The Blue Gardenia
Forgive me, forgive me, for I have sinned. (And so has he. Lout.) September 27, 2008 17:36 3 Comments
Dear, dear Blue Gardenia customers, I have been woefully slow in shipping the last 10 days. I have been completely caught up in the work being done in the house. Feeling displaced. Out of sorts. Etc. That is not an excuse. It’s an explanation. Really. I am sorry. Completely. Absolutely. Abundantly.
But. I have spent
the day catching up on Blue Gardenia shipping, so if you have been holding your
breath for your order to arrive, you’ll be able to release it soon. Those of
you who have been victims of my
tardy shipping have gotten a complimentary upgrade to Priority shipping. And I
beg you, on my knees, tears flowing: Please. Forgive me. I apologize.
Sincerely.
On another topic, I have been pissed — excuse my language, please, darling readers — with His Bertness today. If you were looking toward Arizona, doubtless you saw clouds. You thought they were clouds. But. I am here to tell you, those were not clouds, my friends, those were great bursts of steam coming out of my ears. Out of my nostrils.
Recently, when we were moving things downstairs for the carpet installation, my beloved hubby removed files from a file cabinet drawer. When he replaced them, he did so carelessly. Absentmindedly. In a most willy-nilly fashion. There were files facing backward. There were files facing forward. And, natch, they were no longer in alphabetical order. Can you say asshole? I can. And I probably did today. And not just under my breath. I hate to file, you see. I do. Absolutely. But I do it anyway, because I have learned it makes life easier. (Oh, woe is me, little Wednesday's child.)
So. I discovered his transgression when I tried to file some recipes today. Oh oh oh oh oh. I was beyond angry. There was even — gasp! — slamming of doors. So unlike me. I am Obama cool. Normally. Truly. I am. But today, I wanted to scream "I hate you I hate you I hate you." I wanted to stamp my feet. I wanted to clench my fists. I wanted to yell. Asshole. Asshole. Asshole.
Now. All of you probably have perfect husbands, wives, girlfriends, boyfriends. Husbands, wives, girlfriends, boyfriends who would not think of replacing files in less than pristine fashion, neatly organized, better than before. Alas, that is not the case in my household. Yes, His Bertness is handsome. Yes, His Bertness is smart. But. Could he just respect the hours I spent filing? Is that too much too ask? Is it? Is it? Is it? I think not.
I feel devalued, she sobbed. Unappreciated. Invisible. Sniff, sniff. Sniff. Where are my Puffs? I want them. I need them. I am off to find them.
In my dreams, I'm the Martha Stewart of bloggers September 13, 2008 19:58 1 Comment
Remember the carpet? The new carpet? For upstairs? Well. It was installed. Thursday. And it’s gorgeous. Absolutely.
But. The whole experience has, alas, exposed my tendency to clutter. And that of His Bertness as well. His Bertness, who keeps ragged shirts and shorts, because he might wear them one day when mowing the lawn. Or pruning trees. That is, if he could find them in the furthest, darkest, scariest corner of a bottom drawer. If. And that, dear readers, is not very likely. In fact, it’s not likely. At all.
So. This is our dining room. Today. It’s the one room I usually keep spotless. Clear of detritus. Clean. My oasis. I know. You’re skeptical. So very.
But. It's the room that we stored everything in while the carpet was laid upstairs. Everything. Shoes. Hats. Books. More books. Boxes and boxes and boxes of books. Believe it or not, we’ve actually made progress on putting things back. Really. We have. It’s true. I cite this as my proof: The dining room box towers are only half as tall as they were Thursday night. I know. You're shaking your heads. Gazing skyward to underline your disbelief. Go ahead. I forgive you. The amount of stuff we crammed into the dining room was amazing. Astounding. Totally. Peter Walsh would be stunned.
He would, I’m sure, be pleased as punch that we are doing a clean sweep. We are. Truly. So far, we’ve filled three boxes with various items to donate. And we’ve filled a couple of trash cans, too. After all, does anyone really want a 20-year-old pair of Top-Siders, complete with scuffs the size of tire tracks? I think not.
So. Anyway. Back to the sorting. Back to the piling. Back to the discarding. I think I can. I think I can. I think I can. And all that.
His Bertness sweats. Emma licks the camera lens. Life is perfect. September 1, 2008 19:43 2 Comments
So. Recall when I complained about bloggers with camera-ready lives? Perfect houses, perfect pets, perfect living rooms, perfect hubbies, perfect selves, etc. I know you do. How could you forget one teeny word from my lips? One minute detail of my life? Of course you couldn’t. Of course. And if you can, don't tell me. Let me live in denial. It will be my warm winter cloak.
Well. Naturally. I thought to myself: Stop complaining. Take action. Do something. Something. Now. But what? I don’t want to battle dust bunnies. They can be so unruly. They can. They defy me. And spider webs are art. Right? But there must be something. Some little thing that I can do to improve my life. But what? I puzzled. I pondered. And I decided the first step is to clear out clutter. Yep. You know. The journey of a million miles begins with a single step. Just one. Or something like that.
So. The first step. Moving many boxes of books, books that have lived contentedly in their boxes since we moved here nearly ten years ago, to our storage unit. This involved more work for Bert than for me. He sherpa’d. I took pictures of his toting and sweating. You can see he was less than amused by this division of labor. He looks downright crabby. But. What can I say? Taking photographs is hard work. Really. Getting the composition just right. The lighting. And the camera is heavy. Ummm hmm. My biceps feel firmer already. They do. I can feel them bulging.
Oh. That is our trusty steed, the Bronco II, in the foreground. A wedding gift from my parents. After all these years, I still love it. Smarmy hearts and butterflies alert: After all these years, I still love His Bertness, too. Perhaps even more now than on our wedding day. (Are you gagging now? I'm sorry. Or maybe you need a box of Puffs? I have plenty. I will share.)
I also had to keep our little canine friends away from the door. And from licking the lens. That’s Emma. Beloved and beautiful Malamute. She gets up early every day to put on her eye liner. Very influenced by Liz as Cleopatra. This pic does not show her gorgeous looks to their advantage. Oh well. Maybe next time.
And this is Henry Jones. Half Lab, half Great Dane, all attitude. If he were a dancer, his favorite dance would be the paso doble. (And, yes, that is my muslin in the background. Alone. But not forgotten. Rarely a day goes by that I don't think of it.) Isn't Henry handsome? He's the most. Just ask him.
And, of course, sewing intervened. In a way. We found this treasure in one box. It’s from 1939. If you’re good readers — very, very good — I’ll share some secrets with you. The tips are worth the sacrifice. There's more information about pressing. And ironing. Is that thrilling? Your hearts are beating faster in anticipation. Right? Say yes. Yes. It's the right answer.
I'm in heaven when you read my blog. Really. August 21, 2008 18:42 8 Comments
I should be Ms. Confidence Brimming. I should know, know, lovely, ever so appreciated readers, that you love me. Or at least, the very least, that you like me. I should know that you love my blog. Or failing that expansiveness of emotion, at least, like my blog. I should not care. Really. I shouldn’t. But I do care. I do. I want you to like me. I admit it. I’m insecure. I need to feel the love.
Remember that girl in third grade? She sat at the corner table at lunch, in her concrete slab thick glasses, a little plump, in her cute black and white dotted swiss dress with the apple aplique, feet clad in Bass Weejuns, reading Trixie Belden. She felt conspicuous, so self-aware. She felt everyone pitied her, she with her skin as white as Blue Horse paper, except for those freckles sprinkled like raindrops across her nose. She longed to be a Lisa, a Tiffany, a Heather, with their caramel skin and eyes as blue as Heaven Sent.
And then seventh grade. She was more comfortable in her pale white skin, with her red YSL platforms and tomato red jersey dress banded in lemon yellow. So chic. So very, very un-Gonzales, La. Sure, other girls with their blue jean hips and Candies thought she was, well, weird. Extremely. But. She knew who she was. She knew. And she accepted it.
However, dear, dear readers, I confess. There’s still a tiny part of that third-grader inside me. Alas. I need to know you like my blog. Really. My ego is fragile. Be faithful. Love me. Love my blog.
Blogging can be lonely. Here alone in my office, I sit. Revealing. I could be downstairs with His Bertness, watching The Colbert Report. Jon Stewart. But here I am. Exposing my insecurities. Being – gulp – needy. So unattractive. However.
Is it OK if bloggers are insecure? Is it OK if bloggers wear their hearts on their sleeves? I dunno. I don’t. I make my own rules. And I was repelled when Sally Field yelped at the Oscars “You like me, right now, you really like me!” I was. Totally. I was embarrassed for her. Poor Sally. Give her a box of Puffs and a psychologist. Quick. But. I get it now. I do. Completely. Show me the love. Show me you care by reading my blog. Every day. Every single one. C’mon. Make me happy. Please. Don't make me get out the Puffs. It's bad for the environment.
Am I being unreasonable? Am I? Probably. But. Oh, well. What is, is. And now you know. (And yes, I'm a Van Morrison fan.)
Since I'm so darn nice, I won't name names August 20, 2008 18:23
Arrrrggggghhhh. Yippee skippee, yippee skippee, yippee skippee! Why these conflicting emotions, dear readers? Well, not love, though I suppose you could say love led me here. In a long and roundabout way. A very long, very meandering, very roundabout way.
Tonight, hubby and I went to pay for new carpet at Home Depot. This was our third trip concerning carpet. The first trip, we picked out a gorgeous carpet that was pet friendly and durable (as carpet goes, that is, when you have two canine friends). We set up the measure. Home Depot called with the quote. And we discovered our dream carpet was too expensive. Much too.
So. Trip two: We picked out another carpet. Just as durable, just as pet-friendly, but considerably less pricey. Less attractive as well. But with the charming moniker of Bon Jour.
Naturally, we had to bring the new sample home to pick out a color in our light. We didn’t want a carpet that looked like the perfect greige in the store to be World War I mustard on our floor.
So. I called Home Depot today to ensure everything was ready to go. My sales associate assured me that all we had to do was come in and pay. Yes, indeedy. She wouldn’t be there, but not a big deal. Not a big deal at all. Anyone there could handle it. Really. She said.
When we arrived at Home Depot (in case you're counting — and I know you are — this is trip three), His Bertness asked “Do I have to come in? Can’t I just sit in the car?” No. No. A thousand times no. You must come in because you know there’s always a little waiting involved at Home Depot. And if I have to suffer — heavy sigh — you have to suffer. Isn't that what love is all about? Together. Wherever. Etc.
So, in we go, walking ever so briskly to the flooring department. Because, of course, we want to hurry back home. We have socks to mend, sweaters to knit, and so on. You know.
There’s only one sales associate in sight. We ask him to help us. He replies that he has to finish something first. Fine. We’ve come prepared for waiting. And I can tell you that’s a good thing, because wait we did. So he finished his task and turned to us. And then the real waiting began. He couldn’t find our order. He seemed quite irritated with us over this matter. Then I had to be difficult. I wanted two different carpet colors. On one order. The nerve. The gall. The computer system wasn’t set up for this. The computer system would not figure out how much carpet we needed of Marble and how much we needed of Old Cedar. Dang customers, I’m sure he was screaming under his breath. So. I twiddled my thumbs. I tried to see the beauty in all mankind. I waited. The light did not come on for him. I proffered a suggestion: Since we only wanted one room in Old Cedar, why not simply subtract the yardage for that room from the total. (Meanwhile, His Bertness is sitting beside me, reading the new J.A. Jance book, completely oblivious. Completely.) So, the sales associate — let’s call him Grumpy — hits many computer keys, without a desirable result. He gets out his old-fashioned calculator. A Luddite’s dream. But, heck, it works. Now, Grumpy only has to get his computer to accept the figure. Much muttering and keyboarding ensues. Much.
And, then, I pulled out my coupon . . .
All in all, we were in the flooring department for more than an hour. Really. But the carpet is ordered. Finally. And you, my friends, believe it or not, have gotten the Reader’s Digest condensed version of this story. Because I am so darn considerate. So there.
As crabby as Mr. Burns but not as cunning August 13, 2008 19:13 3 Comments
Violins, please start. Right now. Do not delay.
Today was one of those days. I wanted to put my hands over my face and scream, scream, scream, scream. Scream. Loud. Very, very loud.
May I be one of those bloggers with the perfect life, the perfect house, the perfect lawn? With the scrupulously clean floors, the artfully arranged pillows, and the always camera ready dogs? One of those bloggers who believes everything happens for a reason. That things always work out for the best. A regular Pollyanna with a home suitable for Elle Decor's persnickety editors. Please. I'm asking very nicely. That's what I want, and I really would be most grateful to get it before Christmas. I don't even need fancy gift wrap.
Thank you.
I exaggerated. A tad. A wee tad. I have the camera ready doggies. And they are a joy. Really.
Pass the Puffs, please: An unexpected benefit of friendship August 9, 2008 18:19 1 Comment
Yippee. Skippee. Let me repeat that: Yippee. Skippee. The muslin is complete except for the facings. (Yes, I know they will probably be pesky. But. No unpleasant thoughts now. Nope. Not now.) This, thanks to a gal pal’s help. Marti, a glamorous, exceptional dancer who also just happens to whip up most of her clothes, generously offered to help me with my muslin today.
So. I went to her home, and we sipped acai berry juice and sewed. And ironed. And chalked. And trimmed (correcting my jagged edges — you remember those, don’t you?). And we did this all under the masterful eyes of her alpha kitty, Sulis.
You dressmaking goddesses may not be impressed with my afternoon’s work, but I am pleased as punch. Yes, I am. I am darn near impressed with myself. I could look ahead to the facings and get nervous. Scared. Terrified, in fact. I could. But ya know what? I am staying in the moment. This moment. I am. I am going to enjoy my accomplishment today. Here. Now. Taking my cue from Ms. O’Hara. I’ll worry about attaching the facings tomorrow. Or Monday.
This dress is going to be fab. I know it. I know it. I do. Rhett Butler would approve. Thank you, Marti. I am misty-eyed with gratitude. Pass the Puffs now. Please.
Inspirations plus: What to wear when the lights go out August 4, 2008 06:50
Vogue Paris Original 1352
Sometimes, nature’s timing is perfect. Last night, for instance. A monsoon storm raged outside. Lightning ever so close outside the front windows. Ever so close outside the rear. Frenetic. Kinetic. Amazing. Absolutely. I had just put the fried chicken (hey, I was raised in Louisiana — fried was a food group, and a delicious and cherished one at that) on to drain. The roasted potatoes were in the oven. I was walking from the freezer in the garage to the kitchen, toting frozen green peas. Whap. Brrrraaaaacccckkk. Bam. The lights went out. Completely. It was black up. Black down. Black all around. I felt my way to the kitchen. His Bertness found a flashlight. I plated the chicken. He plated the roasted taters. I remembered that there were candles on the dining room table from a recent dinner party. Yes. Yes. Yes. Life is beautiful. Being a lackadaisical housekeeper pays off. At last. Dinner by candlelight. Unplanned. Exquisite. It’s true we had nothing green. No peas. No green beans. No asparagus. No salad. But we had light that flickered, that glowed topaz.
What could have made this lovely dinner better? A sophisticated hostess ensemble. Of course. Vogue Paris Original 1352, a Lanvin design suitable for Jeanne Moreau. So sixties. So gorgeous. So dramatic. (Although, truly, frying chicken in it might have been difficult. I’m sure I could carry it off. But. Still. I might cry if there was a grease splatter on the velvet.)
The electricity sparked five minutes after dinner was over. I told you: perfect timing. Could not have been better if I’d planned it all week.
The downside — alas, there is one — is this: When we went upstairs, we discovered the master bathroom floor masquerading as a wading pool and the sheetrock bulging like Peter Lorre’s eyes. The Bathroom Drama continues. Oh my heck, to quote Marie O. (I personally find the woman as annoying as a dripping faucet, but I do have a beloved friend who thinks she is the cat’s.) Drying the floor was a multi-towel task. Five, to be precise. And if we have more rain, the leak will doubtless continue through the night. The Bathroom Drama, Part 3. Oh my heck, oh my heck, oh my heck. I am not ready for it. Couldn’t I break a nail instead? Get a ladder in my nylons? Have a root canal with no lydocaine?
Oh, well. We’ll always have Paris.
And fried chicken.
Hit the road, leaky roof & slipshod contractors. Now. July 29, 2008 19:49 1 Comment
I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I have thrown up my hands. I am done. Done. Really.
Recall the leak we had way back when (I exaggerate) during The Bathroom Drama? When His Bertness thought the leak was caused by a toilet? Then when that proved not to be the case, he decided it was the gutter? Well. Then. Guess what? It wasn’t the gutter! No. Beloved hubby then decided it was the roof. Bingo. The third time is indeed the charm.
(Oh, is this the point where I beg your tolerance for going totally off topic? OK. Here goes. I had good home training. Please, darling, much appreciated readers, be patient. Let me vent. Let me share my woes. You do not have enough in your own life, I’m sure. You need mine to make your day complete.)
So. My job in this process was to call roofers for an estimate. The first 3 numbers I called (In business for 40 years! Family-owned for 20 years! Locally owned, locally operated, 27 years!) were disconnected. Out of business. Gone. Gone. Gone. I left messages at two others. One returned my call within 24 hours. I cannot tell you how rare this is in Prescott.
(Sewing is involved in this post. Really. Have faith. Keep reading.)
Now let me go back, dear readers, back, back, back, way back to two years ago when we had major rehab work done on the second floor. Nearly all of the roof was replaced. I thought the contractor did a lousy job on the roof at the time. The shingles on the roof edge stood straight out, like Louise Brooks’ bangs after a night of tossing and turning. Back then, way, way back then, I asked the contractor about this. He assured me in that way that only good ole boys in cowboy boots with radiant smiles and irresistible Lab pups can, that his crew would be back in the summer when the composition shingles were more malleable. Then, with the Arizona heat, it would be a cinch to arc the shingles. Knowing nothing about hip roofs, I believed him. Beloved hubby, knowing precious little more on this subject, thought it sounded plausible, too. Summer came. The roofers didn’t. I called. The story this time was that the shingles would eventually curve on their very own. The hard-working life of the shingle — I bet you didn't know. Again, hubby and I thought mmmm, sounds credible. We have lives. We got busy. We didn’t forget about the shingles, but they were a hassle we didn’t want to deal with. And guess what? The shingles still haven’t the slightest arc. They are as flat as land in southern Louisiana.
So. The new roofer showed up today. On time. Early, actually. This is so rare that he deserves a street with his name. He climbs up on our roof — a perilous task, since our house is perched on a hill. And he pronounces our roof in horrible shape, says the folks who did the roof did a lousy job, says we should file a complaint — and pronto — with the state. I am totally pissed. Totally. Overwhelmingly.
So, it was in this mood that I opened the Singer Sewing Book, copyright 1949, and saw this picture, optimistically cutlined Your Sewing Machine Makes Decorating Easy! (Exclamation mark mine all mine.) Ummmm emmmm. I believe 'em. But. Love the gray. Love the jolt of green. Love the slipcovers. Love them. Totally. And this book proposes that the reader make them. Is that preposterous or what? Completely. I say. How the heck do you make — all by yourself, without aid of an upholsterer — slipcovers that are so beautifully fitted? That look modern. Sleek. Tailored. Sophisticated yet inviting.
I thought about slipcovers. How fabulous they would look on our den sofa. How clean they would be— after all, I could wash them, every day if I chose. This would make Henry Jones, our Lab-Dane mix, as happy as a pig in mud. He lives on the sofa, and he loves fresh linen. So do I. Slipcovers. Clean. Sleek. Inviting. Baby, I was lost in the dream. Lost. Totally. Then, alas, reality intervened. Jarred my
brief slipcovered reverie. Because how could I possibly make slipcovers? I’m having a hard time with my muslin for a simple dress. As you know. I’ve cut out the pattern. I’ve marked it with Sharpies. And then, fear. Stark, immobilizing fear. Fear 10, action 1. Denise trapped. Caught in between.
So. Later, after a nap with His Bertness, I visited Posie Gets Cozy, a very, very pretty blog http://rosylittlethings.typepad.com/posie_gets_cozy/ and one that I have taken to visiting frequently, and what do I see but her living room, so clean, so lovely, so complete, with pets who double as adorable photo props. One doggie. One kitty. Not a slipcover in sight, but there are pillows she made herself, and gorgeous draperies (she probably made them herself, too). I want that. I do. Yesterday. Now. After all, as a songwriter once said: "time hurries by, we're here and gone." It's true. It is.
So. There you go. My day. Bobby Goren from L & O:CI seasons 1-4, save me. Save me from leaking roofs. Save me from careless contractors. Save me from myself. Quick. There's no time to waste. None. Because time hurries by. We're here and gone. Etc.
The Bathroom Drama, Part 2: I had to laugh July 13, 2008 19:04 2 Comments
I beg your indulgence once more, kind and generous readers, for the bathroom drama continued today. I was reading Diana: Her True Story (I know. I should be embarrassed to publicly admit reading such a biography. Yet . . . ) and sipping iced coffee through a straw. (Again, I admit this willingly. No one is sticking bamboo slivers underneath my fingernails.) I was thoroughly enjoying my Sunday.
Suddenly, I heard hubby yell words that I shall not repeat here, as his dear momma reads this blog with some regularity (bathroom pun accidental). Since he was installing the toilet we purchased yesterday, a beautiful and elegant model by Kohler, I ignored his first outburst. However, my curiosity got the better of me over his next string of expletives. It seems the Memoirs (isn't that a tony name for such a utilitarian device?) was too deep for the space. Yes, the door would swing shut. It would. But a cramped feeling would doubtless ensue, if not overwhelm, once the door closed. And, let’s face it: One spends too much time on that particular seat to be cramped if it can be avoided.
So. Off we motored to Home Depot, where we exchanged our Memoirs model for a shallower American Standard model, the Cadet 3. (Memoirs. Cadet. Memoirs. Cadet. Memoirs. Cadet. Mmmmm. . . Which is the better name? You decide.) Now, let me muse here, please: Why would a company name a product after a student who attends military school? Is this a decorating motif that I have missed? A motif that Elle Décor and House Beautiful have overlooked as well? But American Standard apparently believes this is a decorating look to strive for. Their description of the Cadet: "A timeless look you’d expect to find at an academy." Well, perhaps. But what about the wayward urine spatters?
And the day got even better. Really. We returned home with our new timeless toilet. And oh joy! It fit. I returned to the travails of Lady Di, who never once, I feel sure, had to fret about such a mundane thing as whether a toilet fit into a small space. His Bertness returned to his DIY project. I won’t bore you with all the details. But. He had to return to the hardware store TWICE before I heard the sound of flushing.
Lest you think I spent the entire day in bed with iced coffee and Andrew Morton, I’ll have you know that I went to church, did the dishes, filed (I get gold stars for that) and cooked dinner. So there. And tomorrow, I’ll get back to fashion, sewing, the good stuff. I promise.
You know, the new toilet isn't half bad. And there's not a single spatter on it.
The Bathroom Drama: "And her tears flowed like wine" July 12, 2008 19:25
Let me tell you about my day, dear readers, a day that had nothing to do with sewing, not even a subconscious avoidance of said terrifying craft. Today’s drama started last night, and it seemed much more manageable then, ever so much, well, cheaper. Bear with me, be patient, please, as I tell you this soggy tale. And, yep, it is soggy. Wait and see.
If only I had been sewing. But.
Oh, and I must warn you right here, before your eyes go any further, that if you are an effete, high-minded, sensitive sort, you'll want to stop reading here. I will not be responsible if you proceed.
So. To get back to my story. I was dressing for our ballroom dance last night, and I went into hubby’s bathroom for something. Don’t even ask me what I needed from his bathroom, because I don’t remember. I don’t remember at all. The memory was obliterated by the nasty feel of wet carpet underneath my bare feet. Not squishy wet. Uncomfortable wet. Expensive wet. I quickly left the bathroom to get His Bertness, taking as few steps as possible. I could feel the germs rushing up the soles of my feet, over my calves, my thighs, enveloping my entire body. Eeeeeewwwwwwwggggghhh. I could already see money being sucked down the drain. (Cheap bathroom pun intended.) Hubby thought it must be the toilet. He felt the floor around the base of it, it was damp, B follows A, it makes so much sense. Right? So, this morning, we went to Home Depot, we bought a toilet. We came home.
Oh, and did I tell you we were having friends over for dinner? Well, yes, we were. But.
So, as I was saying, we returned home. Hubby ripped up the carpet. (I interrupt this story to tell you that I am not the kind of person who would ever put carpet in a bathroom. What a dirty idea. What do you do if the toilet overflows? The feces is there, in your carpet, forever, with germs begetting germs begetting germs begetting ever more germs. Neither would I choose the ugly brown vinyl that lurked beneath the carpet. Whatever my flaws — and I have many — a taste deficiency is not one of them.) Hubby took a break. Hubby returned to his task. Hubby discovered the leak wasn’t from the toilet. No. It was so much worse. So very much worse. More detective work (which included the joyous task of peeling down wallpaper — can you beat that task for fun on a rainy Saturday afternoon?) revealed that the southern and eastern walls of the bath were soaked from ceiling to floor. Now hubby thinks that gutters are the cause of the leak. I think expensive. Very expensive. Yes, new drywall will be involved. And probably new gutters. (Gentle, beseeching advertisement inserted here: Buy more patterns and jewelry from The Blue Gardenia, where the patterns are counted, the jewelry is sparkling, yada yada. Oh. I'll make it easier for ya: thebluegardenia.com)
Needless to say, I did not make tortilla soup and chocolate shortcake for friends. Needless to say, we dined out. Needless to say, I did not work on my sewing area. Needless to say, I did not cut out my pattern. Needless to say, I feel bloated from restaurant food.
But as a great poet once said: Life sucks, then ya die.
Editor's hat note: As careful, hard-working writer's hat was doublechecking usage of further/farther, a glass of water was spilled on her keyboard. She has since taken to her bed with the vapors, armed with smelling salts and a tattered — but dry — copy of Madame Bovary.
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