"Sometimes there's poetry written right on the bathroom wall.” - Ani DiFranco

I have been recently very annoyed by the stark white walls of my upstairs bathroom. The entire room – bath surround, sink, floor, up to about waist-high on the walls – is covered in vibrant Pepto-Bismol pink tile. So when I painted the ceiling and upper walls, I chose a fairly bright white semi-gloss. The ceiling is about nine feet high, though, and the upper walls and ceiling comprise a lot of wasted space.

I recently bought brackets to put up shelves over the floor cabinet that holds washcloths and handtowels, the apothecary jars of Q-tips and cotton balls, my bath salt collection, and other assorted bathroom junk. I hung the photos of the boys in the bathtub on the wall opposite the tub, over the two towel racks. I have a lovely little etched-glass and mirrored medicine cabinet over the sink, and some botanical prints in weathered green-painted frames for the awkward corner wall, right over the chrome bar for the hand towel currently in use.

BUT I have a giant expanse of high white wall behind the toilet.
It needs some artwork.
OR SOMETHING.

I looked into ordering vintage soap ad posters, but decided that was too cutesy. Especially in a Pepto-Bismol pink bathroom.

I can’t have the boys draw me something because I already have their crayoned schematics of my kitchen framed and hanging on the kitchen walls, and fingerpaintings hanging in the front hall over their coat hooks. Too much of a good thing and all...

I am not interested in generic pastel paintings of flora, fauna, and fields, and the posters from Carnevale in Venice in '95 and my repro of Marc Chagall’s Paris opera house ceiling are already displayed in my living room and upstairs hallway.

So I turn to my Internet friends, like I do in times of doubt and trouble.

I spent a peaceful hour the other morning sipping tea and shuffling through dear Suse’s lovely photos on Flickr. (It was almost as good as actually having coffee with her – almost.) I was entranced by her seemingly effortless and evocative shots of everyday items – she makes the ordinary so lovely: a stack of vibrantly dyed washcloths, a round basket with soaps in it, that resembled a little bird’s nest, a translucent amber bar of Pears soap.

I fell in love with a photo of her armchair by the fireplace, piled round with books and school papers, which I want to hang in my bedroom because looking at it makes me feel cozy and warm and relaxed, much like I imagine I'd feel in her house.

And so I emailed her: why don’t you have more photos of your bathroom?

Her mudbrick house is so cozy and charming, and she has such a way with little touchs of handmade beauty – her soft stuffed Christmas trees, her knitted gnomes, her nature table. I will bet her bathroom is definitely photo-worthy. Or at least some of the bathroom-type stuff in her bathroom is photo-worthy, and would look simply fabulous enlarged just a bit, framed in a simple frame, and hung on MY bathroom wall by way of decoration.

I think I need about three more bathroom-type shots, Suse, to accompany the soap, the basket, and the flannels.

Could you get right on that?

Thanks, dear!

"Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails, that's what little boys are made of."

I. Cannot. Take. The. Noise. Level. In. My. House. One. More. Minute.

In his infinite wisdom, H bought the boys Styrofoam pool noodles and they (the boys, not the noodles) are running in and out of their bedroom, conscientiously slamming the door each time in order to keep the cool air in (“Do you think I am air-conditioning the entire house?!”), whapping each other with the noodles.
I know a baby’s laughter is supposed to be a heartwarming and joyous sound, but when Terzo laughs so hard he is shrieking and breathless, it always, ALWAYS means that havoc has ensued. Markers have been wielded, or diapers pulled off, or children are leaping about the living room, from couch to piano to coffee table without touching the floor, inviting cracked skulls, broken bones, and blood.

My nerves can’t take much more of this. How long before school begins?

*

I spent several hours today shopping for new bed pillows for the boys, and buying hair for Mimi (yes, I will definitely post photos, fear not), and making fitted sheets from flat because God forbid the two boys alternate a set of Pokemon sheets (brand new, given to me by my boss, and unattainable on EBay without much bidding and gnashing of teeth – I am such an EBay wuss). I head to Target, or much more likely the thrift shop, tomorrow to buy solid-colored flat sheets, and solid pillowcases (one of which will be split along with the one Pokemon case and turned into two one-sided Pokemon cases. And then the boys can argue over who gets the pillow with Ash and who gets the one with Pikachu.)

Meanwhile, I am calling yet more concrete people to see about putting steps into our retaining wall - the project that is holding up the fencing, the mulching, the shed, the rebuilding of the back porch, and new porch steps....in short, just about every outside plan we have.

And I suddenly have a yen to put up bamboo shades in my bedroom. Because the filmy cream linen drapes are very pretty but do damn all to keep the morning sun from baking me alive. And I have this theory about nice heavy velvety drapes in the winter reducing the draft...Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to Target I go...

*

Conveniently, fortuitously, the brand-new Half Price Books is two stores away from Bed Bath and Beyond.
It was insanely crowded, but I managed to find a way to spend some money anyway. It definitely merits a return visit some nice quiet weekday afternoon, although the North Hills HFB is still the best in my humble opinion.

I got for Seg Dorling Kindersley’s Titanic book; coincidentally enough, I had just ordered online this morning Robert Ballard’s Exploring the Titanic, a book mentioned as a major hit with her first grade classes by the funny, witty, and lovably quirky Bailey White, in Mama Makes Up Her Mind, and other hazards of southern living.

I picked that volume off my TBR shelves last night because H and I had had a huge fight and I needed comfort reading; it seemed like it would fit the bill and indeed it did. It was light enough to make me feel better, but not frothy enough to make me feel as if I were wasting my time completely. There was only one wee little thing that marred the experience: in one of the first stories, Ms White explains that her father went off on an archaeological expedition, leaving her mother home alone with several small children. As a sort of consolation prize, the leader of the expedition gave Mama his grandfather’s telescope. Through the years (the father returned and then left again, permanently this time), Mama spent long evenings looking at the skies and the fields and forest surrounding their farm with that telescope. Especially as she grew older, feebler, and increasingly immobile, the telescope allowed her to remain involved in life outside her house. Unfortunately, on his deathbed, the expedition leader desired his grandfather’s telescope, and over her family’s protestations (“What’s he going to do with it, he’s DYING?!”), Mama carefully packed it up and sent it back to him. Shortly thereafter, she received as a premium from some public radio station a pair of cheap plastic binoculars, which took the place of her beloved telescope. They were not nearly so powerful or effective, but she continued to use them. The story winds up with Mama using those cheap binoculars at their vacation home, and a kindhearted marine biologist taking pity on the frail old woman and taking her out on the boat so she can see what’s really going on.

But the entire last half of the chapter, I screamed internally (because everyone else here was asleep), "Buy your poor old mother a new telescope, you cheap-ass ungrateful children!" I mean, I KNOW that would have ruined the story. I KNOW that would have derailed Ms White’s point that Mama made do and was a scrappy and self-sufficient woman, even as an old lady. (And I KNOW (or at least I hope to God) that that it is just a good story and really they went out and bought her a telescope akin to the Hubble.) But throw your readers a bone and buy your mom a telescope, it’ll be the best couple hundred bucks you ever spend.

But I digress.

You all want to know what I bought, of course you do. For Seg, the Titanic book [a whopping $8], and for Primo, two Encyclopedia Browns (Shows the Way & Takes the Cake) [$2/each] and a Matt Christopher hockey book [also $2] that he hadn’t read yet (the number shrinks ever smaller).

For me (because it’s ALL ABOUT ME and *I* didn’t get new Pokemon sheets):

Under the Banner of Heaven - Jon Krakauer. [$1] I love Krakauer’s writing, it’s his only book I have not yet read, and it was on the clearance racks for a dollar.

The Enchanted Castle - E. Nesbit. [$2] I thought I might read this with the boys. Also, Paddington Abroad [$1], since the first Paddington book was such a rollicking success. (They make me hungry, those Paddington books. It's all the marmalade and jam-and-cream buns that bear devours.)

A strange little book called Lobster Moths [$1] written and illustrated by Diane Redfield Massie. No idea about the story, but the line drawing illustrations were so charming that I figured for a buck I could take a chance.

Being Dead - Jim Crace. [$2] Jim Crace is one of those authors whom I want to love. But since I have never actually read any of his books, so therefore I have no idea if I do. I have had Quarantine, his novel about Jesus’ forty days in the wilderness, sitting on my shelves for several years now, and I am dying to read his newest, The Pesthouse, because it’s firmly set in the post-apocalyptic genre that is so popular these days, and according to Amazon, is "less crushing than Cormac McCarthy’s The Road." (Well, that’s a fucking relief. I am not sure what could possibly be MORE crushing than The Road, but that’s just me.) Crace seems to be a tad on the weird side – this book is about a dead couple. Being dead. Per the title. I’ll let you know how it goes.

The Haunting of Hill House - Shirley Jackson. [$1] Although it’s only called The Haunting (I am promised on the front cover that the text is unchanged), due to the fact that at some point someone made a movie out of it. (Starring Catherine Zeta-Jones and Liam Neeson, among others. Huh.)

So all in all a successful afternoon. Although, did I then pick up one of my new books to read? Of course not. They will live on my shelves until their time is ripe. I am finishing up Doomsday Book, and I have two library books, Pledged; The secret life of sororities by Alexandra Robbins and Plain Secrets: An outsider among the Amish by Joe Mackell, demanding my immediate attention. But I pulled The Obituary Writer by Porter Shreve off my TBR shelves this afternoon (because Doomsday Book was ALL THE WAY DOWNSTAIRS) and am about fifty pages into that.

So, you know, at least I have a plan.