Tidbits . . .
-- I need someone to give me $5,000 so I can have my own private episode of "What Not to Wear," minus the obnoxious American hosts. Heck, if someone wanted to pony up $500, I'd be all about it. Or even just fifty bucks; I'm not that picky right now. Even though I am desperate, desperate for new clothes that don't immeadiately shove me into the "dumpy" category, I have been loathe to spend on myself. Every spare dime is earmarked for the unplanned vacation in six weeks. I can't even justify Target or Old Navy.
Speaking of the unplanned v acation, I do not have much in the way of "resort wear." This could be bad.
-- I need someone to give me $500,000 so I can buy my dream home. It's an arts and crafts "bungalow" near downtown which just landed on the market again and I covet (COVET!) it.
Why, yes, it is worth breaking the tenth commandment. You'd probably covet this house too. It has hardwood floors, wood-framed windows, a front porch and a claw foot tub -- catnip to a girl kicking it in wall-to-wall suburbia. The neighborhood's gorgeous, too with old growth trees, landscaping, grass. No wonder it's $425,000.
The deal-breaker (besides my inability to triple my mortgage payment) is the lack of garage space. We need at least two bays and enough room for tires, tops and tools and this joint only seems to offer on-street parking. I'm sure the imaginary neighbors would just LOVE having the street closed off for WMD tech days.
So no house.
-- Bill Bryson's newest offering, "The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid," is quite an excellent offering and I highly recommend it, though I don't know if it'd reasonate with you quite the same way. For one, my dad probably won't be narrating in your head when you read it. It's the damnest thing. These vignettes of his experiences growing up in the 1950s share the same tone of humor and ruefullness of my father's stories.
For another, I have had a thing for Bill Bryson lately. Since the end of the summer, I've worked through "A Sunburned Country," "Notes from a Small Island," "Neither Here Nor There," "I'm a Stranger Here, Myself," and "A Short History of Nearly Everything." There hasn't been a week since Labor Day when there wasn't at least one Bill Bryson in the bedside table pile. "Thunderbolt Kid" couldn't have come at a better time.
-- The plan is to make tamales from scratch this weekend. I've never actually done this, and it feels like cheating because Tamales Are a Christmas Food and it's not even Halloween yet.
-- The plan also involves making sushi (or at least sushi-esque rolls) this weekend, another culinary parlor trick I've never tried.
-- I am really, really screwed when it comes to the revisions.
-- My parents' cat is the friggin' James Bond of the kitty kingdom. He has to have his Friskies shaken, not stirred. I am not making this up; we discovered it while we were cat-sitting over the weekend. The waddly little beastie won't even touch his din-din until the closest human reaches over, picks up the food bowl and gives it a hearty shake. Only then, when the pointy kibble has been agitated to the top of the heap, will he eat. Damnest thing ever.
And finally,
-- Buttercup still likes the yogurt.
-- I need someone to give me $5,000 so I can have my own private episode of "What Not to Wear," minus the obnoxious American hosts. Heck, if someone wanted to pony up $500, I'd be all about it. Or even just fifty bucks; I'm not that picky right now. Even though I am desperate, desperate for new clothes that don't immeadiately shove me into the "dumpy" category, I have been loathe to spend on myself. Every spare dime is earmarked for the unplanned vacation in six weeks. I can't even justify Target or Old Navy.
Speaking of the unplanned v acation, I do not have much in the way of "resort wear." This could be bad.
-- I need someone to give me $500,000 so I can buy my dream home. It's an arts and crafts "bungalow" near downtown which just landed on the market again and I covet (COVET!) it.
Why, yes, it is worth breaking the tenth commandment. You'd probably covet this house too. It has hardwood floors, wood-framed windows, a front porch and a claw foot tub -- catnip to a girl kicking it in wall-to-wall suburbia. The neighborhood's gorgeous, too with old growth trees, landscaping, grass. No wonder it's $425,000.
The deal-breaker (besides my inability to triple my mortgage payment) is the lack of garage space. We need at least two bays and enough room for tires, tops and tools and this joint only seems to offer on-street parking. I'm sure the imaginary neighbors would just LOVE having the street closed off for WMD tech days.
So no house.
-- Bill Bryson's newest offering, "The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid," is quite an excellent offering and I highly recommend it, though I don't know if it'd reasonate with you quite the same way. For one, my dad probably won't be narrating in your head when you read it. It's the damnest thing. These vignettes of his experiences growing up in the 1950s share the same tone of humor and ruefullness of my father's stories.
For another, I have had a thing for Bill Bryson lately. Since the end of the summer, I've worked through "A Sunburned Country," "Notes from a Small Island," "Neither Here Nor There," "I'm a Stranger Here, Myself," and "A Short History of Nearly Everything." There hasn't been a week since Labor Day when there wasn't at least one Bill Bryson in the bedside table pile. "Thunderbolt Kid" couldn't have come at a better time.
-- The plan is to make tamales from scratch this weekend. I've never actually done this, and it feels like cheating because Tamales Are a Christmas Food and it's not even Halloween yet.
-- The plan also involves making sushi (or at least sushi-esque rolls) this weekend, another culinary parlor trick I've never tried.
-- I am really, really screwed when it comes to the revisions.
-- My parents' cat is the friggin' James Bond of the kitty kingdom. He has to have his Friskies shaken, not stirred. I am not making this up; we discovered it while we were cat-sitting over the weekend. The waddly little beastie won't even touch his din-din until the closest human reaches over, picks up the food bowl and gives it a hearty shake. Only then, when the pointy kibble has been agitated to the top of the heap, will he eat. Damnest thing ever.
And finally,
-- Buttercup still likes the yogurt.
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