Presents!

I have to share these wonderful, SUPER linen dish towels my friend K sent for a housewarming gift!

And look at the cute little pouch they came in!!!!



Awesome, awesome, awesome! And you know what? I'm going to USE them. My mom wouldn't--she'd save them because they're too pretty--but linen wears like IRON, and I am going to use them ALL THE TIME. In fact, I sort of wish I could wear them. Oh, to be thin enough to be able to use one as an apron!

My Cookie: It Crumbles. Here's How.

My brain is weird today, and thoughts are flitting around like bunnies, not making much sense and multiplying at an alarming rate. In an effort to clear some space up there and take a mental Time Out, I give you . . . random blathering:

I had a very nice weekend. My nephew's ninth birthday is today, and since it's so close to mine my sister had a party for the two of us on Saturday. It was just her family, The Boy and me, my parents, one aunt, one cousin, and one grandmother. Easy, peaceful, nice. The best part was the card my nephew gave me--it was a standard card for an aunt, but he signed it, "I love you very much, Uncle Francis." See, his middle name is Francis, which I love. He calls me Aunt Shirty, and so I call him Uncle Francis. Anyway, I was very touched with the card.

Friday evening The Boy passed out on the couch at 8:00, so I watched the last episode of Season 1 of Castle from Netflix. I only started watching this because I wanted to see what Nathan Fillion was up to, and why he isn't busy playing a character written for him by Joss Whedon, but . . . I really like the show. Granted, I have never before watched a police procedural kind of show, so it may be terrible compared to others out there, but it seems fine to me. I love the idea of the mystery writer getting to work with a detective, and the characters are all pretty appealing. Richard Castle is no Mal Reynolds--in fact, there aren't many men (fictional of otherwise) who can hold a candle to Mal Reynolds--but he's charming. And cute, with those crinkled eyes. And the smile. And he is *so cute* with his daughter! Anyway . . . it's a fine show, and I'm anxious for the second season to come out on DVD.


Mal Reynolds: My favorite fictional man. Seriously! Dreamy, tough, flawed . . . but always trying his best to do what's right and to take care of the people he loves. Even if it makes him act like a jerk. He's fiction's best example of a Grown Man, and we can thank Whedon for him.


Richard Castle: I'm fond of him. Same actor, much different man.

The only thing that really bugs me about Castle is the fact that you can purchase books--real, live, actual books--"written" by "Richard Castle." THIS DRIVES ME BANANAS. The books are referenced on the show, even! LOOK, ABC (and DISNEY), Richard Caslte is a fairly well-realized fictional character and all, but he does not exist in my world: I CANNOT PURCHASE HIS FICTIONAL GOODS.

The only way I could possibly be made to feel better about this would be if the author of these books were Stephen King. It could happen, right? I mean, King did write as Richard Bachman. And think of Castle Rock! And Kings live in Castles! Maybe King wants to try his hand at a different kind of writing? I don't know. If I'm right, though, you heard it here first. And I will be happy to buy at least the first of the Castle books. But only then.

Well. Diatribes about things that really don't matter at all? This must be a blog!

And so I will continue to blather. Guess what happened to us last night? P came over for dinner and to visit with The Boy, who I think officially considers her to be his girlfriend. I made Shepherd's Pie, and it was lovely, and after we'd been eating for maybe five or ten minutes, the CO2 sensor in the upstairs hallway started bleating. I'm thankful P was here, because even with a stool to stand on, neither The Boy nor I could reach it to make it shut up. P pulled out the battery and then put it back to reset it, and the thing went off again . . . which means I called 911. We were told to get out of the house and wait for the fire truck. Sigh. The fire truck and ambulance came in short order, the guy in charge ascertained that we were all healthy and sent the ambulance away, and then two firemen came in the house with their own CO2 sensors and cased the joint. The culprit is the ancient stove, of course.


Old Stove: Character, a cool griddle in the center, and . . . certain, sleepy death.

I had been planning to replace it, because it's gargantuan, and my kitchen is not, but I was hoping to be able to wait a while, so The Boy and I could go skiing for his spring break. Alas, though, I'll be going to buy a new stove as soon as I leave here this morning. Which I can't do until after the dishwasher repairman comes.

That's, right--I said dishwasher repairman. DISHWASHER! My friend K pointed out that the dishwasher took a blood sacrifice from me last week . . . and yet I haven't been able to use it. At all. Because it doesn't work. AT ALL. Sigh.

So: By the end of the week I should have brand new, WORKING appliances. That's good. But I will not be skiing in Jackson Hole with The Boy and his best friend and the friend's family. That's bad. But! We're taking Best Friend to the beach with us in June, so that's good. Beach! June! How I long for thee!

Calgon, take me away!

Come On, MAN!

Remember the stomach flu? For my birthday? Well, ha ha on those who thought things could only go up from there, because I had to go to the ER yesterday. I was off for MLK day, joyfully putzing in peace because The Boy went snow tubing with a friend while I waited at home for my new dishwasher to be delivered. I put away books, did a little cleaning, and vacuumed and steamed my old couches so my cat-allergic brother-in-law could take them to my sister's house to make room for my new sectional, which is coming today.

So, busy, happy, fiddling around while listening to my audio book . . . greeting the punctual delivery guys from Sears with great happiness, because: DISHWASHER. (It's nearly impossible to make the kitchen feel clean without a dishwasher, unless you do dishes constantly, which . . . No.) So the guys used their fancy straps and truss system to hike the big box into the house, and I told them they could leave it in the living room, since a portable dishwasher has wheels and I am more than capable of pushing the thing the fifteen or so feet into the kitchen.

They shook hands and left me to my giant box. I followed the opening instructions pictured right on the outside, using my kitchen scissors as a box cutter because I was too impatient for DISHWASHER to go to the tool box in search of the utility knife. It's pretty obvious where this is going, isn't it? I held the scissors open, using one blade to drag along the edges that needed cutting, being SUPER careful of the other blade, and not paying any attention at all to the weird little chomper things in the middle of the scissors. Do you know what I'm talking about? Here's a visual aid, because I have no idea what the actual name is, or what the chompers are for:



Yeah, those jagged little things ripped into my right middle finger, and BOY did I bleed. I ran into the kitchen to hold my finger in cold water, and watched a little horrified as the blood and water splashed everywhere. Then I wrapped the finger in an old linen napkin, because I didn't want to have to deal with picking pits of paper from the wound like you have to do when you use a paper towel. I held my finger up, applying direct pressure like a good girl, and I paced around, fretting and waiting for it to stop bleeding and stop hurting like a bitch. I wandered into the living room, wondering how I was going to get to the ER if I was going to need stitches (because my car was at the garage getting its annual state inspection), when I noticed this on the wall:



It wraps around the corner, even! Like something out of a murder movie! So! Blood spattered on the wall is good evidence that perhaps medical treatment is necessary. My b-i-l drove me the mile to pick up my car (I couldn't stomach the idea of walking with my stupid middle finger wrapped in a napkin, bleeding like a fool. Plus, I couldn't put on my coat over the mess, and didn't want to bleed on it, anyway.

So I paid for my car with one hand, and drove to the ER with my right hand held aloft. I would have been flipping everyone the bird, but you couldn't really tell because of the big napkin. In fact, it kind of looked like I was carrying an unlit torch. Nice.

Happily, the ER wasn't busy, and I was in and out in no time. There were two cuts rather than one. I was complimented on the way I managed the bleeding (you can't be the daughter and granddaughter of nurses without being up on your first-aid skills), had my wounds glued, with assurance that I had only nicked a superficial nerve and would soon have all the feeling back in the pad of the finger tip, and then sent on my way.

The blood on the walls cleaned up easily--I was kind of expecting to have to rely on the devil's magic in the Mr. Clean eraser thing, but a Clorox wipe handled the job with aplomb. The Boy came home, C came over bearing pizzas to make up for my aborted birthday dinner, P came with a posy and a charming story about being barked at by one half of a feuding couple at the movies, and all was well.

Happy New Year

Yesterday was my birthday, and the start of my personal new year. The award for Worst Gift goes to the Universe, which decided to bestow a stomach bug on me. The less said about that, the better. I spent the day in quarantine until The Boy came home from his dad's, bearing flowers, cards, two adorable blank notebooks, and pretzel rods and ginger ale.

The day was fairly pleasant, ina Camille kind of way, especially considering that I found this tucked into a drawer inside a cabinet that came with the new house:



How old do you think that is? I'm guessing it's as old as I am (freshly 39), at least. And guess what: Still totally soft! See how it says over on the top right that it never dries out? They weren't kidding. Nor were they kidding with the bit on the bottom: "Everybody 'kneeds' PLASTI-TAK. It's fasten-ating." Indeed. Indeed.

Not Even One Way to Skin a Cat: A Play in One Act

My cat Benny is going to be the death of me:

Scene: 4:40am. Shirty is sound asleep, snuggled deep into her covers. Benny creeps in, leaps onto the bed, drops his favorite finger puppet near her face, and then starts scratching/poking her to get her to wake up and throw the puppet for him to fetch.

Benny: Mom! Mom! Wake up! Hey! My puppet! I brought my puppet! Mom! Throw my puppet! Let's play! Hey Mom! Puppet! Throw my puppet!

Shirty: . . . ? . . .

Benny: MOM! I HAVE BROUGHT MY PUPPET FOR YOUR THROWING PLEASURE! PLEASE STOP WITH THE SLEEPING AT PLAY WITH ME. IT IS QUITE RUDE TO IGNORE MY PUPPET. WHICH I BROUGHT. FOR YOU TO THROW.

Shirty: (Flings puppet out her bedroom door, into the hallway.)

Benny: (Leaps to retrieve puppet. Returns seconds later.) MOM! MOM! . . .

Repeat until the alarm goes off at 6am, scaring Benny away temporarily.

I am SO TIRED! And I'm sure Benny is sound asleep. With his puppet. On my bed.

Rest assured that I will be hiding the puppet before I go to sleep tonight.

Attached Garage Haiku

Sixteen degrees out
My car thinks it's thirty nine
Attached garage rocks

Honestly, people. Snow? Cold? Whatever--I don't have to step outside until I actually get where I'm going! I feel like an heiress!

Soliciting Opinions

My new house was built in 1950, and had one owner for nearly all its life. The little old Italian lady and her late husband took excellent care of the place, and so much of the stuff is original. The woodwork is all intact and unpainted, the interior doors are all solid wood with glass knobs, and the kitchen cabinets are the original maple. I've been thinking of trying to stay true to the house's original look--at least as far as is practical and comfortable--and one way I can do that is with vintage 50s wallpaper.

I'm going to show you an admittedly lame photo of the kitchen--it's one I took with my phone the first time I was in looking at the place--so you can see the (tiny!) size, shape, and tile, and then ask which (if any) of the five wallpapers I like might work. (I found the wallpapers at Hannah's Treasures.)



Can you see the tile? (Also, check out that beast of a stove!)

Let me know what you think . . .







The paper will only go in the two places you can see in the photo and on the wall that's immediately to the right of where I was standing. (Does that even make sense?) If you think these are all ugly and I'm an idiot who should just paint, let me know that too . . .