• sock curls: our latest infatuation

    It all started when I discovered (via Cup of Jo) the mountains of how-to girl hairstyle videos. We watched several videos in quick succession, the kids clustered around me at the desk, and then we set up shop: brushes, bobby pins, water spray bottle, bands, and socks.

    I did a crown braid on my younger daughter. It wasn’t perfect, but it was pretty darn good (and shockingly simple, too). The hair bow braid was a bit trickier—I made a few errors and didn’t finish it through to the end, but the concept made perfect sense (and for this hair styling-challenged mama, that’s saying a lot). But it was the sock curls that were the most exciting.

    Just roll the hair up in socks, knot, and sleep. In the morning, unknot, tousle the hair at the roots to loosen the curls, and that’s it.

    Socks removed and before the curl shake-out.

    It didn’t work as well for my older daughter. Her hair is really thick and heavy, and it’s layered so it keeps slipping out of the knots. I probably should buy some type of curl-set-spray thing to put in her hair before rolling it up.

    Ignore the stricken face. She’s faking it.

    However, the sock curl method works perfectly for my younger daughter’s thin, naturally wavy hair.

    As the day wears on, the bouncy curls relax into soft ringlets that make me slightly jealous.

  • the quotidian (11.18.13)

    Quotidian: daily, usual or customary;
    everyday; ordinary; commonplace



    Cabbage: ready for braising.
    Look who visited us!

    Look what she brought us! 
    (When she heard that we (enlightened husband not included) didn’t know about the Waltons,
    and that I—oh horrors!—had never even seen the show, she took matters
    into her own hands and gave us her entire collection.) 
    Sleeping bags: the solution for when you are banished to the cold outdoors 
    before the winter clothes have been brought down from the attic.

    The Are Teeeeast.

    Washing the dishes. 
    (Kind of.)

    A neighborly gift of fresh venison and a tableful of work. 
    My older daughter was thrilled (no joke) to grab a knife and plunge right in.
    (She has a consistent and passionate love for animals, both dead and alive.) 

    Team effort: the shoeshine boys and my boots.
    Not a good night’s sleep. 
    Five police cars with retina-stabbing flashing lights.  
    They sat there quietly, flashily, for four (four!) hours. 
    (Something about a robbery and manhunt, we later learned.)
  • lessons from a shopping trip

    *The best, most-thoughtful shopping lists are worthless if left at home.

    *Searching for brown socks is futile and makes me angry. Just stay home and shop Amazon.

    *Mannequins are scary. The nasty things repeatedly jolted me out of my deep, outfit-pondering trances. Do retailers realize that filling their store with lots of lurking, icy, plastic women might be counterproductive?

    *Layering clothes, while attractive, means double the money. Can’t do it.

    *Trying on frames for new glasses = a study in all my insecurities, because a) I can’t tell the women’s frames from the men’s, b) I have no idea what looks good on my face, c) I’d like to be big, bad, and bold and go for something huge and expressive but haven’t the nerve, which means that, d) I’m stylishly mediocre, the (re)realization of which makes me, e) depressed.

    *Upon arriving home at 3 pm, battered and lunchless, the solution is simple. First, a peanut butter apple, snarfed. Second, a hard pretzel with slices of smoked Gouda. Third, a cup of coffee with whipped cream, a mini Heath bar, and the newest Bon Appetit.

    The photo has nothing to do with the post, except to serve as
    an example of the exact opposite of how I feel post shopping.