Nov 29, 2012


I've received a few comments and emails about the large wired box-like structure behind the couch.  Yes, it is indeed what you think it is, but around these here parts we refer to it as Stewey's "apartment".  Aunt Chrissy got so tired of hearing me complain about the PeePalooza situation here at Chez Spinster, that she hauled it in from the garage a few months ago and then had a long talk with you-know-who about how it was to be utilized.  The conversation went something like this:

AUNT CHRISSY:  Stewey, I have a little gift for you.

STEWEY: Oh, Aunt Chrissy!  I just love you so, and can't tell you how much I appreciate all of the lovely gifts that you give to me because I am your very favorite nephew.  Is it an iPad?  A little purple Vespa?  A new smoking jacket?  Did you finally get me that antique valise I've been pricing online? 

AUNT CHRISSY: Well, you're my only nephew, Stewey, but that doesn't mean that you're not very special to me nonetheless.  No, it's not an iPad or a Vespa or a smoking jacket or whatever that last thing was that you said.  It's this (she gestures in the general vicinity of the c-r-a-t-e). What do you think of your new apartment?

STEWEY: (looking somewhat dejected) I think it looks remarkably like the old apartment that I had when I was a puppy and still in training, Aunt Chrissy.  Besides, it doesn't go with the decor in the living room.

AUNT CHRISSY: Neither do your piddles, dear heart.  Now I want you to think of this as your very own private pied a terre.  You know, a little place that you can retreat to for some peace and quiet, or solemn reflection, or when you want to host a little gathering of like-minded friends some evening.

STEWEY:  You mean like my book club or my fabulous replication of Gertrude Stein's Paris Salon'?

AUNT CHRISSY:  Yup.  Exactly like that.  It's your very own apartment.  You may go into it any time you wish, and I promise you that nobody will ever force you to decorate it in a way that will offend your delicate design sensibilities.  Also, this little space will be just for you.  No Bosco or Mo-ther allowed.  OK?

STEWEY: Oh, Aunt Chrissy!  I love it so!  It's just what I needed! 

With that, he jumped into the c-r-a-t-e and hours and hours of vexing frustration (not to mention upholstery cleaning) disappeared.  Every time I leave the house, I say "Stewey, go to your apartment", and he happily hops in for a little confined R&R while I'm gone.  The damn thing has saved my sanity.

So now that we've taken care of this particular problem, I can start shopping for new carpet and furniture and rugs and drapes and anything else that was urine-ally altered by Little Lord Fauntleroy and his magic peenie.  Who could possibly be happier than me?

Nov 28, 2012


So there I was, minding my own business in a dead sleep at 3am when nature called.  This is not unusual for me, especially when you consider that I drink gallons and gallons of fluid all day and don't put the sippy cup down until I finally hit the sheets.  So getting up in the middle of the night to use the facilities is not anything new.

Standing in the doorway hollering bloody murder at the eight foot tall hooligan who had broken in through the back door and was now hulking in a menacing fashion near said back door was, however, quite new.  I screamed loud enough to rattle the windows and blow a vocal cord, and I'm pretty sure that Stewey had a little mini heart attack right there under the covers while wearing his footie pajamas and sleep mask.

OK.  So.  Maybe I should think about putting my glasses on my face when I go to the powder room at 3am.  If I did that, I could avoid mistaking THIS for an eight foot tall hooligan who had broken in through the back door:

Yes, I know it's a Christmas tree.  I'm fully aware of the fact that a Christmas tree is NOT, in fact, an eight foot tall hooligan. 

Here.  Look at it from this angle and imagine that a) it's very very dark in the house and b) you can't see more than seven inches in front of your face without your glasses on:
See what I mean?  Hooligan.

I've promised Stewey that I will leave him alone so that he can catch up on his beauty rest.  I had thought that today would be a good day to decorate the hooligan and clean the house, but I'm thinking that a little bun-toasting in front of the fireplace might be better for this particular spinster's frazzled nerves.

I just wish I could twist myself into this shape and still be comfortable enough to fall asleep.  That way I could say that I'm snoozing AND practicing yoga.  Woo Hoo!  Multi-tasking!

Happy Futzingday!

Nov 26, 2012


Here's how the day was supposed to go:

  • Arise promptly at 7 for a pre-dawn power walk around the block, followed by an invigorating shower and post-shower application of proper hairstyle and makeup.

  • Dress appropriately in a festive sweater, clean jeans, and shoes, along with all accompanying undergarments. 

  • Don coat, scarf, and gloves and head out for labwork, bank, library, and grocery.

  • Return home to decorate the Christmas tree, dust all surfaces, and sweep and wash all floors.

  • Prepare a healthy luncheon and eat it at the table like a human person who knows how to put a napkin in her lap.

  • Tea time with Stewey.  4 o'clock.  

  • Await the arrival of Aunt Chrissy to Chez Little Spinster so that I can call her at 5:35pm to blather on endlessly about my day.

  • Dinner.  Salmon, broccoli, brown rice, apple crisp.

  • Evening stitching and TeeVee watching.

  • Bed for pre-sleep reading and discussion with Stewey.  (This is usually the time he selects for an end of day analysis of my successes and failures as a Mo-ther, a person of somewhat limited homekeeping ability, and a complete disaster in the realm of efficiency and competence.)

Here's how the day has actually gone:

Fall out of bed in a daze and stumble to the back door to let Stewey out for his morning potty.  Stub toe on the way to the treat closet and complain about the fact that it's dark and 47 degrees in the house and nobody in their right mind gets up at the crack of 9 am on a Monday if they don't have to.  Give Stewey his breakfast, stumble back to bed for another hour and a half, and then make it to the kitchen without tripping over the several dozen toys in the dining room because "somebody" doesn't know how to fetch and leaves his crap all over the damn place.  Make coffee, toss back a shot of cranberry juice like it's tequila, and then schlumpadink out to the mailbox to retrieve the newspaper.  Read the paper, figure out the Jumble and the crossword puzzle, head back to the kitchen for eggs on toast.  Check calendar to see what's on the agenda for the day.  Realize that labwork was supposed to be "fasting" while glancing at the breakfast dishes. Shrug shoulders and push it to Wednesday.  Collapse in Happy Chair.  Look at meager progress on Stitching project.  Head back to kitchen for dietCoke.  Decide to run errands tomorrow.  Try to remember if I've taken my adult gummie vitamin D and decide that since they taste like candy anyway, two more won't kill me.  Check email, flip through 300 stitching blogs, lust over stitchy world's beautiful projects and marvel at its progress.  Get sleepy.  Head back to bed for a nap.

At least I have this to look forward to when I wake up from my nap, right?  This is Laura J. Perin's Harvest Moon House.

Nov 25, 2012


The Official 2012 Spinster Sisters Thanksgiving Extravaganza has come to a close and not a moment too soon.  As I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror this morning I made a mental note that went something like this....

Stop eating like you're headed to the chair, Tubbykins.  There's a whole other holiday to go before you get to contemplate joining Weight Watchers for the New Year, and it's quite possible that their scale will not accommodate your girthiness.

Fortunately for me I have a companion who insists on presenting me with the calorie and fat count of everything that's going to go in my big fat maw for the next few weeks, so getting my face out of the trough shouldn't be too terribly difficult.   He does this, of course, not because he loves me deeply, but because he's afraid that there won't be anybody here to put up with his shenanigans if I keel over from a toxic pumpkin pie overdose.

The inside decorations are almost complete.  A few hours slapping balls on the tree and a good tarting up of the fireplace wreath and we should be good to go.  Stewey seems content with this year's efforts, so methinks I might have to hit the PetSmart aisles for a few little goodies for him as a thank you for his cooperation.

I'm headed to the Happy Chair to play with Harvest Moon House tonight.  I had hoped to hit the studio for a little Christmas stitching baskets putting together today, but alas, the day sped by entirely too fast.

But first...a little pie.

Nov 20, 2012


Well, I suppose that we'll have to make do with this picture of the wreaths on the front window for now.  For some odd reason the other 699 pictures I snapped of the outside decorations didn't work quite right.  Do you suppose that it might be helpful if I actually read the bloody book that came with the camera?

As soon as Aunt Chrissy gets home from work the Official Rich Sister Thanksgiving and Seasonal Decorating Holiday can commence.  We're both going to decompose tonight in our respective homes, and then tomorrow we'll start with an early morning doctor's visit, followed by breakfast, the picking up of the smoked turkey breast that thankfully tastes of ham, a pass through the Panera drive-through for parade provisions, and then back to Aunt Chrissy's to get her outside decorations up since they finally blew her leaves away and I won't have to hear her kvetch about it one more minute.

Thursday will find us clad in comfy clothes, with nothing on the agenda but parade watching, feasting, and stitching, and if the boys behave themselves, we might head out to the lawn for a game of Pumpkin(!) as soon as the dog show concludes and Stewey has vetoed every selection that the judges have made.

After an 8am mammogram on Friday (I know...who DOES that?), we'll have more breakfast, and then I am determined to get the inside of my house decorated so that I can have the rest of the weekend to think happy thoughts and give Ms. Laura J. Perin's "Harvest Moon House" my full attention.  (Somewhere in there is a football game and some more feasting, I'm sure, but I figured I've already blown the "too much information" quota with the mammogram bit).

If you will allow me, I'd like to take an all too brief moment to tell you that when I put my big fat head on my pillow each night to list the things that I am thankful for, "all of my stitchy friends that I've met through my silly little blog" is right up there with Aunt Chrissy, Bosco, and Stewey.   Thank you, dear friends, for bringing me so much love and joy and happiness and laughter and encouragement and inspiration.  I. Am. Thankful. For. You.

We'll see you on the other side, ten pounds heavier and hopefully a little closer to showing some good progress on something vaguely stitching related.  Kisses and hugs to you and yours, and if you're stateside, Happy Thanksgiving!

Woo Hoo!

Nov 19, 2012


My mom can't come to the blog right now.  She's slumped in the Happy Chair, stinking of Ben-Gay, and muttering something about the road to hell and good intentions.  Despite my constant urgings to have a stitchy weekend, the old lady decided that it would be a good time to put up the outside Christmas decorations.  Needless to say, there's a whole lot of "I'm too old to be doing this kind of thing" going on around here today.

I will confess that I do think this year's effort is rather pretty, but this is only because my Aunt Chrissy insisted on replacing the worn out front window wreaths with new ones from the Targets.  The old wreaths had pine cones and some very sorry looking sprigs of something that was once probably supposed to be red berries.  The new wreaths have big red glitter balls and lots of lime green accents.  Once Mo-ther got the white lights on them and strapped them to the house, all of the neighbors stopped by to approve the choice, so I think we're definitely on the right track.

Today is laundry day, and I've already promised to behave myself so that a little stitchy therapy might take place.  Mo-ther is still happily working on Aunt Laura J. Perin's "Harvest Moon House", but I'm afraid that her meager progress doesn't warrant re-charging the camera battery.  Pictures tomorrow, I promise.

I do hope that your weekend was splendid and that you were able to do everything that you wanted to do and nothing that you didn't.  Until we meet again, I remain your loyal and devoted friend.

With love from your pal,

P.S.  The title of this post refers to the classic hit from Mr. Barry Manilow His Very self.  I started humming it the moment I spied those sparkly new wreaths and commented that Chez Spinster was now tarted up like a Vegas show girl....."Her name was Lola.  She was a show girl."...

Nov 14, 2012


Harvest Moon House
 Laura J. Perin Designs 

 I think that this house is taking Mo-ther longer to build than an actual house would.  At first I suspected that the old lady had lost some of her stitchy prowess, but last night as I spied on her during the evening stitching session, I observed that she was relishing every single poke of that needle through the canvas.  I'm sure it has something to do with the whole "Let's See How Long We Can Practice Moderation"  vibe that she's got going on lately, but seeing how she has never really stuck with anything for longer than a hot minute in her life, methinks she'll be back to staying up until all hours in no time.

Let's face it, kids.  Moderation is definitely NOT in her wheel house.

As for me, I have had a delightful day of sun bathing and squirrel watching.  The little fellas are rather skinny this year, so I'm hoping that an overabundance of bird food in the back patio feeders will prepare them adequately for what's to come this winter.

Speaking of which. I must cut this short.  The furnace repairman is here to conduct the annual servicing of things, and I want to talk to him about a lockable thermostat.  I awoke yesterday morning to frigid temps and my idiot mo-ther cackling away like the Mad Woman of Chaillot about frost and pumpkins.  Why she insists on keeping this little hovel like a meat locker, I'll never know.

I hope that things in your corner of the world are splendid and that you are all warm and safe and dry.  I shall report again soon, but know that in the meantime I remain your faithful and devoted friend.

With love from your pal,

Nov 12, 2012


Just a quickie, folks.  Stewey is standing in the middle of the living room with his pumpkin in his mouth, and if I don't play with him there will be h-e-l-l to pay.  Answers to a few burning questions:

1) No, I did not smell Jon Bon Jovi.  He happened to visit my favorite restaurant a few weeks ago and the staff there all got a good whiff of him.  Apparently it (and he) were fabulously lovely.  (As if we didn't know that already, right?)

2) My reading list has been nuts lately, but I suspect that this is due to the fact that I am trying to use our local libraries as much as possible, and I'm too damn shy to walk up to a librarian to ask her where to find stuff.  So I hit the "New Fiction" shelf and hope for the best.  I finished Mark Haddon's "The Red House" and have to say that I did enjoy it, and then started Salman Rushdie's "Midnight's Children" and know that I'm going to love this one also.  I happened to see Mr. Rushdie on Charlie Rose a week or so ago and realized that I've not read very much of what he's written, so I figured it was time to rectify that.  Throw in Garrison Keillor's "Pilgrims" and about three dozen magazines, and you now know what's been in front of my eyeballs when I'm not stitching.

Thank you for all of your wonderful comments and emails, kids!  Y'all ROCK my freakin' world!

Happy Monday to all and to all a Happy Monday!

Nov 11, 2012


a fancy schmancy new kitchen faucet...special dinner at my very favorite restaurant with Aunt Chrissy...finding out that john bon jovi smells as good as he looks...warm sleepy puppy breath...quiet lazy saturday with the paper and a damn good cup of coffee....the perfect french shellac manicure....a tuna salad sandwich on multi grain bread...a sissy who knows how many more decorations i'm going to need to add to the arsenal this year and who knows exactly where to find them in the hobby wreaths for the front windows...a five guys cheeseburger and fries so hot they burned our parking...watching Aunt Chrissy boss the guys around at Lowe's...a new water cooler....a blender for perfect smoothies....breakfast burritos and having a bunch of taco bell mild sauce stashed in the fridge....warm sleepy puppy in the afternoon sunshine...the sunday new york times waiting in the driveway...finishing a wonderful novel....starting a new wonderful novel...taking a nap with my face in the sun and a warm sleepy puppy curled at my feet.

oh, i forgot.  the plumber was a lovely guy named matt who didn't think twice of the fact that stewey threw himself into a full-on tizzy fit of epic proportions over the fact that there was a man in the house, and who laughed heartly at the fact that bosco just wanted to put on his little tool belt and help a guy out.

Nov 8, 2012


My mom can't come to the blog right now.  She's sitting in her office waiting for the plumber to get here, and based upon the conversation I heard her having with my Aunt Chrissy last night, she is all a-twitter with anticipation that she's going to see his heiney.

Apparently, plumbers are known for short pants and exposed derrieres, since all Mo-ther could talk about was the fact that a M-A-N was going to be in the house for the first time in eleventy-senven years and that if the gods were good she would get to ogle his bottom.

My Aunt Chrissy pointed out that the plumber would probably be a guy called Matt and that he would probably be about nine years old and definitely not have a propensity for short pants and an exposed derriere, but evidently, Mo-ther is still hoping.

(Seriously, though, Mo-ther and Aunt Chrissy are getting themselves new kitchen faucets today, so the old lady spent the better part of the morning scrubbing and washing and spritzing things so that the nine year old plumber might marvel at her homekeeping skills.)

(But can I just point out that she's presently attired in pajama bottoms, a Hanes old man white t-shirt and a v-neck sweater that should have been sent to the rag bin AGES ago?  Throw in the Grandma Slippers, and she's sporting quite the ensemble for plumber seduction, I must say.)

Stitching time was rather limited last evening since I felt the need to cuddle in Mo-ther's lap and stare deeply into her eyes.  I have to do this every now and then so that she'll feel useful and loved.  Trust me when I tell you that a few minutes of faking it goes a long way toward keeping her quiet.  If I mind my own business and leave her alone for too long, I hear her on the phone whining to Aunt Chrissy about the fact that I'm cold and aloof.  So ten minutes of "Oh, how I love you, Mommie Dearest" should see me through to the holidays.

I hope that you are warm and safe and dry and you're getting your very own version of plumber's heiney today.  Please know that until we meet again I remain your loyal and devoted friend.

With love from your pal,

Nov 6, 2012



A stitchy friend recently asked me if I knew the names of the scissors pictured above.  Alas, I am unable to confirm.  Anybody else out there with a serious Gingher addiction problem (like me) wanna' give it a go?
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Nov 5, 2012


Scene: A darkened suburban street somewhere in the Midwestern United States.  A tiny little dog makes his way down the sidewalk while simultaneously struggling with a large antique valise.  He approaches the front door of a home, peers through the sidelight window, and then raps smartly on the door.

AUNT CHRISSY: Stewey!  What are you doing here!  Do you have any idea what time it is?  Where's your mommie?

STEWEY: I've run away from home, Aunt Chrissy.  Please fetch me a mug of tea and a blanket so that I can get rid of this terrible chill.  I had to walk the entire 7/10th of a mile over here because the old lady hid the car keys again and I couldn't get a cab in this god forsaken corn field to save my life.

BOSCO (Who actually knows he's a dog): bark! bark! bark! bark! bark!

AUNT CHRISSY: Bosco!  Calm down and go to your apartment!  Stewey and I need to talk. 

(Bosco trots away to find his stuffed squirrel, but gets distracted by a commercial for the new movie "Wreck-it Ralph".  He stares at the colors and wonders if his Aunt Tubby will take him to see it on one of their Wednesday afternoon dates. He loves his Aunt Tubby. She's very simple, and she doesn't understand most of the big words that his mommy and Stewey use, and she especially doesn't get it when they s-p-e-l-l stuff. She has a tendency to get in trouble too, and she's the only other person who can peeve his mommy as much as he can..)

AUNT CHIRSSY: Now Stewey, tell me what's happened.  Did she turn down the thermostat again?  Decide to take up vegan non-dairy cooking?  Force you to watch The Dog Whisperer?  What?

STEWEY: She posted an invitation to the whole world to come live with us, Aunt Chrissy.

AUNT CHRISSY:  (stunned silence)  .....She, WHAT?

STEWEY: Yes, as you know, Aunt Chrissy, my stupid mo-ther has been fretting herself into fits over all of the devastation from the Storm.   And she got it in her head that there were probably millions and millions of people out there who had nowhere to go and no one to take care of them, and that she would take it upon herself to fix it all.  So she wrote a blog post and told everybody to come on over to Indiana and that she would make them coffee and give them a bed to sleep in and a roof over their heads and she told some story about your grandpa and how he took care of a little boy in the 1940's. 

AUNT CHRISSY: (more stunned silence, combined with confusion)

STEWEY: So now she's shampooing the furniture and fluffing the towels and trying to find a decent shower curtain for the guest bath, all while pondering how long it would take to properly cook a nineteen pound meatloaf.

AUNT CHRISSY: (regaining her wits about her)  Oh, for crying out loud (actually, she said oh, for f****'s sakes, but this is a family show)  My sister/your mo-ther couldn't find her way out of a wet paper bag with two hands and a flashlight.  How, in the name of all that is holy does she think she will actually be of use to anybody?  (she sighs heavily)  Don't worry, Stewey.  People, for the most part, all know that your mo-ther is an idiot, so they'll pat her on the head and tell her she's wonderful and then they'll roll their eyes and tell their friends and neighbors about this crazyass spinster in Indiana who thinks it's perfectly normal to invite the eastern half of the United States of America over for dietCoke.  And, since this is YOUR mo-ther we're talking about, as soon as it hits her that eventually people would expect her to come out of the bedroom and carry on a face to face conversation, she'll fall into an agoraphobic heap of neurosis on the floor, and that will be the end of that.  You know how she's always talking about how she wants to "get out more" and be a "normal person", but when I tell he that that would involve wearing shoes and a bra and actually talking to people she changes her mind?  Well, I'm pretty sure that this is going to be just like that. 

STEWEY: You always know how to make me feel better, Aunt Chrissy.   Now about that tea....



Thank you for all of your very kind comments about me being swell, but I'm a little embarrassed that you would think so highly of me.  Believe me when I tell you that I don't deserve it.  I'm just trying to figure out some way to do something, and since I would be worse than useless as a Red Cross volunteer and I don't know how to drive a backhoe, this is what I came up with.

No stitching to report.  I got distracted by the TeeVee last night and fell into bed wishing I hadn't eaten ham salad on garlic bagel chips for dinner.  Stay tuned, though!  I'm expecting the fixin's for Laura J. Perin's "Harvest Moon House" to arrive any day now and can't wait to get started on it!  Woo Hoo!

Nov 4, 2012


Dear Friends,

By the time you finish reading this post, you will be convinced that I have finally gone fully round the bend.  But bear with me for a minute, OK?

I'm pretty sure that I'm going to get this story totally wrong, but that's par for the course with me.  I remember bits and pieces of family stories and then I embellish and change and enhance them until they're properly epic and make memories that I finally think are worthy of those that have gone before me.  So if you're one of my family members reading this, and you see that I've got all of the details completely ass backwards, send me an email and I'll fix it.

The story is simple, really.  From what I know, my Grandpa Rich was getting a haircut one Saturday and he overheard a story about a family that had a little boy that needed a place to stay.  I think it had something to do with the little boy's health, and that this family (who was in Brooklyn), was trying to figure out how to get the little boy to Arizona.  My Grandfather was in the process of moving his own family to Arizona, so he spoke up and said "Have the little boy come with us, and I'll look after him for his family."  And so they did, and the little boy lived with Grandpa and Grandma and Dad and Aunt Lou, and the two families grew close and stayed in contact over the years, even after everyone had grown up and had families of their own.

I was in my 30's when I finally got to met "the little boy", and as I was asking him about how he was related to Dad -- thinking that he must have been a cousin or a long lost relative from Italy -- he told me that they were all complete strangers, but somehow my grandfather thought that when somebody needed something and you had that something to give, you just offered it and that was that.

I have a house.  It's not a very big house, and I'm pretty sure that most people would think that it's a house in need of a lot of...something, but nonetheless I have a house.  And it has two bedrooms and two bathrooms and a roof and hot water and a warm and cozy fireplace, and a few comfy chairs.  There are sheets and towels and pots and pans and sweaters and shoes and a whole lot of crap upstairs in the studio to keep a small army of craft obsessed villagers happy for a lifetime.  There are books and a TeeVee (or two) and an ornery little dog who promises to pick up all of his toys in the event that the "toys, toys, everywhere" look drives you as nuts as it does me.

If you've lost your house or your stuff or are about ready to lose your mind with the idea of having to put it all back together again and you need a place to catch your breath,  you've got it.  Aunt Chrissy and I know that you'd probably rather be there with your friends and your families and that you'd probably want to be there to start the recovery process, but if not and you just need a place to have a hot cup of coffee and a few days to get your wits about you, then please, let us know and we will be happy to help you in any way we can.

There.  I did it.   It's been on my mind for almost a week now, and I finally figured that I had nothing to lose by telling you that in the whole scheme of things, I know it's not much, but it's what I know how to do.  My email address is   Please give it to anybody who might need it.

Take care,

Nov 1, 2012


I see that Stewey has filled you in on my "situation" over here.  What can I say?  I'm a weeper AND a fretter.  And when you combine those two things with 24-hour news coverage of Armageddon, you can bet that a migraine and an upset stomach aren't far behind. 

(Yes.  I will confess it.  I cried so hard and got myself so worked up that I upchucked my lunch.)

(OK.  Maybe it wasn't the news coverage so much as it was the eighteen pounds of Halloween candy that I had to eat all by myself, since I didn't have one single Trick or Treater, despite the fact that I've lived here for 10 years and have never had any Trick or Treaters ever, not one, not ever.)

(But I still buy enough Halloween candy to sink a barge.)

(Stewey, despite his own recent episodes of upchcuk, was not at all amused.)

I've had a lot of yous asking me about my stint in New Jersey.  I moved there in May of 1993 and initially settled in Smithville.  Why Smithville, you ask?  Well, it's because it looked like Indiana to me and I was far enough away from the big city that I didn't feel too out of place.  That was, of course, until I walked into the bagel place on the second day I was there and stood in line and then when it was my turn at the counter I said "Oh, hello, kind sir!  I'm from Indiana and I've come for a New Jersey bagel!" and before I could get any more hayseeds out of my mouth, the burly guy hollered "Lady, whadda ya want...I got a lot of hungry people here!" and I squeaked out my order and then ate it in the car with big fat sweaty tears falling on the steering wheel.

What can I say?  You can take the girl out of the Midwest, but you can't take the Midwest out of the girl.

(For the record, the gentlemen in the above referenced story turned out to be quite a lovely guy, actually, and when I returned on a less busy day he asked me all about myself and my family and what it was like to have graduated from Notre Dame.)

(He also taught me how to properly order breakfast and coffee without giving the world my life story.)

I left Smithville and moved to a tiny itty bitty little studio apartment on the beach in Margate.  I didn't have an ocean view, but I did take my coffee cup outside onto the pool deck every morning to wave at my friend Dr. Dan, who was on an aircraft carrier somewhere in the Mediterranean.  The neighbors thought I was nuts, but the building had a doorman, and that made me feel like I was really swell and sophisticated.

After a little while in the tiny little itty bitty studio apartment, my dad convinced me that I wasn't getting any younger, and as far as he knew I wasn't going to be getting married any time soon, so it was time to be a big girl and buy a place of my own.  So I did.  I stayed in Margate, but moved about 10 blocks away to a wonderful condo community that consisted of about 257 summer weekend residents...and me.  They weren't quite sure what to make of the spinster that tried to grow geraniums on her balcony or who introduced herself as Virginia Woolf since she finally had a Room of One's Own, but they were nice enough to let me be me and that was all that mattered.

Someday I'll tell you more about my life and times on the East Coast, but for now, suffice it to say that I am hoping and praying that all will be well there soon and that life can get back to normal as quickly as possible.

I played with this last night:

I'm afraid that I must blame my lack of any measurable progress on my beloved Jeffrey Dean Morgan.  After I watched Linus waiting for the Great Pumpkin, I stumbled across a really creepy psycho-sexual thriller in which my boyfriend Jeffrey Dean Morgan plays a really creepy psycho-sexual landlord. 

For the record, I like my boyfriend Jeffrey Dean Morgan to play warm and lovely Irish musicians or hot and studly New York firemen because it's much easier to watch him do things on screen without having to peek in between two fingers of my hand covering my face.

So that's the post-Halloween report from Chez Spinster, folks.  A whole lotta' nothin' goin' on, but that's just how we like it in these here parts!  (To borrow a phrase from The Bloggess....somewhere an English teacher just dropped dead after that last sentence).

I hope that y'all are warm and safe and dry.  I'm headed up to the studio to see what's next on the stitchy agenda!

Woo Hoo!