Practically the only thing I loved about going back to school at the end of the summer was being able to get my hands on new stationery. I loved poring over the catalogues from Big W and Kmart that would get stuffed in our letter box and figuring out just how many faber castell connector pens would fit into my daggy tartan pencil case before it seemed excessive. Crayola pretty much formed my early colour distinguishable palette so to see this awesome chart makes me want to go out and buy a whole heap of textas immediately!
If you are back to school shopping, and want something neat to bribe your kids back to school without having to resort to whistles and air horns, then why not peruse our Textiles section? Lilypad Designs has some pretty sweet pencil case alternatives (which probably won’t go “missing” as easily as the Tartan ones) and for those older students who are maybe heading back to university, perhaps a new Portfolio from Portfoli-Oh or sweet new bag from Emma Coast might be up their alley?
As a child, I was a nerd. More specifically, a book nerd. And thus, as book nerds are wont to do, I read many books. Several such books included the Little House series, which my mama, one loving mother of a nerd, read along with me.
From the get-go, Laura Ingalls Wilder had us hooked, regaling us with touching family tales set in America’s developing heartland. All was going swimmingly, until we stumbled upon Farmer Boy.
Not only was the content objectionable (”No!” I remember my mother shrieking. “First, you ice, and THEN you apply heat — not heat first!” [Though, in fairness, looking back, it WAS summer, and in days pre-Frigidaire, being THE 1860'S AND ALL.]), it was downright boring.
For weeks we tried to plow forward, stubborn and insistent upon just. getting. though. this. cursed. book. Over time, Farmer Boy became in-house vernacular for something so unbearably monotonous it brought on the snoozles.
Needless to say, we didn’t make it. But despite never finishing it, we could not bring ourselves to remove the (much-beloved, may I add) flat plastic neon yellow googly-eyed snake bookmark that nestled within the tedium, marking the spot where we simply gave up. We were too strong, too proud; prairie women were we, through and through.
Thinking it all over, I believe that one of the secrets to Farmer Boy’s abysmal failure (for us, at least) was the absence of chickery (no Laura, Mary, and Carrie — aka the Girls Gone Wilder). And then, most glaringly, the lack of details on domestic dwellings.
For all the horehound candy in the world, I could not tell you the plot of On the Banks of Plum Creek. But I can recall being enraptured with the dirt dugout the family lived in, until Pa built a proper above ground house for the gang. It sounded so cozy, so bunnicular; truly fantastic. Screw the restored Victorian house I was growing up in, with its six bathrooms, antiques-laden parlors, original stained glass picture windows, and optimal sled-trail backyard. Just dig me a hole in a hill and I’d be in heaven.
As can be gathered from the images featured in this here blog, some lucky besterds finally have that chance. Coming atcha straight from Vals, Switzerland (what, you haven’t heard of it? Guess you’re not one of its 1,049 inhabitants) is the chicest rabbit hole this side of Alice’s golden afternoon. (Leave it to the Swiss to put holes in things and make ‘em great…)
And so, I must ask you: Would you like one mountainside manor of your very own? START DIGGING.
Love,
Allison
The past few years, I started to grow my hair out. Now I’m quite attached to it, all however many inches it is (am I supposed to measure it?), and fear for even the teeniest bit of its removal. So my haircut this past Saturday was sort of a big deal.
While my hairdresser was sudsing my mop pre-snip, we had the standard Q&A exchange: How often did I wash my hair? (Every 4 days.) Did I want conditioner? (Yes, please.) Did I blow dry it? (I try.)
And then, the money question: Did I wish to continue growing it long?
“I think so…” I replied with hesitancy. I was fully prepared to be shut down. I was still reeling from last summer, when my mother told me the Rapunzel look wasn’t working. That smarted. And this woman was a hair care professional. The stakes were much higher. (For one thing, she was wielding scissors.)
But, she didn’t shut me down. Instead, she wanted me to grow it long — really long. Like just above the butt-hump long. Longer, actually, than I’d like. Way longer. So long that, save place-of-employment dress codes, I mightn’t need upper-body clothing coverage from July through September. That I might start dreaming as Alanis Morissette. Or Cranston.
But I wouldn’t be alone. I’d be joining two of her other clients — her special clients. Her show-pony clients. Her *STAR* clients.
“They both have hair down to [pointing at a spot far down on her back] here. And it’s healthy! And it looks beautiful! And they STAND OUT!” She was getting excited, and fairly animated. A little crazed, even.
Then I entered her orbit. Did I want to stand out? Those two other girls were blonde. Did I want to join them, but as a dark-haired addition? WAS I IN?
Her spiel entranced me. I felt like I had been selected for inclusion in a glamorous girl group, like the Carrie Nations. And if we got a redhead — imagine the possibilities! (It may also have been the first time I was asked to be a part of something? But we don’t have to get into that right now.)
The other thought that sprung to mind was: this was my moment. Brunettes represent! Barbie and Skipper were on the move. They had it goin’ on. Was Midge ready to step up and join them?
In the end, the whole discussion was inconsequential. I was going for a haircut, after all. Guess what? My hair got shorter. Will I grow my hair out longer than it was before Saturday’s splicing? Only time can tell.
In the meanwhile, and following up on the Mattel tip, check out these Barbies all done up like Lady Gaga. Righteous! Tiny styling rules.
By the way, I’m Allison, the newest Moose blogger. I was born in NYC and now reside in Boston, Mass. I suppose I enjoy the Eastern seaboard, but I am also very excited to be virtually “here” at Moose HQ in Australia. Till next time…
