Tag Archive: pictures


So, I had big plans for this week because I had, like, three consecutive days off from work.  I had biiiiig plans. I was gonna vacuum. And do all my laundry. And actually get ahead in all three of my classes this semester.  I was going to catch up on all of the TV shows I haven’t had time to watch (because I spend all my time either listening to Harry Potter or watching it on DVD (and blu-ray)). I was going to color-code my planner for the next month and really just bask in the glory of all of this Me-Time.

As I previously mentioned, I had some unexpected and extreme neck pain pop up and leave me completely useless.  I wish I could have snapped a pic of what a pathetic baby I looked like, all crooked and in pain.  I would have shared it with you so you could all laugh at me and feel sorry for me.  Because, dude, the pain was so bad. I mean, I wouldn’t liken it to childbirth or anything but it was far more than just a regular crick in the neck.  I mean, this is Day Three of this type of trauma to my body and I just… couldn’t stand it anymore.

After waking up nearly every hour (EVERY HOUR!!) last night because my neck wouldn’t stop hurting let alone allow me to find a comfortable way to sleep, and after finally popping 600mg more of Motrin at 4am, I resigned myself to the fact that I just was going to be tired for the rest of my life.  Finally, at about 7:15, I heard Chiefy Poo getting yelled at.  This was interesting because Mr. Poo Poo Face never gets yelled at.  He just doesn’t get in trouble.  He’s Mama’s little angel and Tam just fawns over him.  It’s almost ridiculous.  But sure enough, this morning, I heard Tam yelling at Poor Baby Chiefy.

“No! Chief! No! You come here! RIGHT NOW!”

I did some weird, highly attractive roll/flop out of my bed and made my way towards the stairs to head upstairs.  But then I turned around to put some pants on. And then I went upstairs to see what Chief had done.  I found him sitting by the front door with his perfect, sad puppy eyes looking up at me and his feet a curious shade of dark brown.  This is interesting because Chiefy is a lovely golden blonde color.

That was about the time Tam pointed to a hole in our yard that was not there yesterday.

I laughed and then grabbed my neck in pain and asked her if she had gotten the very important email I had sent her yesterday.

Lately, I have taken to sending emails to Tam at work with silly words in the subject line, such as “Urgent” or “Very Important” or even “Please Read Immediately!” and then there is a solitary picture of Chief doing something adorable.

For example:

Subject: Important Info.

Chiefy loves his toys!!

And that’s it. That’s all that I put in the emails. Bahahaha She never emails me back.

Yesterday, though, I sent an email where I displayed my true colors.

Subject: Urgent!!!! HIGH PRIORITY!!

Chiefy has been naughty.  He tried to dig up a plant outside my room!

She didn’t email me back.

Obviously, I’m a tattle tail.  But, like, Chief must view me as his equal, and therefore discredit my ability to scold him.  When I asked him just what the fuck he thought he was doing when I interrupted him digging on the dirt off to the side of my patio, he just kinda looked at me like excuse me, you’re interrupting my fun. I guess I’ll just go over here and bark at some geese and then run around the backyard like a maniac. 

So I just said, fine, but I’m telling Mom. And you’re gonna be in big trouble. Or, at the very least, going to miss out on a treat later.

Tam apparently saw the email but quickly forgot about it.  Because she baby’d him the normal amount she always does, so she clearly didn’t mind that the backyard is a mess because this dog likes to dig.

He’s so naughty.

But I love him anyway. In fact, I came up with a new nickname for him today: Chef Salad. I’ll see how it works.

Oh wait. Uhm….

My point was, originally, that I haven’t done all the shit I originally set out to do this week, but my original idea to post kind of got away from me because I got to talking about Chief.  The good news is that I finally went and saw a doctor this morning, so I’m on a strict regimen of Motrin and prednisone for my acute muscle spasm in my neck.  And the lady doctor told me that it’s likely that I carry my stress in my neck- something of which I was already aware.

I’ve finally done something cool.

For once in my life, I have engaged myself into a trend that is actually cool.

For once in my life, I have done something cool to my hair.

And putting sun-in in my hair in sixth grade with a girl from school and getting grounded for doing so does not count.

There’s this new craze that’s all about feather extensions.

I’ve been hearing about it for at least a couple months now and I finally decided to be brave and get some feathers stuck all up in my boring brown hair.  Now, I’m fine, fresh and fierce with my fancy flying feathers.  Oh em gee, that was probably one of my most successful almost-alliterations.  That was a fuck-ton of f’s up in that sentence.

Also, the birds in my backyard and I have something in common now, so that’s pretty sweet.  I’m sure it’s not long before I sprout some wings and fly far, far away from here.  I’ll fly all the way to Hogwarts and become friends with the post owls in the owlery and if Hogwarts won’t take me I can fall back on being a post-owl/weird flying girl with feathers in her hair.  Clearly I have my life all figured out.

Anyway, it took like three whole seconds for Wen to put the little metal bead/clipy-thing onto my hair and to seal it with the three feathers I picked.  Picking my feathers was the thing that took the most time.  In fact, I changed my mind like 4 times.  I was originally going to be a pansy-ass scaredy cat and get all brown tones but then I was like, wait, you should get a light colored one so it’ll at least show uppppp. But then I saw a black and white one and was like Dude, that is MINE.  And it was Wen who told me I needed to have the purple one because that way I have something fun, awesome and colorful but it’s not so overpowering and it still will blend in a little bit.

So, yeah, I ended up choosing a black and white feather, a two-tone brown one, and a purple and black one.  As you can (kinda) see here: I took a picture to show you how it’s clipped in my hair.  I should note that I got all three of my feathers clipped in the same metal clip thing, but Wen really tried to get me to put each feather in separately all over the place.  I was much too chicken-shit to actually do that, so I clipped them together in the same place, somewhere it would show when I pin my “bangs” back.  It goes in this metal bead type of thing, and it holds the feathers and a tiny, tiny section of hair and then gets tightened so it can’t move.

See?

You can hardly tell!

It’s super cool!

The other thing that’s cool about these feather extensions is that they’re supposedly super low maintenance.  I can wash my hair just like normal, and blowdry and flat iron the shit out of my hair like I normally do.  They curl right along with the rest of my hair, too; I tried it out today.  Wen and what’s-her-face who owns the salon I popped into today to have them done told me that they last for a really long time also.  The lady who owns the salon had two in and she’s been wearing them for six or seven weeks and they looked fab.  So, if and when I’m ready for them to come out, I’ll just pop back in and they’ll take my feathers out for me.

Except, fat chance because if I lose my feathers there goes my plan of flying away to Hogwarts and my future as a post-owl.

Here’s what they look like when I don’t do shit to my hair:

Ps. How awkward is this pic of me?! Lolz

Peach out, lovers.

Today, my friends, at Adventures from Grandma’s Attic, I am gonna show you how to make a homemade card.

We’re doing this because

  1. It’s my blog.
  2. What I say goes
  3. I had to make a card for work
  4. I didn’t know what else to blog about, so I took the opportunity while I had it

So, the Powers That Be at my place of employment decided that tomorrow, Friday, April 1, should be a Support Our Troops kind of day. Community day for the Armed Forces, the memo said. And, since I tend to:

a.)    be the co-chair of goodwill and all things creative and artsy (despite my lack of actual talent) OR

b.)    the ambassador of coloring during work hours/for actual work purposes

the honor of creating the actual card to send out to the troops was bestowed upon me.

Not that I’m complaining.

So, without further ado, here we go….!

First, this is all the stuff I used:

I want to note that I made all of my cut outs by using my Cricut.  I didn’t include a picture of me using my cricut because it’s a huge ordeal, and because I did all of my cutting last night and didn’t think to take pictures. Basically, I love my cricut and it really improved the quality of my scrapbooking pages (and has come in handy for other craft projects). I can’t imagine going back to the days of not being able to use one.  It’s an amazing tool.

Next, I loaded up my letters and stuck them in my sticker maker.  I have the 2.5 inch sticker maker by XYRON. The 5 inch and the 1.5 inch sticker makers are really nice, too, though and would work just as well. I load all of my letters on at one time to save time and not waste any adhesive.

This is what the front of the card looked like after I put all my letter stickers on.  It still looked a little sparse, so I did this next:

I gathered my star and firework cutouts.

I loaded them into the sticker maker.

This is what spits out after they’ve become stickers.

After I placed my star cut-outs on the front of the card, this is what happened:

Look how cute that is!!

Note: I kind of stole this from the internet.  I was trying to think of something cute and nice to put on said card, so I googled something like “support our troops homemade card ideas” and found something similar to this. This is the link to the website I found, and it had a lot of cute cards.

It was time to work on the inside once the front was complete.

I used my roll-on adhesive to line one side of my cut-out.  This red border was going to outline my text.

I stuck it down in the middle of the card.

If I wanted to get really fancy, I could have cut out more letters or found some fancy font to copy but I just used my own handwriting to write the message on the inside.  I thought it looked a little jank without a little pizzazz, so I added my leftover stars to spruce it up a bit.

Then I called it good.

The girls at work and I will sign it tomorrow and send it off to bring a little cheer to our troops, wherever they may be.

🙂

There is no other day that I wish more than anything that I was still in college than on St. Patrick’s Day.

I mean, most days I wish I was still in college, and I think it’s retarded that we were all dying to graduate when we were already in the part of our lives that truly is the best part. Even more retarded is that I didn’t drag out my time in college longer than the four years I was already there.

I mean, where else is it completely acceptable to literally drink all day?  I don’t just mean day drinking, tailgate style.  I mean waking up and pounding a jello shot or two and head to work only to get out at noon and immediately start drinking to catch up to where everyone else is.

A household divided: pepsi vs coke. What’s your pref??

One very important concept I learned in college is playing catch-up. Don’t do it.  Poor. Life. Choice.

Luckily, I had really good friends who reminded me to slow the fuck down and pace myself. A good friend and roommate who looked out for me and made me pb&j sandwiches (on more occasions than one) so I would have consumed something other than caffeine and alcohol when we started drinking.

Lunch of champions/functioning alcoholics!

It’s not appropriate for me to spend the entire day wasted, take a nap at 6pm and wake up an hour later to continue consuming more alcohol than is recommended by the government.  It’s not appropriate to continually lose misplace my ID and debit card only to find it in a different pair of jeans because I had forgotten I had changed pants at the last minute (I would). It’s not appropriate to drunkenly sext frat boys. Nor is it appropriate to try to steal some poor man’s golden retriever (Erica! Okay, it was mostly me.).

Oh, Mandy…!

It’s not appropriate to disappear for extended periods of time with said frat boy under the guise of “washing my hands.” It didn’t matter that Erica knew I wasn’t washing my hands.  No one washes their hands that often, or for more than 20 seconds. Or for, like, 40 minutes at a time.

Whatever.  I never said I was a good liar.

None of that is appropriate.  Anymore.

Because I’m not in college. Anymore.

Because I’m old.

I hope everyone had a safe and very happy St. Patrick’s Day!

I spent mine lunching with a member of the tripod, shopping for new makeup, hitting up the library, doing homework and now I’m going to a Sugarland Concert!

Not too shabby! 🙂

All I wanted to do was sneak by Stella and try to use food against her; a form of trickery used to entice her into interacting with Chief.

She was hovering at the inside staircase and, not wanting to disturb her, I thought I’d ninja my way downstairs using the other set of stairs. Only, when I tried to go in the garage and have Chiefy follow me (so Tam could talk Stella into coming into the kitchen), Chiefy wouldn’t come with me. He hovered at the top step and stopped. He gave me a look that said, “No fucking way, crazy lady.”

It was only when I saw the following when I realized that he was really saying “Kate, something is not right. There is a critter in my food bin. And it looks like it might want to kill you.”

Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod!!!

I hopped back into the house and tried to catch my breath.

There’s a fucking possum in Chief’s food! A POSSUM!! Oh my god, Mom, what do we do?!

Remember that time I talked about how I do not possess grace under fire? Yeahhhhh.

My first instinct was to find the camera while Tam poked her head out the door, armed with the swiffer. “Oy!” she yelled and then slammed the door.

I burst into laughter while she walked back into the kitchen, trying to think of what to do.

Oy? That’s your go-to?! I don’t think possums speak Yiddish!

I could not stop laughing.

But then we got serious: What the fuck do we do?!

I was against calling animal/critter control because I am under the assumption that they come to get the animal and then kill it. I swear to the heavens that the “technician” would just tell me they weren’t going to kill it but once they take it away, they totally do kill it. That’s not okay with me. I may not want it in my dog’s food bin and so close to the entrance to my home, but I do want it to be able to find its babies and significant other and live a long, healthy life in the wild.

I’m that person that cried when I ran over a squirrel on accident. I shooed a giant-ass spider out of my room and into the cool October air using a page I ripped out of Cosmo magazine because I couldn’t bring myself to kill it. I just can’t do it. I can’t bear the thought of that little so-ugly-it’s-cute creature being put to death just because it was hunting for food.

That’s like killing Aladdin.

Not everyone can be so lucky as to marry a princess in Agrabah.

So, Tam called our old neighbor, a close family friend who came to the rescue all the other times we had weird animal issues. You know, like that time we came home from London the first time to find a duck was trapped in our chimney. We tried her first suggestion: make a lot of noise. Tam banged some pots and pans together while I let Nikki talk me into contacting Animal Control because she told me that her husband said Animal Control doesn’t kill the animals they capture.

The local office was closed and the lady answering the 1-800 number calls wanted to take my information to have a “technician” call me in the morning. I was like, “Uhm, lady, I don’t want this possum in my garage with my dog’s food all night long. I’ll figure something else out. I’ll just wing it. Thanks anyway.”

I poked my head out one more time.

This little critter had to go.

That’s when shit got real.

We both put boots on, zipped ourselves into our coats and found the thickest gloves we could find.  Tam, armed with a broom this time, tried to ninja herself past the possum and sneak attack by putting the lid to the food bin back on.  It didn’t work out as planned.  I stood, like a pansy, at the door, narrating the possum’s thoughts out loud. You know, like that’s really helpful. But when the possum showed his scary teeth and started hissing, I shut the door and whined. I opened the door again and watched as Tam tried again to put the top on.

Success!!

With the lid safely on the bin, we could begin the move down the driveway. We carried the bin filled with dog food and possum all the way down the driveway and across the street, to a nice snow bank near a bundle of trees.  The plan was that we would dump the food and the possum out of the bin and then run back towards the house.  Things went according to plan in the sense that I ran like hell through the puddles of melted snow back to the house. But I realized that Tam was still back there, with the bin of food, the snow bank and the possum.  A moment later, I saw her walking towards me with the empty bin in hand.  She had surrendered the lid and the scoop used to measure Chief’s food to the possum.

We’re gonna go see if the possum has decided to give us the lid back.

Wish us luck!

You know, guys, there are just some days when the creative juices just don’t flow.

There are days that I really struggle to think of something- anything!- to tell you.

No absurd happenings during the day, no embarrassing memories to share, no off-topic rants to speak of.

I got nothin’ today.

Not a one.

So, today, in my state of fail, I give you this:

This gets me every time!

I can’t even decide which one is funnier!!

Ohhhh, lordy, that’s good.

…..

Uhhhh, yeah, if this didn’t make you laugh (or smile- AT LEAST!) then you have no soul.

And, uh, I promise that I will suck less on Sunday.

See you then, fuckers!

Our family got a very special early Christmas present.

His name is Chief. He’s 17 months old and approximately 85 pounds. He is large.

We adopted him.

Look at that face!!

He is precious.

Chief enjoys being outside. He loves the snow: eating it and rolling in it. He also has taken a great liking to the screened in porch and roaming the deck. I now refer to the screened in porch as his “play pen.” We also had to buy a new baby-gate so he doesn’t get all crazy all over the entire house when we are gone and at work.

Now’s as good a time as any to mention that Stella is not pleased. Chiefy-poo tried to climb under my mom’s bed last night just minutes after we brought him home to introduce himself to her, but she was pissed. Stella hissed at him, a lot. Then Mom got worried that he would get stuck under the bed so she called him out from under there and distracted him with a red toy with a bell in it.

After he eats, he gets a little gassy. He burps a lot, and loudly. I giggle every time.

He is heavy on his feet. When he walks, it’s always a clomp clomp clomp clomp everywhere he goes. This might annoy me if he weren’t so damn cute. And funny. He also makes a loud crash when he lays down. He just drops. It’s outrageous. I love it.

My mom took him for a walk this morning down the road to see the cows. Chief was not sure what to make of the cows.

We are still learning about each other, but I can tell you this: I’m already in love.

Admit it, you fell in love a little bit too just by looking at his pictures. 🙂

I was going to try my hand at a domestic skill today.

Actually, I did try my hand at a domestic skill today. It wasn’t just an intention; I actually did it.

I planned on taking pictures of this foray into “cooking” and provide a little how-to for all of you to be able to try out the easiest little snack ever.

And when I say planned, I actually mean that I did take pictures.  But then… well, then I stopped taking pictures.

Please note that I did just say that this was the “easiest little snack ever.”

Well, let’s just get into this. And you’ll see what happened.

Here’s what you need:

Easiest. Snack. Ever.

Chocolate kisses, pretzels and M&Ms. That’s seriously it.

So, here’s a very important step. You must unwrap the chocolate kisses.

Next, you must place the pretzels onto a cookie sheet. Any size cookie sheet will do. And you don’t have to be as anal as I was about the placement of the pretzels but they should not overlap.

Once you’ve placed your pretzels on your cookie sheet, top each pretzel with a Kiss.

Okay, here’s where I stopped taking pictures.

I thought I was doing everything right. I had the oven set to 300 degrees Fahrenheit and I let the pretzel/kiss combo hang out for a couple minutes.

What is supposed to happen is that the Kiss will soften just enough that it is easy to push an M&M onto the top of it and it’ll smush down just the tiniest bit. Then you let them hang out to cool down and harden into one pretzel/kiss/M&M creation. Then you eat and enjoy.

But, uhm, that didn’t happen for me.

When I went to push an M&M onto one of the kisses, it didn’t work. There was no smush. The kiss was still hard. I thought I hadn’t waited long enough. Maybe a minute isn’t long enough.  So I put it back in the oven. And when I tried again, it still wasn’t soft enough. So then I turned the temperature of the oven up.  Like, way up. (I don’t know why I thought that was the best idea! Domestic skills clearly are not an instinct I possess!!) A minute later, I went to check on them and push an M&M into a kiss and ohhhhh no.

The chocolate had totally burned. And everything looked… not right.

I think it was just moments short of catching fire, to be honest.

So I looked at it and felt disappointed in myself. Then I threw it away and gave up.

It was never really a mystery to us why it seemed like our entire floor in the dorms in college hated us.

Sarah and I lived in the room at the very end of the hallway. Our perfect square of a room was the gathering place every Thursday night to watch The OC and later Grey’s Anatomy. Our room was the meeting place of the whole group of us for those three or four nights a week we went out to parties. And later, our sophomore year of college, our room was next door to two of our good friends, whose room would blare with the latest Justin Timberlake song or One Republic’s “Apologize” before it was cool and overplayed on the radio.

We did dumb shit, like dress up like the some cracked out version of the Spice Girls and sing really, really loudly after 2 in the morning. You know, when the whiners on our floor were sleeping, and had been since 11 pm.

As a group, we’re loud. I mean, I scream and screech a lot, I laugh loudly, and I shout when I’m happy or excited. Multiply that by at least four and you’ve got my core group of friends in college. And we were together constantly.

Add in the fact that we lived in an all-girls dorm. In the really, really old dorms. As in, I lived in the same dormitory my grandmother lived in. The same dormitory my mother lived in. It’s old. We also lived in the dorm mostly populated by the college of music kids. They’re all artsy and hipster-y and obviously too smart and better than us to get loud and crazy all the fucking time, like we did. The best part about our dorm is that it was the closet to the street with all the bars on it. And it was relatively close to a lot of the off-campus housing and greek life. (And let’s get real: I loved me some fraternity parties before I was of the legal drinking age.)

I think this photo adequately demonstrates the potential Le Le and I have when it comes to getting crazy. lolz (Ps. Le, does that headband look familiar? bahaha)

My point is, our floor hated us.

We were constantly hushed and asked nicely to be quiet. And when all else failed, we were told on. When we realized that the RA’s were about to come bust us, we’d quickly finish the shot glass full of five o’clock vodka on Leah’s or my desk, turn the music off, grab our coats and fly out the door.

I mean, we didn’t want to get written up. Again. Or have to pour our alcohol down the bathroom sink. Again.

Even when we weren’t drinking (illegally) in the dorms, we were loud. And probably really, really obnoxious. I’ll leave you with this one memory I have, a memory that really reinforced the fact that everyone on our floor just did not get me, or my friends.

You know how in college dorms there are all kinds of random-ass signs for random-ass shit? Like, sign up for ballroom dancing in one of the rooms by the cafeteria, or do you need a tutor for some really hard singing class you’re taking? Well, I can’t remember why we decided to make a sign but one night we did, and we hung it on the walls all over our hallway, and all of the doors to the bathrooms, and the mirrors, and the door to the stairs.

It was a nice sign. It didn’t ask anyone to donate their first born to some demonic cult or require anyone to spend any money on anything. It was just a nice little sign to remind people to have a good day and to provide a little pick-me-up. Sometimes people just need that. Classes are hard. It’s really hard to walk fifty feet to a building across a nice little field to go sing for a couple hours a day. And it gets cold in Michigan.  And sometimes blowing off class on a Friday to play Ultimate Frisbee in Adam’s Field is just really… hard. So we posted our sign to let people know we cared.

Our sign was not appreciated. When we woke up the next morning, every single sign had been torn down and thrown away.

The people on our floor were dicks. And they hated us.

During a facebook chat conversation this evening, I said the following to my dear friend Megan:

i wanna see your peacock

Now, this could mean many things. You may not think so, but I can give you at least three different scenarios right now:

  1. She recently came to own a peacock and I was expressing my desire to introduce myself to her new pet.
  2. I was listening to the Katy Perry song entitled Peacock and “singing” to her.
  3. Innuendo. (Even though Megan is definitely a lady and doesn’t even a have a peacock.)

Even though I sincerely wish it was 1 that was the truth, it was really 2.

are you brave enough to let me see your peacock?

After I told her I wanted to see her peacock, she told me, “that is a very personal comment.”

This made me realize something: there are many personal things shared between friends. Obviously, you talk and share secrets and shiz. And I would say that my group of friends is pretty…. personal. We’re super close.

Not in a dirty way. (No homo.) Just… in a we’re-all-really-close-friends-and-lack-boundaries-now-at-this-point-in-our-friendship kind of way. I wonder when that started. But honestly, for as long as I can remember, it’s been like that. Although, I can also honestly say that my friends now seem to just ignore my I don’t like to be touched rules. Like, to the point where it’s not really an issue for me anymore. I’ve come to accept that I’m going to hug Leah awkwardly when I see her, I’m going to be tackled when reuniting with a friend I haven’t seen in a couple months, my boobs will be touched by hands that don’t belong to me, Alecia will smack my ass whenever she feels like it, when we’re out at the bar I will grind up on my girls and they’ll grind right back.

It’s a fact of life.

I then wondered if all groups of friends were like this. You know, personal.

I would assume so. But, gosh, you just never know!

So I started thinking about my other group of girlfriends. I would say that we are pretty personal in the things we discuss. We’re not the kind of friends I have from home and from college, and stuff, but we’re friends all the same. We do, however, spend the entire week together and that just makes us close by default. We talk every day. About pretty much everything.

I mean, the things we discuss are pretty personal. I mean, we for realz talk about everything. We talk about food and candy and things I won’t eat (blue!) and things I’ve never eaten (corn dog!).  We also talk about sex. And boys. And babies. And bowels. And our frustrations, the joys in life and Glee.

It’s just a different kind of close.

For example, while my closeclose friends may share all of those things as well, they would not at all apologize for reaching out and grabbing a little bit of boob as they tried to pull something off my shirt. But my other friends totally apologize when doing that.

I guess it’s just different strokes for different folks.

I kind of love how wildly inappropriate we are, though, so I wouldn’t change a thing!

How close are you to your friends? Do you lack boundaries like my group of friends?

Chokehold (is that what this move is called?!) in the middle of the dance floor in the basement of a fraternity? No big deal.