The Cool Feature & The Great Bookscape, Official Uncensored Second Edition.

Dearest Loverlings of My Heart,

Yes! Victory! I have discovered the Blogger feature which enables me to add up to ten of you to a mailing list of this humble blog. Do not adjust your sets: you have read right. Whenever I publish, ten of you lucky happies will receive an e-mail. I am not sure yet whether you will receive the full contents of the post, or if you get a cool teaser, or if you get an automatically generated message such as:

Dear Blah,
Mademoiselle has just published a new post on Elucubrations (whoop-deee-doo, really), and so, you know, whatever, check it out if you want. If you're not in the mood, we think reruns of either Frasier or The Golden Girls are on. Or you can try bouncing a ball on your nose, although don't make the ball too big, it may hurt a bit. Let us know how it turns out. No, no...not really.
Cheerio and best regards and sincerely and all that,
- The Guys at Blogger.

So, I have no idea. I've put three of you on the list so far (lucky bastards!), let me know how it turns out.

Also, I forgot to tell you this: I am doing something which I've already done, but which I really, really want to do again. Are you reading a book these days? ANY book counts. (Yes, even a do-it-yourself fix-your-car book.) Oh - sorry, the Little Person Living Inside My Head had returned from a very, very long vacation, and is attempting to squeeze herself in here. Gimme a minute. Sorry. Look the other way, if you want. This happens in written form.


ME: Hello, Little Person Living Inside My Head. What's up? Oh - nice loincloth, once again.
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Hi. Thanks. So my fix-your-car book works? I'm trying to blend in and participate. You know, with your Throng of Readers and all.

[Editorial Note: Since writing "Little Person Living Inside My Head" very often is a bit tedious, I will shuffle the letters and give it a name. Hang on. *shuffle, shuffle, shuffle*. Ah - very nice. Little Person Inside My Head will henceforth be known as Limpy. Simple. Efficient. Editorial Note over.]

ME: Nice. You disappear all this time and hop back in here like - I don't know, like you are welcome.
Limpy: I am welcome. I am an extension of you. Plus I'm funny. So, suck it, right?
ME: Right. *sigh* What do you want?
Limpy: I want to be a part of your thing. So my fix-the-car book is okay? You sure?
ME: Yes.


Okay - we're back. Where were we? Yes. Being Readers. I suspect most of you are Readers, even if it's for business. Get your book: I'll wait...seriously. Go. It's on the nightstand/living room table/dryer/backseat/the roof.


Got it? Good. Those of you who have been following since 2006, good for you. Do it again.

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the next 4 sentences as a comment to this blog.
5. Don't you dare dig for that "cool" or "intellectual" book in your closet! I know you were thinking about it! Just pick up whatever is closest. Even if it's up on the roof. Weirdo.

Now - do your Loverly Duty and let me know what it says on page 123. I'll let you know what mine says if you respond. Cheerio, and all that, sincerely.

Close the door, please.

In my simple yet complicated uneventful life, some things happen which I would like to redo. Things I say to people (foot in mouth situations), judgments I have passed on opinions and the opinionated, and generally, things I regret. That's normal, right? So far, so good. Life, however, my Assiduous Compadres, is not built as such. You know that. I knew that. Everybody remotely sane (hereby excluding many, many people, unfortunately) knows that.

This even applies to my crafterly pursuits, believe it or not. I'll start knitting something, carefully choosing my yarn, and I'll spend three or four weeks working on it, loving it, fondling it, and being proud of how awesome it's going to look. Generally, just so you know, I knit things which are shaped like rectangles. One morning, I will wake up, sit on the sofa, open the knitting drawer, pull out my project and start pulling on the yarn to destroy it. I am no longer satisfied, and no longer have any interest in finishing it. I feel no pain. I wind the yarn back onto its ball, and begin a new project. This may seem harsh and pointless. I understand why you may think that. At this point, the rectangle thing is probably ten or twelve inches long. But to me, this is a form of control: I decide and assume the decision. I control the outcome, and I have to power to undo something I have done. It feels good, even if sometimes it is slightly guilt-tinged and can make me wish I had spent my time on something I would actually finish. Okay - now those of you who want to hypothesize and try to apply this theorem to other things in life just to see if it works, be my guest. It works. *wink*

Today, I have things on my list. I have been putting them off for a very long time. But first, for your enjoyment, and as a sort of 'case in point' thing, here are the things which have been started and not finished.

All in all, fifteen projects which, in the last 5 years, have not been completed. Maybe I should stick to one thing at a time. I think I'm going to go start something new.

Grievances.

We have been wanting this for so long.

Sometimes, we have been patient. Sometimes not so much.
We have made sacrifices and have had to give up very, very important parts of ourselves.
These has been doubt and there has been loss.

It is happening to loved ones - we are genuinely happy for them because we truly care - they are our friends - but our inner selves, once the giddiness has subsided and the hugs are given,  glaze over, take a deep breath and ask "Why not us? If not now, when?"

Does one have to grieve endlessly? Really? Is November making this worse?

Fibre Love.

Last Saturday morning, my Loverlies, I woke up really early.

I don't know why. I would have liked to sleep in. Anyhoo...

I went upstairs, yawned for a while, sitting in the stairs between the kitchen and the living room, scratched behind a few cat ears and slowly made my way to the kitchen after having drawn back the curtains in the dining room. I am realizing, writing this, that I am making my house sound huge. It is. I live in a mansion, have I not told you? I have sold most of my estates, such as the chalet in Switzerland and my pad in Hamburg, but have yet to find a suitable owner for the one in Brazil. It's...I don't know - it's too beautiful, although it reminds of my villa in Costa Rica, but I cannot part with it.

(Several hours later)

Hello, Loverlies! How are you? Been here long? What? I was talking about my estates and I was using my John Cleese voice? Oh, dear. I am SO sorry. I sleepwalk. That happens. Let's start over.

Last Saturday morning, I woke up really early. I'm talking 5:15, which is my weekday wake-up time. I went upstairs, sat in the stairs, scratched behind a few cat ears and slowly made my way to the kitchen to make some coffee. I was planning on sitting in the living room to watch a movie until The Man woke up. He sleeps through almost anything, but I was feeling rather lazy and looking for an excuse to sit in my jammies and sip coffee, so I chose a few Pixar classics and sat down, headphones on, with my knitting. Just as I was starting the movie, I heard some scratching noises coming from the corner of the living room.  "Come on, Ezio. Lie still. The Man is asleep. Don't start now..." I begged him. But Ezio was doing his groundhog pose, sitting up on his hind legs, looking at my knitting cabinet intently. I swear, he does this. The hind legs thing.

I walked over slowly, and sure enough, there was a weird scratching noise coming from inside the drawer. "F*%@ing mice", I thought. I cracked open the drawer ever so slowly, baseball bat held three-quarters of the way down in my left hand, ready to wield the Fury of Almightyness into their helpless little faces and completely smash my beloved knitting cabinet. Well, not really. Knowing me, I would have collected the mice by their little tails while making gentle cooing sounds and put them in a shoebox for the day, given them human names such as Edward, Elliot and Ingrid and fed them some grated carrots and pieces of cheese. I would then have taken them to the park and set them free.

What really happened, though, as I know you are all sitting on the edge of your chairs, is this. I cracked open the drawer, and here is what saw:

"What the heck?" I thought. So I took a closer look. It seems my embroidered Squibbit is loving my Sock Monkey. (the Monkey's not really, technically, a Sock Monkey which I made, but he used to live on a sock, and I saved him from Doom and am keeping him for some other project. Turns out he was showing the Squibbit how to monkey around...ahem...) Don't they look happy?

They look almost as happy as Ezio does with his white ribbon. He looks like he's going to a wedding or something. I got this off a gift wrapping and he loved it, so I put it on his collar for 15 minutes. The Man would like me to tell you that I have a mental illness, although I am not sure what he is referring to.

Musings.

In life, my Dear Handsome and Sexy Loverlies, there are times when you say: "Hmm. I really should do something about this."

So you talk about it to a few, select people. They look at you in a very polite, kind of sideways fashion, and state the obvious (although what they are truly doing is attempting to get rid of you and your weird, over-imaginative way to see the most trivial of events): "That is very interesting - you should write about it!" You feel gratified. You feel like your overly active imagination finally has heard its call, and ultimately, you think "I knew it. There is something to be done about this."

I've been a user of my city's transit system (i.e. the bus, I'm just trying to make it sound fancy) for as long as I've lived here. I don't drive alone yet: I'm working on it. The bus is a microcosm. It includes everything society includes, albeit at varying levels of accuracy and intensity, but it's all there.  The happy and the unhappy, the intriguing,  the snobs and the hippies, rich and poor, people who take showers and others who don't. Mysterious people, bullies, and old farts who want to teach you lessons on life and how you should follow their precepts to be just like them. (You knew when they started talking that you did not want to be like them).


Today is a grand day, for I am launching a new series. It's called: *drum roll*:

Guess What I Saw/Heard/Did On The Bus!

Wait. I don't like that title. It's too...I don't know. It doesn't work, you know? I don't actually ever do anything on the bus, except read, observe people, and listen to music. Sometimes, if I'm taking the bus with someone, I'll talk to them. Let me think about it. Maybe it'll be something a little more playful. Something like...

The Bus Chronicles

Ah. There. I could write a book, but not in these conditions (this was taken as I finished writing this post, at 6:50 this morning: sorry, it's a bit dark, but you get the point):

We're the Blog Police. Fear Us...Are you done yet?

Magnificence.

Today, you computer-using Legion of Lovelies (all four of you), you are blessed with two tributes.

First, I will celebrate my favorite backyard with pictures I took last time I went to this magical getaway which, happily enough, is about twenty minutes away from my house. I last went one week ago and it was - for lack of a better word - magnificent (hence the title of this post). Thank you to V for her hospitality, her patience, her love and the way she sets a table and gives life to plush toys. She makes my life even more delicious than it already is. (Huh - a third tribute which I had not even planned for...)

I will then link to a great hommage to language which was put into the most eloquent words I've heard and seen in a really long time. It's not so much the words themselves individually, but the way they are knit together, the seamless musicality, the yumminess, in short. So sit down, take six minutes and thirty-three seconds to savor this literary soup, and let me know what you think. It goes down really well with hot chocolate, a Pinot Grigio or whatever you have at home, and it is completely up to you to decide which will accompany this feast best. Personally, I favored the classic: a martini. It is Friday evening, after all. It (the literary soup, not the martini) was concocted by the great Stephen Fry, who, among other things, is endowed with one of the most pleasant voices I've ever known.

Without further ado, enjoy the yumminess. First, my magical getaway:

Wasn't that extraordinary? I am in awe. You can smell the leaves and want to jump in them too, don't you? And now, I give you dessert, because you ate all of your plate: have you got your glass of something yummy? Click here, and cheers. *ching!*

In retrospect: Easter Eggs

Remember a few months ago, when I told you about my Easter egg-making extravaganza? Well, here's how it turned out (thank you to the photographer extraordinaire for the lighting and also for caring enough to take pictures of the first Easter eggs I make as an adult):

Hideout.

Since Ezio joined the family, Boo has had his patience tested over and over again. I think that's why he escaped for a few days at some point: to get some perspective and mull things over. Boo has acquired a bad ass personality, and he shuts down Ezio with one paw to the head. The funny thing is, Ezio always comes running back for more. Loves it. He doles out most of the abuse, though, and is frequently caught in the act of booting Boo from a quiet spot or generally acting out to piss Boo off. I mean, look. Case in point. He always has the mischievous face, even this morning:

 

We've never seen the two of them be affectionate to one another and I know you can't force these things (I've tried taping them to one another with duct tape and locking them in the bathroom, to no avail), but I still feel bad that Boo gets kicked around like that. I was fascinated when I saw Ezio wash Boo's face yesterday. Boo did not move. He had his teeth bared, but kept still as as statue and let Ezio do the grooming. He eventually turned and - lighting quick - whacked him upside the head, when Ezio bit his ear. I know he has reached wit's end when he goes here (the little one doesn't have an inkling that this place exists):

The top of the kitchen cupboards: perfect hideout.

It worked. That little runt can't find me now. Mwahahahargh. Sucker.

Sometimes, Boo lets his guard down and migrates back down to earth with the rest of us. He still loves his spot on The Man's ugly blanket. 

I swear: one day that blanket will 'accidentally' burn or be used for the rag it is. As long as it makes him happy, I can't take it away from him. I am not that mean and controlling. So in the meantime, I bleach the hell out of it in the hopes that the fabric eventually disintegrates. It's the only thing I can do about it...it's a slow, tedious process, but mark my words: I will prevail. Oh yes, I will prevail (okay, I don't really hate it that badly...ahem).

Maddies.

It was eight-thirty on Saturday morning. I was looking forward to the evening 's celebration of The Man's birthday. We celebrated it three times, this year, because he turned thirty-three. We didn't really plan it that way, to be honest, it just kind of happened. So there I was, sitting in front of the PC, trying to figure out what to serve with ze apéro. I had almond-stuffed queen olives and pretzels, but I needed something homemade to go with the stuffed mushrooms I was about to make. Two of our friends were bringing champagne, imported directly - via suitcase - from France. And I stumbled upon a recipe which, lo and behold, required ingredients which I already had in the pantry and fridge. Well, almost all the ingredients. Behold - the madeleines aux herbes!

Wait. Before I proceed, a disclaimer:

I have a camera now. That, my Loverlies, means that I take pictures of absolutely everything. And since 2005, when I started blogging, I promised myself that when I got a camera, I would  post pictures of food, knitting and flowers. And cats, obviously. So tough luck for you, you must suffer through the pictures. They are part of my art. Disclaimer over.

Where was I? Ah yes. Behold - the madeleines!

I had never made madeleines. I had never eaten madeleines. How adventurous am I, right? To make something you've never tasted! Oh, the boldness! The courage! The sheer nerve!

I had heard about them, of course, and was intrigued when Ross flaunted his mad madeleine-making skills on Friends. I even own a madeleine baking mold, but have been pushing it back in the cupboard because I was scared of it. I thought, for some reason, that they were very difficult to make. Well, I have succeeded, and the result is moist, browned to perfection, and I must specify, this is a savory version of the more classic, usually sweet little cake. The result was perfect, if I may say so myself, even if I had to substitute a few ingredients. The recipe is on http://www.ricardocuisine.com. Enjoy.

Live Things.

As promised, Legion of Unwavering Fans, here's my balcony (in July). Right now, it looks nothing like that. Enjoy:

 In the evening. Very cozy.

Delicious yellow tomatoes...

My herb garden, with (bottom to top): lemon thyme, chives, miniature purple basil, rosemary and more lemon thyme.

The little flowers that could: they saved my not-so-hot flower boxes this year. They're still alive and kicking right now....and they're the only ones left. I am definitely getting more next year.

The small, yellow flowers you see on the right were very nice at the greenhouse when we got them. They are edible: I tried them once in a salad but wasn't overly impressed. They were supposed to stand about one foot and a half tall: I was looking forward to having a bit of a wall of flowers to give us some intimacy on the balcony. However, the wind flattened and bent them and they kind of hung there all summer, half broken and sad.

The ensemble, not yet grown in. The other hanging plant on the right is basil. Notice this is your first partial view of The Man, enjoying his morning coffee in his jammies.

Simpler Moments.

Happiness. Total abandon.

When in Doubt, Post on Thy Blog.

Campanula Lactiflora

There are many things in life which really impress me. I am, I must admit, easily impressed.

For example, everything which stirs passion in people really impresses me. You could be having dinner with me and casually state that your love of staplers has moved you to purchase, collect and organise them in order of make, model, size and colour, and I would be completely flabbergasted. Honestly, I'd be curious as to why you haven't taken to, say, collectible cars or hockey jerseys, but I'd impressed all the same. Casually having a sip of that fine wine I would have bought, I confess I would also reconsider our friendship or ever inviting you over for dinner again. I'm just saying, there are such things as sociopaths and limits. Just kidding. I don't mean to judge you, or anything.

Cool collections? Let me illustrate.A friend of mine collects iron rests. I think that is what they are called. Way back when, they used to have those on the ironing board to rest their irons on to avoid burning the board. Now we have those fancy schmancy irons which, in addition to being electric, have the useful feature which allows you to stand them up and you don't have to hold them or anything. Back to my friend's iron rests. They are magnificent! That is a collection I have the utmost respect for, because as useless as they are nowadays (unless you still use vintage iron irons just like in the olden days), they are really beautiful, add some serious curio factor to your home (because you have them lined up on a shelf or on small nails on a wall in an esthetically pleasing way), and they are an interesting conversation piece. Case in point: I've just written a whole paragraph on them and it's not even my collection. Kudos to my friend for providing me with this material to work with!

Another thing which impresses me to no end is nature. I am impressed by its raw power, and by the way mankind thinks it masters it and then gets it in the face (such as the BP spill in the Gulf of Mexico). I am taken aback by its fortitude and fragility. But on a more down to earth note, I have always wanted a backyard of my own I could lose myself in, just to be a little more in touch with nature. I think I have explained before that our backyard is shared with the other 24 units where we live, so there is no privacy, really, and decisions regarding said backyard must be voted upon by the co-owners. Luckily, I have friends who have really nice backyards, where I periodically escape.

The Man and I were at our friends' place yesterday afternoon, and they have the most beautiful yard I have ever seen. It's huge! It's got woods in the back, and a garden (which I got to water, with a huge smile on my face the whole time), and little glass lanterns hanging from a tree in the middle which also supports two hammocks. It has a dining table and a picnic table a little further. It has potted plants, hanging flowers, and lots of grass. The flowers in the gardens could be little fairy houses, and there are little fairy houses set among the flowers. They are, in fact, bird houses, but the birds have all these trees to live in and don't tend to live in houses on the ground among the flowers, especially not when there are a bunch of cats roaming around. Fairies, on the other hand, love little houses among the flowers. Or so the Pixies told me. Anyway. I was in heaven yesterday. I laid in the cool grass after a copious lunch, looked up at the leaves stirring above in the trees, walked barefoot in the moss, making a mental inventory of all the things growing, and took deep breaths with my eyes closed. It was quite literally magical.

I felt alive. And it was very, very good.

Boo & Ezio.

Boo. Now seems huge, more graceful and mature. Great mentor for Ezio.

Ezio. Includes thumbs, folded ears and ruckus at night. Cuteness Factor: Eleven.

Still figuring out territory issues and buddy boundaries.

Antipodes.

Last Friday started off very brutally and ended with a happy surprise. Now you get the title of this post. You don’t need to read this if you don’t want to, it gets graphic and I just need some sort of outlet. Warning: there are no Little Pixies that Rule the World in this post, nor are there references to Boo, my awesome Cat who talks like James Mason.

Early in the morning, I heard noises in the entrance hall and staircase of my building. People going up, people coming down. Stamping their feet. Running. Then I heard an engine running outside my bedroom window. Newspaper Guy comes around 5 a.m. It wasn’t him. So I looked out the window and saw an ambulance, a cop car and a fire engine. I instantly freaked out. About 5 minutes later, one of the firemen took out the gurney from the ambulance and laid a blanket and pillow on it. By this time, I had gathered something had happened to my upstairs neighbor, as he had undergone surgery a few weeks back. I thought he wasn’t feeling well, and that he needed to go back to the hospital. I just did not expect to see him like this. The ambulance tech was practically jumping up and down on him, trying to revive him. He was not responding, and I’m guessing they had been trying upstairs too. He was grey, he was dead, and I lost it.

Why did I stay at the window? I couldn’t look away: I’ve known this guy almost 4 years. We spoke 3 days before in the garage. He was my neighbor. With all my might, I was willing him to open one eye: to turn his head away from me, to breathe, damn it, breathe! He was not my best friend or a member of my family, but his death hurt me deeply. And the image of him, dead on a gurney outside my bedroom window, will haunt me for a long time to come.

I had my day planned out, but couldn’t just carry on as if nothing had happened. I had to leave. I was crying, pacing alone in my living room, wishing I had not seen what I had seen. So I called my friends and left. I spent the day with them. It made me feel better. When I came home, The Man told me he had an errand to run and he’d be back in an hour. When he returned, he asked me to close my eyes and sit on the sofa. He gently placed something in front of me on the floor. When I opened my eyes, there was a black basket with a fabric drawstring top, closed. When I opened it, two little blue eyes were staring at me from the depths of the basket. I closed it again. I started crying. I said to the The Man: “Oh no! Boo is going to kill him!” I looked again, and the two little blue eyes mewed at me. Two little beady blue eyes, in a furry little head with folded ears, the sweetest stripes ever and a spotted belly, and four thumbs on its little paws. We called our new little baby cat Ezio, in honor of the character in Assassin’s Creed, Ezio Auditore da Firenze. The Man had been planning this surprise for over a month with a couple of friends of ours. I had held this little furball when he was two days old, and had fallen in love with him then. But he would never be mine, or so I thought…Now I fall in love with him every time I look at him. I know, it’s corny. But true.

Thanks for putting up with the corniness. When I post pictures of Ezio, you’ll fall under the spell too.

Last Friday started off very brutally and ended with a happy surprise. Last Friday was the first time in my life I cried in panic, in sadness, in surprise and in joy, all within less than twelve hours.

Growing Things.

I’ve never really purchased tools, they were always kind of acquired through different mergers and acquisitions. After we merged our apartments, The Man and I, almost ten years ago, we realized we had lots of everything. We have two hammers, and many screwdrivers of all sizes. The Man owns several micro-screwdrivers for computer geeks. Okay, not just for computer geeks. I’ve fixed a few sunglasses with them. My screwdriver, however, was the kind where all the bits are conveniently stored in the handle – efficient. We somehow found a one and a half foot-long screwdriver in our toolbox, and still don’t know where that came from. We had two dressers, identical, funnily enough, and two pails, and…you get the point.

Since we’ve moved into our really nice condo, I’ve proudly dug my very own flowerbed which, I must admit, is really cool. I was scared. The farthest I had ever been in growing things were the flower boxes I wasted money on when we rented our apartment years ago. The balcony was way too windy for lupins and the only thing I could grow in there were geraniums. Tough little fellas, albeit sticky.

In my 20 by 4 foot flower garden, I have tulips and astilbes, and a bunch of other flowers which I vaguely know the names of in French. The other flowerbeds in the common yard are tended to by a company we pay with our condo fees. But not my garden. It’s all mine. I weed it, water it, and no one is responsible for the way it looks but me. I’m kind of proud of that even when, like today, the weeds are taking over.

So today, besides buying a nice basil plant, I purchased a tool. I think it’s called a border cutter. It will enable me to cut the grass around my garden ever so slightly, which I will do at a 45-degree angle inwards, so that everything looks neat and well taken care of. I will weed, and turn the soil over, add a little bit of top soil, and see what I can separate and what I can add.

I love my little private space, and am looking forward to this week’s nice weather.

Dust.

Sunlight is flirting with the floor, sweeping over the lines and mocking the hour and the trance she has settled into. It teases the dust into shape, making little rainbows of sparkles. Whispers of things past roll by, and the colored specks fall back down in a heap. There is hope, she thinks, half awake. She stretches, looks around, and sighs. What now?

You are not old yet, Silence whispers back. Give yourself some time to figure things out. She rolls over and closes her eyes. An unknown voice crawls into the folds and wakes ancient fears, making itself so present and pushing past the mundane. It breaks the calm: it shouts.

Wake up, now. Stand up and take charge.

Eggs eggs eggs.

Once upon a time, when I was a child, Easter meant thinking hard on religious themes, being confused about it all and then and going to church for what seemed like a super long time. On Palm Sunday, a week before, I was really excited because that meant that nice lady with a fluffy cardigan gave me a palm branch to make a little woven box with, the meaning of which was completely lost to me. All I was hoping for was that my grandfather would give me his palm branch once it was woven. He was really good at weaving his little box into shape, and I'd try to mimic his moves with great care. (I would not be able to do it today if I had a gun to my temple. Well, I would probably come up with some variation.)

My grandfather had this smile in the left corner of his mouth - I suspect his mind was struggling between being kind of frustrated with me wanting his palm thing (thus not getting the meaning of it all) and finding me cute. I was, after all, the first grandchild in both families. They're always the cutest. He evidently tried to explain the whole thing to me, and I was so impressed about the part where people laid their garments and palm branches on Jesus' path I would think about it every time I walked on anything remotely leaf-like outside. I think I probably got caught once walking on my clothes on the floor in my room. Just kidding.

Nowadays, Easter becomes an excuse to eat chocolate or have a family gathering. To me, it is a great holiday, for now I get four days off to do fun things. This year, we're going to our friends' home for part of the weekend, and the weather is supposed to be lovely. We're talking twenty-two degrees and sunny. Smells like skirts, t-shirts and good music to me. Also sounds an awful lot like little paper umbrellas in drinks and dancing barefoot in the grass. (Although, at this time of year in our neck o'the woods, no grass, alas. It's okay, I'll settle for dancing close to the muck mixed with snow that will one day become grass.) Anyhow, I was talking about Easter. Sorry, I got distracted with this weekend's thing. Back to Easter.

I have been looking for a very cool recipe to make for our weekend feast. I have not found anything that made me go 'wow', so I've changed my mind. Instead, I've decided to make Easter eggs. I told The Man I would be wasting six eggs from the fridge. He smiled and said: "Oh cool when my mom did that when I was a kid it looked like a serious pain in the ass." And so off I went, trotted into the kitchen, opened the fridge, picked the nicest brown eggs from the crate (or whatever it's called), and poked holes top and bottom. Found a bowl, and blew the crap out of them to empty the shells. It was really fun. It brought me back to my childhood, to my kindergarten class, I think.

Tomorrow I will paint the eggs with acrylic, in nice patterns, and coat them with matte medium to make them nice and shiny. I'll make a nice gift basket for my friends and I'll be happy to have made an Easter thing while conjuring so many happy childhood memories.

Right now, there are six eggs drying in my dish rack and I'm working really hard not to stay up till two in the morning to paint them now.

Growing Old.

Loyaux Fidèles,
Hordes de Lecteurs et Lecteuses adorés,

Voilà une note de Boulet qui se passe de mots...Enjoy!
Cliquer ici pour voir la note.

Psst...en passant...vous aimez le nouveau look printanier?

The Dream Kitchen Counter.

There are times when I think to myself it would be very, very nice to have a different kitchen counter. Like tonight, for instance. If I had a different kitchen counter, I would be there right now, leaning on my elbows on its ceramic top, deciding what to make for dinner, listening to some cool jazz, and looking out into the dining room. Right now, I can't do that, because there are cupboards in the way. White melamine cupboards. If I lean on my elbows, my forehead leans on the overhead cupboards. Not so sexy.

They are fine, really. They are newish. They are clean. They have nice stainless steel handles. They provide storage space. But - and this is what bugs me - they close off the kitchen. Plus, when I stand at my current kitchen counter, using the sink, all anybody sitting at the dining room table will see is, well, my breast area. I try to work around this slight embarrassment by leaning over and pretending I am ordering a chocolate sundae. People sitting in the dining room do not usually get the joke, so I have to explain. I know. Embarrassing. I actually have to look under the cupboards to look towards the table. Enough complaining. At least I have a) a kitchen and b) a dining room table, let alone a dining room. And breasts. I have breasts, too. I'm a lucky gal.

My dream kitchen counter involves a few things (aside from the fact The Man does not know about my dream kitchen counter):

1. A ceramic top. Did I mention that already? The ceramic is, preferably, terracotta. Or something equally cool (I know, it's very 2005, but I like the look);
2. Drop-down halogen lighting with nice coloured glass lampshades, preferably elongated hand-blown glass. Red. Or - yellow. Oh no - blue. For a warm look. Not the white, cold neon lighting I have right now.
   
3. A built-in sink. And one of those nifty pull-out hose things. To spray people with.
   
4. On one end, open shelves that go all the way to the ceiling, to put plants on. And eventually, any other knick-knack The Man decides to leave there. He does that.
   
5. On the dining-room side, along three-quarters of the length, a recess so I can have two stools there. For making conversation while making dinner. You know, entertaining. Like this:

   "Oh yeah, listen. Super simple. I marinated these scallops overnight in lime juice and I'm just going to sautee them slightly with these shallots and a bit of Pernod. Oh - pass the anchovy paste-filled olives, please? Thanks. Sorry, I drooled. Haha. Yum. Want some wine? So anyway, I'm thinking of painting this big ass landscape with a very defined Italian slash Mediterranean feel to it, and just having these huge cedar-like trees in it. Can you hold this for a second? Thanks. What? The painting's already been done? By whom? Oh. Modigliani. Right. Haha. I'll stick to Squibbits, then. Can you give me that thing you were holding? No - not that one. The other one. Thanks. Oh! DOWN! GET OFF THE COUNTER! NO! BOO! OFF THE COUNTER - you little %!*&# - sorry. That cat loves olives, go figure. Wait - Honey? Can you bring up some chairs? What? You're killing zombies? It's okay, babe, hit the start button, they'll wait for you! Haha. That man loves his zombies. So...tell me all about being a plant. Do you like being a plant? Is it a quiet, peaceful life? Do you panic when your soil is dried up? I'm sorry, I know I only water you - what - once a week? Yeah. Is that OK?

All I need now is to keep saving up that non-smoking money to make it happen.

On Lamp Posts

On many a night-time walk, I have been creeped out by lamp posts suddenly turning off when I walked past them or under them. I have always taken this as some kind of sign: my mood must have been so dark or negative, I had surely caused this haze of light to extinguish. I invariably get a shiver down my spine, and try to think happy thoughts all the way to the next lamp post, to avoid turning that one off, too. To date, I have not yet made two turn off in a row. Which surely means my control over my mood is exemplary.

This has happened to me while I was walking with friends, but it has most often happened as I was alone. My most recurring happy thought usually involves Dumbledore and his Deluminator.

Tonight, however, a pleasant surprise: as I tread carefully over the ice on the path between the two buildings leading to my street, I noticed it was unusually dark. I looked up, and thought "Hmm. Burnt-out lamp post bulb." And as I finished thinking that, it turned back on.

I will take it as a sign things are looking up.

Creative Juices.

Good evening, Awaiting Gorgeousnesses!

First of all, I'd like to say this:

WOOOO! We beat Russia 7-3! I didn't actually get to watch the game last night, but man, I wish I had. And now, we'll crush the U.S. in the finals. It's the logical thing to do, right?

And now, to quote Monty Python, for something completely different.

Last night, as I was desperately trying to breathe through my nose (which - by the way - is a thing we take for granted, I assure you), I had a great plan. Since I'm the living incarnation of Germville right now, I decided to spread the joy, or at least scare The Man into thinking I was spreading the joy. I wanted to leave him a note which said: "I've sneezed on your pillow. Sweet dreams honey! xoxo" But I got kind of carried away and wrote him a full-fledged, 8-page book on tabloid-sized (11" X 17") sheets of paper. I had an absolute ball! I've promised myself I would scan it and try to post it here, just to show you guys I can draw.

It includes pictures of a naked princess with pink hair, germs bouncing on a bed and a rhyming story, so, I mean, it's a surefire winner, right? It was worth the three hours it took me to make it, just to see the look on The Man's face as he read it. I'll try to get it on here as soon as possible. I'm kinda proud of it.

Cheers, Legion of Fans!

Wands at the Ready

Greetings!

This, my Avid Rabid Neglected Bunch of Followers (I give you guys way too much credit...or do I?), is my first attempt at No Draft (although you would not know this, but I do. So that is what counts, here).

You have read right: I usually write my posts in some word-processing application, then carefully read it through to make sure there are no typos, then copy/paste it into Blogger. I have been doing it this way since 2006. It has, so far, been very useful, as I sometimes start writing and suffer interruptions of some sort, which results in my hitting CTRL-S and leaving the unfinished post be for a few - ahem - days.

But - fret not! - not this time. I am writing directly into Blogger. Can you feel it? Can you feel the raw, primal and uncorrected flow? (Okay - I just erased the word 'fantasticness' which was in place of 'flow').

Enough about that. Here is the 101 on what my life has been in the past few days. I'm doing it point-form, because if I don't, your eyes will start watering, and then I could be held responsible for your visits at the optometrist, and we all know that would not be a good thing. Here we go, in a completely random procession of fascinatingness (I knew I'd get some kind of 'ness'-ending word in there somewhere...):

• I have been re-reading Harry Potter, and am currently, after a month, at Book 5, also known as The Order of the Phoenix. My desire/need for escape is overwhelming, and the experiment is proving useful. As soon as I crack the book open, I instantly tumble into Harry's world and forget everything else that may be going on.
• I have been feeling rather blue, truth be told, for the past two days, and cannot identify the reason why. Let's put it, for the time being, into the X-Files category. I am sure things will clear up shortly. My life is good, I am blessed with incredible friends and a great, loving family, and I have no reason to complain. (This Little Devil on my right shoulder was hissing into my ear, telling me I am surrounded by depressing, sad events, but I just flicked it into the candle.)
• I went to lunch with a great friend of mine today, whom I am convinced is a Pixie of some sort (although she is a lawyer in the real world) and had a glass of wine with the chicken. Then I went back to work. Then I left for home at 5:30 and forgot my keys on my desk, so rode the bus all the way to The Man's office to get his keys. It took two hours.
• I just finished a Martini.
• I am wondering whether it would be a really Evil thing to have another Martini. I had a shitty day, but I am trying to be really positive about it, so I think I deserve the finer things in life. I think I am thinking this through too much. I'll be right back.

Ahhhh...How liberating! The Magic Wand of writing (if this can be considered as such) has worked its magic again in my soul. I just needed to touch base. Forgive my whining, and thanks for tuning in. See you soon!

A Trip at the Vet's.

Just for the record, this is not my cat. :)

2010: A Knitting Odyssey

Hey Boys and Girls! (But mostly girls, from what I understand...ahem. It's okay.)

I am back. I took a break. This is not my first official post of the year, I just meant this as a teaser. You know, in a drum-roll type of manner. I actually have to go make dinner, because, no matter what the time at the bottom of this post says (I have NOT figured that out yet), it is close to 8 p.m. and I have not yet had dinner. Fascinating, I hear you whisper, your thousands of voices quivering with pity.

What I did want to say, though, before I go reheat my Irish Stew (I know, pretty yum), is that this year is the Year of Knitting. I will try new stitches and patterns, and teach myself crochet.

Don't get me wrong, it won't be just the Year of Knitting. It'll be the Year of a bunch of other things which I cannot discuss right this moment now because, as you may have heard, the Little Pixies That Rule the World have embargoed anyone revealing anything before eight o'clock today. I know. Sucks to be you, doesn't it?

Well, look at it this way, Legions of Loverlies: at least, you'll have something else to look forward to. Besides that other really cool thing you've been looking forward to.

In the meantime, please accept my warmest wishes for a Healthy, Happy, Perfectly Wonderful New Year, and see you soon!

Cheers,

Mademoiselle (and Boo) xoxo