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!