"I've decided that I'm going to eat with impunity for the next two weeks, and then come January 1, I'm going to start a program", she said with conviction.
Aunt Chrissy and I held the annual Rich Sisters Day of Baking and Christmas Cursing Extravaganza on Saturday, and I am happy to report that we now have the following items carefully containerized and ready.
Ready for what, I'm not really sure, but we bonded. Let's just leave it at that.
10 dozen koulorakia (those damn Greek twist cookies)
8 dozen cuccidati (Dad's favorite -- Sicilian fig cookies)
450 reindeer eyes (you know, the round pretzels with a melted Rolo and an M&M inside)
7 dozen fat girl crispie treats (also known as Ooey Gooey Karo Krispers)
3 pounds of white chocolate bark
3 pounds of dark chocolate bark
5 pounds of peanut butter fudge
9 dozen Buckeyes (peanut butter balls dipped in chocolate -- from our homeland)
6 dozen espresso snow cap cookies
....and a partridge in a pear treeeeeee!
Oh, and did I mention that I seem to have also developed an unfortunate Jelly Belly addiction as well as a ham and cheese panini made with garlic Naan bread fixation?
That last one I'm blaming on Aunt Chrissy entirely, since she's the one that bought the damn naan bread in the first place.
I just wish my mind didn't work in this twisted and evil way that makes me want to put everything on my panini press.
Even I am appalled as I read this, and I can promise you that January 2nd will find me face down in a salad.
With Russian dressing.
Oh, and some of those really crunchy and buttery Pepperidge Farm croutons.
And a pickle! We have to have a pickle!
Seriously, kids. If I so much as mention anything other than vegetables in 2012, will somebody come put me in a facility? I can only widen doorways so much around here before the structural integrity of the house is compromised, and I'm quickly running out of my quadruple X sweatpants supply.
What did you do this weekend?
Dec 15, 2011
IT'S A GOOD THING WE WERE TALKING ABOUT HAM
My mom can't come to the blog right now. She's locked herself in the master closet, and from what I can surmise thus far, she's sitting on the floor rocking back and forth, while simultaneously sobbing and breathing into a paper bag.
If you've lost a few years of your life reading this here blog, then you are very well aware of the fact that my stupid mo-ther doesn't "do" nature. As a matter of fact, I've heard her describe herself as the Zsa Zsa Gabor character on Green Acres. You know...New YORK is where I'd rather be...and all of that.
(Let's face it, folks. If they made one big enough, I'm pretty sure that my mo-ther would install herself into a big plastic bubble much like the one seen in the 1972 sleeper hit "Boy in the Plastic Bubble" staring John Travolta. The problem with this, of course, is that Mo-ther has a propensity for sweating profusely whenever the temperature rises above that of a meat locker, so you can imagine the logistics of a rotund woman in a full-on flop sweat wearing eighteen year old sweatpants...all while encased in Saran Wrap.)
But I digress.
Yesterday morning, the old lady finished her blog reading and decided to head into the kitchen for some holiday baking. As she rounded the corner out of the office, this is what she saw:
Her first thought was (and I quote): "Why are those cats eating bird food and wearing feathers?"
And then she crept closer to the window for a closer look:
I was happily snoozing on my perch, and before you could say "Assisted Living Facility", my stupid mo-ther managed to throw herself into a massive panic attack while knocking over the Christmas tree, stubbing her toe on a dining room chair, and then finally collapsing into a weepy heap under the kitchen sink, where, I assume, she thought the can of Pledge would protect her.
At first I didn't bother to alter my position, since falling Christmas trees, loud profanity, copious weeping, and drama are de rigeur for a Wednesday. But then I decided to take a look for myself in the event that Jeffrey Dean Morgan had finally decided to come for a visit and Mo-ther got caught with her head in a vat of potato salad and had not managed to take care of that unfortunate little moustache problem .
It is here that I must confess that the first words out of my mouth were Holy $(-)!* because I never would have expected to see two gi-NOR-mous wild turkeys helping themselves to the bird food.
All is well, though, since (after donning my outside shoes) I politely explained to them that although it is illegal to discharge a firearm within the city limits of Mishawaka, I was pretty sure that my Aunt Chrissy would have no problem whatsoever grabbing their sorry asses by the tail feathers and dragging them twelve feet to the south, which just happens to be county property and not within the "don't shoot wild turkeys in the knees to make them go away" jurisdiction.
Then I went and loaded my little pink pea shooter for effect, and this seemed to get the message across quite nicely.
(Before you call PETA, may I just point out that my stupid mo-ther's biggest nightmare is that the Chic-Fil-A cows will show up one night and stuff her into her Weber grill, so we are now on a "Beef only once a month" regimen that has completely destroyed my fun. I used to love a nice Cowboy Rib-eye with an impertinent little Merlot every Monday night, but alas, it is not to be.)
So THAT is why there was precious little stitching yesterday, as well as why we will NOT be openly talking about how much my mo-ther and Aunt Chrissy hate turkey. We did, however, manage to finish watching the entire box set of The Tudors, so I can only assume that we'll be on to The West Wing before the week is through.
I hope that you have a wonderful Thursday, my dear friends. Until we meet again, I remain your loyal and devoted pal,
Stewey
If you've lost a few years of your life reading this here blog, then you are very well aware of the fact that my stupid mo-ther doesn't "do" nature. As a matter of fact, I've heard her describe herself as the Zsa Zsa Gabor character on Green Acres. You know...New YORK is where I'd rather be...and all of that.
(Let's face it, folks. If they made one big enough, I'm pretty sure that my mo-ther would install herself into a big plastic bubble much like the one seen in the 1972 sleeper hit "Boy in the Plastic Bubble" staring John Travolta. The problem with this, of course, is that Mo-ther has a propensity for sweating profusely whenever the temperature rises above that of a meat locker, so you can imagine the logistics of a rotund woman in a full-on flop sweat wearing eighteen year old sweatpants...all while encased in Saran Wrap.)
But I digress.
Yesterday morning, the old lady finished her blog reading and decided to head into the kitchen for some holiday baking. As she rounded the corner out of the office, this is what she saw:
Her first thought was (and I quote): "Why are those cats eating bird food and wearing feathers?"And then she crept closer to the window for a closer look:
I was happily snoozing on my perch, and before you could say "Assisted Living Facility", my stupid mo-ther managed to throw herself into a massive panic attack while knocking over the Christmas tree, stubbing her toe on a dining room chair, and then finally collapsing into a weepy heap under the kitchen sink, where, I assume, she thought the can of Pledge would protect her.
At first I didn't bother to alter my position, since falling Christmas trees, loud profanity, copious weeping, and drama are de rigeur for a Wednesday. But then I decided to take a look for myself in the event that Jeffrey Dean Morgan had finally decided to come for a visit and Mo-ther got caught with her head in a vat of potato salad and had not managed to take care of that unfortunate little moustache problem .
It is here that I must confess that the first words out of my mouth were Holy $(-)!* because I never would have expected to see two gi-NOR-mous wild turkeys helping themselves to the bird food.All is well, though, since (after donning my outside shoes) I politely explained to them that although it is illegal to discharge a firearm within the city limits of Mishawaka, I was pretty sure that my Aunt Chrissy would have no problem whatsoever grabbing their sorry asses by the tail feathers and dragging them twelve feet to the south, which just happens to be county property and not within the "don't shoot wild turkeys in the knees to make them go away" jurisdiction.
Then I went and loaded my little pink pea shooter for effect, and this seemed to get the message across quite nicely.
(Before you call PETA, may I just point out that my stupid mo-ther's biggest nightmare is that the Chic-Fil-A cows will show up one night and stuff her into her Weber grill, so we are now on a "Beef only once a month" regimen that has completely destroyed my fun. I used to love a nice Cowboy Rib-eye with an impertinent little Merlot every Monday night, but alas, it is not to be.)
So THAT is why there was precious little stitching yesterday, as well as why we will NOT be openly talking about how much my mo-ther and Aunt Chrissy hate turkey. We did, however, manage to finish watching the entire box set of The Tudors, so I can only assume that we'll be on to The West Wing before the week is through.
I hope that you have a wonderful Thursday, my dear friends. Until we meet again, I remain your loyal and devoted pal,
Stewey
Dec 14, 2011
WHILE WE'RE ON THE SUBJECT OF HAM...
The answer to the question "Does Stewey like ham?" is fraught with drama (as are all things related to Your Lord Highness of The Whole Entire Universe.)
Stewey suffers from seasonal allergies, as does his cousin Bosco, but unlike his cousin Bosco, Stewey demands that he be administered his allergy medicine in precisely 1/8th of an ounce of Wilson Virginia Ham.
Sliced precisely to .5mm from the deli at the fancypants grocery store.
On a Thursday evening in which the ambient temperature of the vehicle does not exceed 54 degrees Fahrenheit.
And said ham must be carefully folded around said allergy medicine perfectly, or within a split second and a half Mommie Dearest here has to fish it out of the shag carpeting and try try again.
(Now before you tell me to get cheaper ham or use a piece of cheese or buy the Greenies pill pockets, can I ask you a question? Have you MET Stewey?)
You'll be happy to know that I had not one, but TWO ham and cheese panini yesterday. I'm viewing that little sad fact as a training exercise and not an indication that Aunt Chrissy needs to call Dr. Drew and Co.
Again.
"On this episode of People Who Think They're Celebrities Rehab, the Spinster Stitcher tries to overcome her addiction to cured luncheon meats while simultaneously revealing that she is, in fact, knee-deep into her Jeffrey Dean Morgan obsession, and would like to finish stitching every single work in progress found languishing in her studio."
Stewey suffers from seasonal allergies, as does his cousin Bosco, but unlike his cousin Bosco, Stewey demands that he be administered his allergy medicine in precisely 1/8th of an ounce of Wilson Virginia Ham.
Sliced precisely to .5mm from the deli at the fancypants grocery store.
On a Thursday evening in which the ambient temperature of the vehicle does not exceed 54 degrees Fahrenheit.
And said ham must be carefully folded around said allergy medicine perfectly, or within a split second and a half Mommie Dearest here has to fish it out of the shag carpeting and try try again.
(Now before you tell me to get cheaper ham or use a piece of cheese or buy the Greenies pill pockets, can I ask you a question? Have you MET Stewey?)
You'll be happy to know that I had not one, but TWO ham and cheese panini yesterday. I'm viewing that little sad fact as a training exercise and not an indication that Aunt Chrissy needs to call Dr. Drew and Co.
Again.
"On this episode of People Who Think They're Celebrities Rehab, the Spinster Stitcher tries to overcome her addiction to cured luncheon meats while simultaneously revealing that she is, in fact, knee-deep into her Jeffrey Dean Morgan obsession, and would like to finish stitching every single work in progress found languishing in her studio."
Dec 13, 2011
YOU KNOW YOU'VE GOT ISSUES WHEN....
...the lovely lady at the Honey Baked Ham Company knows you on a first name basis:
HBH: Good morning, Honey Baked Ham Company. How may I help you?
SS: WOO HOOOOOOO! IT'S THE SPINSTER STITCHER CALLING TO ORDER THE 2011 OFFICIAL SPINSTER SISTERS' CHRISTMAS HAM FEAST!!!!
HBH: (turning down the volume control on her headset) Hi, Coni! You're early this year! What would you and Aunt Chrissy like to order?
SS: (realizing that hollering into the ear of the lovely lady at the Honey Baked Ham Company isn't a very nice thing to do, especially when you-know-who is recording her every move for his report to Santa Claus) Well, according to the release form I've obtained from my kidney specialists, it looks like we're going to have to go small this year. Got anything in the 22-23 pound range?
HBH: (shaking head in sad disbelief) Will there be more than two of you this year? We'd be thrilled to accommodate you, but are you sure you need 22 to 23 pounds OF HAM for just two people?
SS: (blushing furiously as she realizes that her ham addiction has been made public) Um. Gee. Er. Well....no, it's just...um....ok, it's just the two of us.
HBH: OK, dear. I'm going to put you down for a mini, OK? That way you'll have plenty for the two of you for Christmas dinner, and there will be left overs for the several dozen ham sandwiches you'll stuff into your face before New Year's. (making a note on the order form that under NO CIRCUMSTANCES is the crazy spinster with the fussy little dog to be given more than a mini-ham, and if Dr. Kidney calls, they are in no way liable for the seventy two pounds of water weight that their patient will certainly gain between December 24th and 29th.)
SS: Can we have some au gratin potatoes too? And a pie? OH! AND WHAT ABOUT THE RUM CAKE!! WE NEED TO HAVE RUM CAKE!!!!
HBH: (gently, so as not to set the crazed ham-loving spinster off further) Certainly, dear. We'll have everything ready for you when you come in. Remember, though, that your sister needs to be with you so that she can help you carry everything out to your car.
(This, of course, is the super top secret agreement that was made between Aunt Chrissy and the Honey Baked Ham Company after the 2007 incident in which several innocent bystanders, and a rather large display of dinner rolls was knocked over when the heavily laden spinster tried to carry the official 2007 Spinster Sisters Christmas Feast to the car without adult supervision.)
So....as of 12:37 today we're ready.
Bring it, Christmas.
Bring it.
(P.S. Did that last part up my street cred? Hope so.)
HBH: Good morning, Honey Baked Ham Company. How may I help you?
SS: WOO HOOOOOOO! IT'S THE SPINSTER STITCHER CALLING TO ORDER THE 2011 OFFICIAL SPINSTER SISTERS' CHRISTMAS HAM FEAST!!!!
HBH: (turning down the volume control on her headset) Hi, Coni! You're early this year! What would you and Aunt Chrissy like to order?
SS: (realizing that hollering into the ear of the lovely lady at the Honey Baked Ham Company isn't a very nice thing to do, especially when you-know-who is recording her every move for his report to Santa Claus) Well, according to the release form I've obtained from my kidney specialists, it looks like we're going to have to go small this year. Got anything in the 22-23 pound range?
HBH: (shaking head in sad disbelief) Will there be more than two of you this year? We'd be thrilled to accommodate you, but are you sure you need 22 to 23 pounds OF HAM for just two people?
SS: (blushing furiously as she realizes that her ham addiction has been made public) Um. Gee. Er. Well....no, it's just...um....ok, it's just the two of us.
HBH: OK, dear. I'm going to put you down for a mini, OK? That way you'll have plenty for the two of you for Christmas dinner, and there will be left overs for the several dozen ham sandwiches you'll stuff into your face before New Year's. (making a note on the order form that under NO CIRCUMSTANCES is the crazy spinster with the fussy little dog to be given more than a mini-ham, and if Dr. Kidney calls, they are in no way liable for the seventy two pounds of water weight that their patient will certainly gain between December 24th and 29th.)
SS: Can we have some au gratin potatoes too? And a pie? OH! AND WHAT ABOUT THE RUM CAKE!! WE NEED TO HAVE RUM CAKE!!!!
HBH: (gently, so as not to set the crazed ham-loving spinster off further) Certainly, dear. We'll have everything ready for you when you come in. Remember, though, that your sister needs to be with you so that she can help you carry everything out to your car.
(This, of course, is the super top secret agreement that was made between Aunt Chrissy and the Honey Baked Ham Company after the 2007 incident in which several innocent bystanders, and a rather large display of dinner rolls was knocked over when the heavily laden spinster tried to carry the official 2007 Spinster Sisters Christmas Feast to the car without adult supervision.)
So....as of 12:37 today we're ready.
Bring it, Christmas.
Bring it.
(P.S. Did that last part up my street cred? Hope so.)
Dec 12, 2011
TRY NOT TO LET THE PERFECTION OF MY PHOTOGRAPHIC SKILLS OVERWHELM YOU
So the gods gave me a choice: "You can either be a competent photographer and learn how to take a proper picture with that camera of yours, or you can qualify for your own zip code because you insist on eating ham and cheese panini for breakfast, lunch, and dinner six days a week."
Guess which one I chose?
Guess which one I chose?
Birds of a Feather L'Hiver
(that bird took me nine episodes of The Tudors to finish)
(that bird took me nine episodes of The Tudors to finish)
Am I the only person who thinks it hilarious that Stewey crosses his legs when he lounges?
Dec 8, 2011
AT THIS RATE, WE'LL SEE THIS ONE COMPLETED SOMETIME IN THE YEAR 2092
Progress continues on L'Hiver, but if I say to myself "Gee, this really stitches up pretty quickly" one more time, I'm going to hide my safety scissors from myself.
Why do I always sit down with a piece and think "Oh, I'll have this one done by the weekend, surely"?
Dec 6, 2011
A QUICK LITTLE NOTE FROM MASTER STEWEY ANGUS WILLOWSWAMP HIS VERY LITTLE SELF
Each evening at bedtime, my mo-ther and I execute the same routine:
1) She snorts herself awake in the Happy Chair, stumbles into the kitchen to set up the coffee pot for he next day, and then carefully fetches our evening medicines. (An anti-anxiety pill for me, more pills than I can count for her.)
2) One last trip outside to wee on the front bushes while a pajama-clad Mo-ther keeps her eyes peeled for coyotes. Or stray cats. Or raccoons. (I'm not a big fan.)
3) All of the various and sundry lights get turned off, the doors are checked (and re-checked and then re-checked again), and the back patio light is illuminated. (And anything else that happens to be hanging upside down from the bird feeder.) (Like an opossum.) (Again, not a fan.)
4) Mo-ther falls into the bed with an "I love this bed", while I frantically search through my toy box for the eight or nine stuffed toys that I require for a little pre-snoozing snuggle time.
5) Futzing, futzing, futzing.
6) Rather loud and grumpy hollering, as my 700-pound gorilla of a mo-ther leans over the side of the bed to pick me up, but discovers that I am standing about 1/64th of an inch past the tips of her fingertips, and as soon as she makes physical contact, I take one tiny little baby step back so that she is forced to haul herself back up into the bed, throw off the bedclothes in disgust, holler some more, and then get out of the bed to pick me up and toss me into the middle of the pile of bedclothes, stuffed toys, and whatever else I can think of to annoy the living hell out of her as she tries to create a peaceful sleeping evnvironment.
7) Futzing, futzing, futzing.
8) Finally, when I hear the first snore and I see that the book she was reading has dropped to the pillow, I tippy-toe up to her face, measure her breathing for a few moments, and then give her a big wet kiss on the nose as I dive under the covers.
9) The moment I plop myself down next to her, the old lady says "Night, night my little price. Mommie loves you. Have good sweet puppy dreams and I'll see you in the morning." (She's said this particular phrase for as long as I can remember, and if she somehow forgets it, I kick her in the shins until she wakes up enough to mutter it, if only somewhat incoherently.)
1) She snorts herself awake in the Happy Chair, stumbles into the kitchen to set up the coffee pot for he next day, and then carefully fetches our evening medicines. (An anti-anxiety pill for me, more pills than I can count for her.)
2) One last trip outside to wee on the front bushes while a pajama-clad Mo-ther keeps her eyes peeled for coyotes. Or stray cats. Or raccoons. (I'm not a big fan.)
3) All of the various and sundry lights get turned off, the doors are checked (and re-checked and then re-checked again), and the back patio light is illuminated. (And anything else that happens to be hanging upside down from the bird feeder.) (Like an opossum.) (Again, not a fan.)
4) Mo-ther falls into the bed with an "I love this bed", while I frantically search through my toy box for the eight or nine stuffed toys that I require for a little pre-snoozing snuggle time.
5) Futzing, futzing, futzing.
6) Rather loud and grumpy hollering, as my 700-pound gorilla of a mo-ther leans over the side of the bed to pick me up, but discovers that I am standing about 1/64th of an inch past the tips of her fingertips, and as soon as she makes physical contact, I take one tiny little baby step back so that she is forced to haul herself back up into the bed, throw off the bedclothes in disgust, holler some more, and then get out of the bed to pick me up and toss me into the middle of the pile of bedclothes, stuffed toys, and whatever else I can think of to annoy the living hell out of her as she tries to create a peaceful sleeping evnvironment.
7) Futzing, futzing, futzing.
8) Finally, when I hear the first snore and I see that the book she was reading has dropped to the pillow, I tippy-toe up to her face, measure her breathing for a few moments, and then give her a big wet kiss on the nose as I dive under the covers.
9) The moment I plop myself down next to her, the old lady says "Night, night my little price. Mommie loves you. Have good sweet puppy dreams and I'll see you in the morning." (She's said this particular phrase for as long as I can remember, and if she somehow forgets it, I kick her in the shins until she wakes up enough to mutter it, if only somewhat incoherently.)
So in the spirit of good night nights, I am donating all of my pocket money this month to the following organization. It is, I believe, one of the coolest ideas I've heard yet:
Dec 5, 2011
DING DONG, DING DONG. SPINSTER'S BELLS ARE RINGING.
I'm happy to report that as of late Friday night the annual Christmas Comes To Spinsters Corners Extravaganza is officially finished. (Thanks, of course, to a VERY patient Aunt Chrissy who trooped through the Hobby Lobby, the Michael's, and then finally the Targets for "something tall" to put on my mantle.)
(What do you call it when a sister wants to murder another sister? Spinster-cide?)
I'm pretty sure that I won't see Aunt Chrissy again until sometime in February. What she had hoped would be a fun and rewarding weekend turned into yet another episode of "Why the #&$* don't I just put her in a damn kennel and forget about it."
All she wanted to do was deliver some toys to the Toys for Tots collection going on over at the WNDU television studios. So on Friday night, Aunt Chrissy carefully selected a cart full of fabulous toys that would appeal to both boys and girls of all ages.
"I really want to do something in honor of Mom and Dad this year", she said. "So we're going to get up bright and early so that we can deliver some toys to the Marines over at WNDU. Pick me up at 8, and I'll treat you to a Starbucks on the way over."
Did you know that I'm not exactly what you would call a morning person?
Well, Aunt Chrissy found that out the hard way as we were driving away from the toy drop, all weepy and satisfied that at least a few additional kids would have some cool toys for the year, when...KA-SPLASH!!!! I spilled my Venti Cinnamon Dolce Latte all over the freakin' place.
(I thank you, dear sweet Jesus that I did it in MY car and NOT Aunt Chrissy's fancypants sports car.)
So the trip to deliver toys turned into a 45 minute trip to the Drive and Shine, where my little sister basically had to bribe the guy to open up and wash the damn car already, and oh, while you're at it, could you please see about cleaning up the big fat hairy mess that my incompetent idiot of a sister made all over the console because she's too stupid to know how to drink a cup of coffee and drive a car at the same time?
(It was 21 degrees outside and raining. The Drive and Shine guy was not amused.)
So then it was on to the Bob Evans for sustenance, and finally, the grocery store. Just when I thought I was going to have to find a nice warm blanket for my new dog house, Aunt Chrissy hands me a card and says "Here. Go shop for a senior citizen and get them some puzzle books or something."
(The grocery store has a tree at the entrance on which hang tags listing things that senior citizens from Real Services would like to have for the holidays.)
Do you know what the very best part of this little adventure was? Well, it was the fact that when I decided to do a "coffee themed" collection of items for my senior citizen, Aunt Chrissy didn't even bat an eyelash.
You have to love that about my little sister.
(Next time, remind me to tell you what she did when my fridge went out and the fix-it guy couldn't be here for a week and a half. Let's just say that there's a guy standing in the little fridge aisle of the Lowes saying to himself "Man. That little spinster isn't kidding around. She pretty much told me that I was going to get that little fridge off the shelf, pack it up onto a truck, and then deliver it to her big sister's house, and I was going to enjoy every minute of it." I wonder if she'd like to come work for us and get this place in shape?)
So needless to say, I am settled in to my finally decorated house, wondering what the hell I ever did to deserve such a good little guardian angel.
On the stitchy front, I started L'Hiver from Birds of a Feather on the 28ct. Barn Owl linen that the cart calls for. Sometime in the year 2047, it will look like this:
But for now, it looks like this:
You have to really pay attention when you stitch this, and we all know how much luck I have doing THAT particular little task when there are handsome men on the TeeVee. I finally had to switch to re-runs of The Real Housewives so that I could do more than three stitches at a time before getting distracted.
I'll leave you with a few pics of Chez Stewey. If you're tired of hearing about and reading about and looking at all of these bloody decorations, then I bid you adieu here, and you can go on about your fabulousness without having to look at them. If, on the other hand, you'd like to see what a month and a half of planning and one very exasperated little sister will get ya....enjoy:
(What do you call it when a sister wants to murder another sister? Spinster-cide?)
I'm pretty sure that I won't see Aunt Chrissy again until sometime in February. What she had hoped would be a fun and rewarding weekend turned into yet another episode of "Why the #&$* don't I just put her in a damn kennel and forget about it."
All she wanted to do was deliver some toys to the Toys for Tots collection going on over at the WNDU television studios. So on Friday night, Aunt Chrissy carefully selected a cart full of fabulous toys that would appeal to both boys and girls of all ages.
"I really want to do something in honor of Mom and Dad this year", she said. "So we're going to get up bright and early so that we can deliver some toys to the Marines over at WNDU. Pick me up at 8, and I'll treat you to a Starbucks on the way over."
Did you know that I'm not exactly what you would call a morning person?
Well, Aunt Chrissy found that out the hard way as we were driving away from the toy drop, all weepy and satisfied that at least a few additional kids would have some cool toys for the year, when...KA-SPLASH!!!! I spilled my Venti Cinnamon Dolce Latte all over the freakin' place.
(I thank you, dear sweet Jesus that I did it in MY car and NOT Aunt Chrissy's fancypants sports car.)
So the trip to deliver toys turned into a 45 minute trip to the Drive and Shine, where my little sister basically had to bribe the guy to open up and wash the damn car already, and oh, while you're at it, could you please see about cleaning up the big fat hairy mess that my incompetent idiot of a sister made all over the console because she's too stupid to know how to drink a cup of coffee and drive a car at the same time?
(It was 21 degrees outside and raining. The Drive and Shine guy was not amused.)
So then it was on to the Bob Evans for sustenance, and finally, the grocery store. Just when I thought I was going to have to find a nice warm blanket for my new dog house, Aunt Chrissy hands me a card and says "Here. Go shop for a senior citizen and get them some puzzle books or something."
(The grocery store has a tree at the entrance on which hang tags listing things that senior citizens from Real Services would like to have for the holidays.)
Do you know what the very best part of this little adventure was? Well, it was the fact that when I decided to do a "coffee themed" collection of items for my senior citizen, Aunt Chrissy didn't even bat an eyelash.
You have to love that about my little sister.
(Next time, remind me to tell you what she did when my fridge went out and the fix-it guy couldn't be here for a week and a half. Let's just say that there's a guy standing in the little fridge aisle of the Lowes saying to himself "Man. That little spinster isn't kidding around. She pretty much told me that I was going to get that little fridge off the shelf, pack it up onto a truck, and then deliver it to her big sister's house, and I was going to enjoy every minute of it." I wonder if she'd like to come work for us and get this place in shape?)
So needless to say, I am settled in to my finally decorated house, wondering what the hell I ever did to deserve such a good little guardian angel.
On the stitchy front, I started L'Hiver from Birds of a Feather on the 28ct. Barn Owl linen that the cart calls for. Sometime in the year 2047, it will look like this:
But for now, it looks like this:
You have to really pay attention when you stitch this, and we all know how much luck I have doing THAT particular little task when there are handsome men on the TeeVee. I finally had to switch to re-runs of The Real Housewives so that I could do more than three stitches at a time before getting distracted.
I'll leave you with a few pics of Chez Stewey. If you're tired of hearing about and reading about and looking at all of these bloody decorations, then I bid you adieu here, and you can go on about your fabulousness without having to look at them. If, on the other hand, you'd like to see what a month and a half of planning and one very exasperated little sister will get ya....enjoy:
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