My mom can't come to the blog right now. I've sent her to the laundry room until she knows how to behave. She woke up on the wrong side of the web this morning, and after a day of running errands and getting labwork done, she returned home with a scowl on her puss and an even WORSE attitude. I swear I heard her say "Stewey, I'm a compassionate Mommie, but I feel like I could kick a kitten through an electric fan" before she stomped to the bathroom for an Excedrin Migraine.
I'm having none of it, I tell ya', so I marched her fanny into the laundry room and shook my paw at her with a few stern "BAD GIRL"s thrown in for good measure. I chose the laundry room because there's no window in there and I figured a few hours of sitting in the dark might be good for her. (Also, when I was a baby she thought that was the best place to "train" me since it has linoleum floors, and I've never recovered from the trauma of it all. All I have to say on THAT subject is...paybacks are hell.)
She better shape up, or Christmas Day will find her sitting alone on a bus bench someplace. (I may not be able to reach the pedals on the car, but if I enlist my pesky cousin Bosco's help, we can usually get around pretty well with me steering and shouting "GO! STOP! BRAKE HARDER!" as we motor down the road.
Last night I put a new project into q-snaps, plopped it into mo-ther's lap, and here's what she came up with:
Ridiculously pitiful, I know. I had hoped that this would snap her out of her slump, but all she did was bitch and bitch about the color of the reindeers. Apparently, Mommie Dearest thinks she is the world's foremost leading authority on reindeer colors, and this DMC 801 isn't to her satisfaction. The chart called for DMC 898 (a fact that she pointed out about a bazillion times already), but we don't have that color and I'll be damned if I'm going to go all the way to the Michaels for a skein of floss. I can hardly wait until she gets to the DMC 951 I picked out for Santa's face (in lieu of the called-for 758). I'm sure we'll have a forty-five minute diatribe on the PROPER skin tone of a man who lives at the North Pole, and how a rosy-cheeked complexion is essential to the complete Santa experience. I swear, if she wasn't such a bag of doorknobs and so easy to push around I'd trade her in already. (I just know I could have thrived with a smarter owner.)
The mailman has just delivered the next installment of the Raymond Crawford "Merry Christmas" canvas, so I FINALLY have the perfect antidote to this foul weather that is upon us here at Chez Spinster. In a few hours, I'll let the old lady out of the laundry room and if she doesn't tork me off too too much I'll go ahead and let her have the package. One word, however, and I'll bury this thing so deep she'll need two hands and a flashlight to even THINK about finding it.
So that's all the news from Lake WoeBeSpinster today, kids. Never fear. I've got a naughty list and I'm not afraid to use it! I hope that you have a splendid weekend wherever you are and that something spectacular happens to you today!
With love from your pal,