Showing posts with label Domestica. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Domestica. Show all posts

Jun 6, 2012

Dagnabbit it all anyhow

With the libertarian roof job all but done, I had planned to spend the afternoon playing in the reloading shack -- maybe cooking up a new .45 ACP load l've been thinking about.

Still up on the rooftop,  on my way to the ladder, I casually wiggled the chimney. It wiggled a little too much. With a good heave-ho, it wiggled right in two.

Already the materials are laid out for what could be a complete replacement from the stove on up. I am unhappy. I am not going to start right away. I am going to lie down and read a book and pout myself into a nap.







Apr 1, 2012

Prrivacy

I confess this photo is staged. The macho pickup/camper and the manly John Deere 318 were placed for a reason. Namely, I need the Chuck Norris points after having, and I swear this is true, made drapes. I really haven't had all that much trouble with tourist ladies hiding in the bushes with binoculars, hoping I'll change shirts or something in the wide open living room, but you never know.

In further defense, I created the curtains in a way that would never occur to a cute fellow in the lime green jumper and yellow ascot.

It is perfectly possible to create window-treatment elegance with a vintage flannel sheet printed with what someone (maybe the fellow mention supra) believed to be an authentic American Indian motif. It merely requires pinking (blush) shears, a Stanley 30-foot tape measure, a stapler, and a roll of Gorilla tape. The latter two items help fabricate the tunnel through which the curtain rod goes.

N.B. Above the window hangs a nicely scoped .30-06 in further testimony to my masculine status. It was cropped out, however, too black,  because my three volt cockroach by Canon couldn't solve the contrasty light problems.  

Feb 28, 2012

The storm of death redux again

This is about the first excuse of the winter for the official mommydotguv weather forecasters to predict death and disaster. So far, I am amazed at the rhetorical restraint the NWS is showing. Reduced to a "takeaway" (what an odious word), the weather guys and gals  seem to be advising me that I have a reasonable chance  of surviving the next 72 hours. Ordinarily their red headlines make me wonder if my will needs changing.

This makes me feel good but also like a citified wuss. I don't really need to do much. Keep a few splits of oak handy to the fireplace.  Kick New Dog Libby out of the soft chair closest to said fireplace. Decide whether to go with chili, spaghetti sauce, or  barbecue pork loin in the crock pot.  Move the more dependable truck out into a clear area of the yard. (The truck is insured but the camper isn't, so the fall of an ice-laden oak branch thereon would be financially inconvenient.)

A couple-three hundred miles west of me, where the storm is worse,  lives a a better man. This guy -- an obvious  survivalist  --  got ready by positioning  the 4x4  pickup,  prepping his team of horses, getting his cows in a cuddly place, and -- I swear it's true --  hoping his shoulder pain lets up enough so he can go riding his colt through the wintry Armageddon. Ride 'em, Cowboy.

(sigh) Comparatively, Jinglebob makes me feel like I should be wearing white bucks,  lime green slacks, a pink silk shirt, and a yellow ascot, standing around a country club bar,  bitching about the servant problem.

Dec 15, 2011

Brownian Motion in the Home

Everyone must believe in something. I believe in housekeeping by Brownian motion.

You never set out to clean and neaten and organize. Boring. You let sublime nature take its course. When the molecule glob which is you bumps against a blob of not-you  molecules which seem dirty or out of place you may react, clean it or put it away -- whatever seems necessary.

Or you may not. (What the heck, it isn't +that+ bad. I'll get at it tomorrow.)

It is a low-stress approach to domestic respectability, perhaps something like having a mute, invisible, Martha Stewart drop in once in a while.

Interesting thing about that, though; there seems to be a second absolute zero other than the one Lord Kelvin sort of discovered. Around here, anyway, the titivation-motivator molecule is often  remains inert for weeks, regardless of indicated ambient temperature. So, for days on end, a photo of my quarters would perfectly illustrate the Wiki entry on "entropy."

Other times, like this morning, it gets entirely out of hand.

All I intended was to get some books off the table, the couch, and the kitchen counter and maybe wash the dishes. That was about 8 a.m. Now, three and one-half  hours later, the books are shelved. But also I have vacuumed. I have rehung pictures.  I have cleaned the"miscellaneous" drawer. And, so help me, I am washing blankets.

Please.

Help.

Stop me before I get out the Windex.