicked the ant off of the napkin onto his lap. 

To take it "back home."

One of the funniest things I've ever seen? Yes. One of the most ridiculous things? Especially yes. 
But also? One of the sweetest things I've ever seen. What can I say? I'm glad to be turning into my parents.

Battle of the Fonts

Pros of graduating with a degree in a design-oriented field:

• Your resumes, cover letters, and other employment paraphernalia have a decent chance at being really pretty.

Cons:

• You've developed a nervous tic which manifests itself in perfectionistic over-design mania.

Or, in other words, a five-hour long tic deciding what font to set my resume/cover letter in.

After the first full hour of staring at little letters, I gave up and got on the fbook resourcefully consulted my peers:

And it goes on for 21 comments. I love it when the geeks come out to play.


The following represents an incredibly abbreviated account of my struggles, once I hunkered back down into the world of productivity:

(Look out, world, I discovered how to embed animated .GIF files into cover letters.)

Elevator music

It's been a busy week for me in terms of job-hunting (this is a good thing! I'm patting myself on the back!), but that doesn't mean I'm not going to skip out on giving you, dear readers, some major distraction from whatever else you were doing before you decided to visit.

First of all, prepare to never look at a plastic bag the same way again. (Note that this is voiced by Scar, which makes it all the more credible:)



Oh, yes. That really just happened.

• Another cute little guy that I want to watch over & over & over (the first "cute little guy" being the bumbling little plastic bag, of course).

Also:

• When former spelling-bee geeks grow up to be activists.
• And what they do in their spare time.
• And what they really, really want for their birthday which happens to be coming up in 36 days ; )

{via}

Furthermore:

• Say goodbye to the next five minutes, at least. (Hint: hit your "refresh page" button to clear checked boxes.)
• Instant daily karma.
• And some awww factor (aside from the plastic bag & frisky fox.)

(P.S. Cross your fingers for me!! I'm really looking forward to rockin' the cubicle life-- not even kidding.)

Guacamole in a Jar

It's been bothering my OCD that I have more blog posts tagged under "FOOD" than anything else, yet have never actually shared any recipes. (Kinda came close during "Operation Thanksgiving" in Sweden, but then I got sidetracked by talking about cannibalistic crows instead).

On that note: 

Guacamole in a Jar

All you really need is:

• 1 leftover glass pasta sauce jar* & an electric mixer
• 1 semi-smooshy avocado, cut into 1" cubes, or 1/40ths (sorry, blame the Matthews-er in me)
• salt & pepper
• 2 tbs (at least) of lime juice-- fresh, or from a bottle, OR you can also substitute lemon juice & it will still be awesome.

But here's some optional awesomeness:

• 1/4 red onion, diced (you can use other varieties, but red onion just tastes more Mexican to me. Awkward but true.)
• finely diced jalapeño
• chopped cilantro (I just grab a bunch in my hand and hack at it with scissors) (...the cilantro, I mean)
• OR: a couple spoonfuls of salsa because somebody already cut all the stuff up for you.

*Why a jar? We wash & save jars to store all our leftovers in. It's cheaper than tupperware, won't melt in the microwave, won't stain/absorb weird smells, and is probably healthier than plastic. This habit led to just making guacamole right in the jar, because doing dishes sucks.

1. Put everything in the jar.

2. Put one beater on the mixer, & beat away.  

Revolutionary!! HAHAHA. Ha. Haha. So punny.

3. I was going to say, "Don't forget to lick the beater," but it's just too awkward when it's part of something's face and makes you think of horrible, horrible conjunctivitis.

( Herman is special, he only needed one sticker.)

4. Spoon onto burritos, oh heck YES.

5. Hopefully, you saved the lid from that jar. Screw it on & stick the leftovers in the fridge!

...If there are leftovers.

Adding a little 'life' to the place

We got some nifty waterproof stickers for Christmas, and I decided to leave Jason a few little surprises around the house.

Because, really, the crock pot definitely needed to express its inner demented koala.

And Sally the Soap is now free to be her bubbly self.

Hank the milk jug... is Hank the milk jug.

"Who is this man, and why is he so willing to stick his finger there when his wife asks? Is it because all my stickers are on the camera side?"

(Hilarious that Jason already has one bandaged finger...)

Guests will be happy to find that the toilet is eager to accept your offerings.

Jason walked into the bathroom as I was affixing the toilet's face, and chuckled to himself while he picked up his electric razor.   "Too bad you can't put stickers on this, since the bottom gets wet."

"Turn it over, Jay...

..Meet Slim."

Signed, Sealed, Delivered

Repeat to self:

...this is not a craft blog, this is not a craft blog...
aw, hell. Sure it is. It just also happens to be a travel blog and cooking blog and photography blog and a blargy-blog (I'll let you decide the appropriate link for that one).

The reason that everybody should come live in Eugene is that the University bookstore sells paper. Glooorious paper.

Paper that should, theoretically, make homemade Christmas cards a cinch... unless you have a brain hellbent on over-complicating projects until you end up spending many a late night tearing your hair out over them crafting them with loving care. (It really was a bit of both-- story of my life.)

Tada:

[click on any of the pictures to zooOOm]

Most of the birdies said this...

Until I realized that I had these stickers, and decided that the birdies had definitely been bug-eyed partridges all along.

'I freaking LOVE PEARS'

Half the time I was chuckling to myself over these crazy birds.

I found the perfect little elvish font...

And ALLLMOST forgot to blur out the addresses before posting. Eek.

....And drew a little squirrel using its tail as a blanket. Looks like Santa visited, too!
Cute overload.

So: if you didn't get one this year, I either have the wrong address for you, or no address at all. If you want one next year, email me at mrs.matthewser@gmail.com so we can exchange addresses!

Elevator Music

Here, let this smiling baby goat via thatcutesite distract you from my blatant blog abandonment.

The weather was way too gorgeous today for me to be blah-blah-blahging. Rain is forecasted tomorrow though, so perhaps we shall have some storytime then!
For now, let me shoo you along to these other, more interesting websites:

You're not the only one who wants to KILL your printer.

Thanks to clicking on Sveedish facebook ads, I now know what I'm wearing on the airplane ride home. ►

Christmas sweaters for Jason & April.

More 'Trekky stuff.

Only a small snippet of the funniest TV show ever to grace the internets: What happens when you try to get Abed to talk to a new girl. Then this. (From NBC's Community.)

Jamaican Poodle!

Also, how to tell if your dog is retarded.

Ever feel the need to be obnoxiously cheerful? Lay this one on 'em.

¡Happy Saturday, mis amigos!

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.