My mom can't come to the blog right now. She's in her closet with a plastic tiara perched atop her head, dancing about hollering "They LIKE me! They really really LIKE me!" I fear that extreme measures will need to be taken, or not one damn thing will be done around here, because Her Royal Highness won't be able to fit that massive ego of hers through any existing doorways. Do you people see what I have to contend with when you write such lovely things about my whacky nutjob of a mo-ther? Do you know how hard it is for me to bring her back down to earth after she's read comments that tell her she's funny and wonderful and responsible for the earth turning on its axis every other day?
I'm begging you. Please...in the name of all that is holy....DON'T ENCOURAGE HER!
Believe me when I tell you that she gets all the validation she needs around here and that telling her that she's responsible for any part of your day going well is not a good idea. This only makes her want to please you further and we all know that nothing good can come of that. So next time she ruminates on the meaning of life or questions her pitiful little place in the world...just let it go. You must trust me about this. We will all be much better off in the long run if the woman I live with doesn't get too cocky.
Onward. Shall we?
The honeymoon is nearing an end with Frank. I'm assuming that the squiggles around his moustache and beard are the source of the problem, since Mom sat in the Happy Chair for about four hours last night trying to figger it out. She did manage to stitch Frank's hands and face in a way that I think looks pretty good, but those squiggles has her in sixes and sevens. The last thing she did before tucking me in to bed for the night was to go upstairs to get a #32 braid that she remembered she had from another project. I think she's going to try to squiggle that back and forth around the grey velvet and call it a day. Then, all that's left is the fur and we'll have ourselves one very funky Frank Santa.
That's the Thursday report from Chex Spinster. On behalf of my silly mo-ther, please allow me to thank you from the bottom of our hearts for your swell comments on the last post, but icks-nay on the comments-ay, right?
Don't do anything I would do today. (This, of course, will mean that your draperies will remain clean and pressed, and that you won't feel compelled to torture a poor unsuspecting spinster into giving you as many cookies as your little tummy can hold.)
With much love from your pal,