Hi, all! I've finally found a few moments to myself, so I thought I'd drop a quick post about my adventures here in Hoosierville thus far. (Between us chickens, though, the woman who lives in this dump is pretty nuts, so if I have to go suddenly, it's because she's come up with some cockamamie scheme for an afternoon activity and I need to go pretend that I'm napping.)
My arrival started out well enough. I was shown to the guest room and left to my own devices for a pleasant night's rest. I had expected to be greeted by the dog, but apparently he had another engagement, so he left a note of apology with some artisanal chocolates on my pillow.
(I was pretty sure that this was a harbinger of interesting things to come.)
The Spinster Stitcher is, in fact, an idiot. She seems to be completely clueless as to what constitutes proper hostessing duties, and she insists on calling me Millicent, even though that's not my name. My first few days here were spent listening to the vacuum cleaner and running errands with her sister. (You would think that the Mishawaka Target was Mecca the way these two planned their trip there.) It was almost more than I could take.
After being stuffed into a Vera, I was stuck in the car for what seemed like weeks as we drove from place to place....picking up God knows what and then checking things off of lists. (That seems to be a very big past time here.) By the end of the first day I was ready to chuck myself out of the passenger side window, Vera and all.
Finally, a bit of mercy came my way when I heard the pitter patter of little dog feet coming down the hallway.
"Excuse me, Madame. Might I present myself to you? My name is Master Stewey Angus Willowswamp, My Very Little Self, and I would like to apologize that I have been thus far delayed in welcoming you to our little abode. Duties called me out of the country for a few days, and I've just returned. Won't you please allow me to present my calling card?"
With that, he reached into the pocket of his little silk smoking jacket and pulled out an engraved name card.
(And yes, in case you're wondering, I've fallen down the freakin rabbit hole here and am now stuck in some kind of Alice in SpinsterLand hell. Between the 300-pound hummingbird flitting around and the talking dog wearing a smoking jacket, I'm starting to question my mental state.)
After chatting for a bit and having a nightcap (a delightful little sherry from the Basque region, thank you very much), we decided that we would leave the Spinster to do whatever the hell it is that she does and go out on our own for bit the following day.
The dog has a pretty sweet set up around here, I must say. He awakens at 10:30 am to the soothing sounds of a pan flute, and, weather permitting, has brunch on the patio. Amazingly enough, he reads several newspapers cover to cover and then he retires to his boudoir for his morning toilette. By about 4 or so in the afternoon, he's ready to go.
Getting the car out of the driveway without the Spinster seeing us would have been a problem, were it not for the fact that she was planted in front of her computer monitor, drooling over stitching blogs. Her eyes were rather glazed over and she was muttering to herself, so I'm pretty sure that we could have detonated a bomb in the joint and she wouldn't have moved an inch.
Yes, it's true that we had a little fun at her expense getting out of the neighborhood, but before you think us reckless, may I just point out that the dog has a driver? He's a rather large burly man dressed all in black and wearing an ear piece. When I asked him for his name, and he said "Please call me Number Seven", and then promptly whispered something into his shirt cuff. Very mysterious indeed.
After settling in, we were off. Safety first!:
We drove a few miles to a lovely shopping center called Heritage Square. This is a rather new area of Granger, Indiana, and it promises to be quite a beautiful outdoor marketplace once it's fully stocked with shops and restaurants and such. (I did notice, though, that they are in desperate need of a needlework shop.)
The car pulled up in front of SoHo Japanese Bistro, and before I knew it, there was a crew of about ten people opening doors, rolling out red carpets, and practically genuflecting.
"Mr. Willowswamp. How very nice to see you this evening, sir. Your usual table?"
With that we were lead inside to a wonderful booth, and within seconds huge platters of sushi, appetizers, and all sorts of delicacies were set before us.
(You'll notice that I never once abandoned my stitching. How's THAT for dedication?)
I wasn't too sure what everything was, but with a few minutes of instruction from the dog I was off and running and enjoyed one of the best meals I've had in a very long time.
And then it was time for....sake.
I've never had sake before, so I had no idea what to expect. I seemed fine, I really did, but when I tried to stand up to go to the ladies room everything went sideways and I almost landed face first in the koi pond. Wow. Talk about packing a punch!
(I have absolutely no recollection of posing for that picture.)
The next several hours are a bit of a blur, but I am happy to report that Number Seven executed his duties without incident and we made it home safe and sound. I think, though, that we made several other stops after the restaurant, but every time I ask the little dog about it, he just giggles and says "Oh, I can't wait until the photographs are ready".
(I've since learned that there is a team of photographers that follows the little dog's every move, so once the legal team has looked at them and authorized them for publication, I guess I'm going to see just what the heck I did.)
All I know is that I enjoyed myself tremendously and awoke this morning with what can only be described as the Mother of all Hangovers. I mean it. Those guys in the movie have NOTHING on me, and as soon as the floor stops spinning around, I intend to start looking for the nearest Marriott.
I did manage, though, to get Number Seven to drive me back to Target a while ago for some medicine:
The Spinster tells me that we are going to visit the Studebaker Museum and Notre Dame this weekend. She also tells me that she'd like for me to see a little bit of Amish Country, so we might head over to the Shipshewana and Nappanee area for a few hours.
I just hope I don't throw up in the Vera.
I'll write more as my adventures continue. For now, thanks for sticking with me this long, and please come back again soon!
(God knows I'm going to need witnesses).