Our Newest Roommate.

To be honest, children, I thought one of you (most likely the oldest) would be the first roommate your father and I ever brought into our lives. But that was before I met Maisie.

Meet Maisie.

Ever since she first darted into my peripheral vision while I was typing at my computer, I knew that we lived in the same house. But it was only later that I realized that made us honest-to-goodness roommates.

Maisie & me, just hanging out near a wall.

At first, I thought I would most likely murder Maisie, as I had done to so many of her brethren (sistren?) over the years. But after naming her, murder began to seem increasingly undesirable. So we struck upon a truce: she would kill and devour any insect intruders (or as she calls them, "squatters") she came across, and I would let her live. With us.

Thumbs up for inter-species friendship!

I have no regrets, though since our first full day of friendship, I haven't seen much of Maisie. And honestly, it doesn't bother me excessively. Let's just hope she doesn't try to pull this disappearing shit when the rent's due.

What's in a Spoon?

To your father, a spoon is a spoon. He doesn't care whether it has a pointy end, what its scooping capacity is, or how it might balance (hypothetically) on the edge of a mixing bowl during the Ballet of the Kitchen Utensils.

To me, however, not all spoons are created equal. I'd like to spend a few moments today addressing the matter of my dessert spoon.

This spoon, as you can see, has a rounded end (so as not to press into the tender flesh between the thumb and forefinger) and a deeply scooped head. Some folks would say this spoon is proof that there is someone out there creating spoons--how else, these people would ask, could a spoon so magnificently hold the perfect amount of both milk and cookie in a single mouthful?


Other folks would say that this spoon evolved to have this structure over months of being used to eat desserts.

Me, I don't care who you believe. As long as you get your chubby little child arms out of my way so I can have this spoon at dessert time, dammit.

Care of Magical Creatures.

As you know, children, I am a fervent proponent of tricking yourself into doing things that are less than pleasant but must nonetheless be done. This weekend, I devised a clever way to take more pleasure out of vacuuming the house.

All I had to do was trick myself into believing that our vacuum cleaner was a magical creature named Hortensia who lives in the front closet and enjoys eating the dirt accumulated on human carpets. She's a very low-maintenance magical creature, and only needs to eat once a week (or so) to survive, but she does require some attention, as I realized this weekend when I noticed something was not right with her midsection.

It turns out she needed a stomach transplant--good thing I bothered to check! It was touch and go for a while, but she pulled through in the end. 

Style 7 stomachs, which suit most vacuums named Hortensia.

The operation.

You can probably imagine how relieved I was once the operation was over and Hortensia was back to her old self. See you next week, Horty!

That "Giving Up" Feeling.

You know how sometimes, at the end of the week, when you've spent hours and hours of your life writing marketing emails for people selling totally BS things like psychic readings, and you just want a few sweet minutes to work on a poem for a change, and also you need some bourbon and tater tots STAT or you might just collapse?

I had one of those weeks. But it's almost over. So it's all going to be okay.

The Redcoats Are Coming!

Naturally, by "redcoats," I mean "strawberries." I am a poet after all, and it is a poet's job to describe things so that other people have to slow down and ask themselves what the GD the poet was smoking when she put those words together in that order.

It was a real treat to find these beauties at the produce store, and when I got them home, your father and I about devoured them.

Sorry, frozen blueberries, but your reign is OVER. (The pancake in which these blueberries were staying took the news awfully hard, electing to slice itself in half and flop against the plate as if nothing were worth living* for.)

*By "living," of course, I mean "being covered in syrup."

The Best Investment We've Ever Made.

What began as an innocent question this weekend ("Do we have Scrabble, Wife?" asked your father) turned into the single wisest thing we have ever done as a married couple. Frankly, the only question that remains in my mind is how it took us so long to buy our own Scrabble game.



We whiled away most of Sunday 'round the board, which we set up in our freshly-swept back porch area (take that, helicopters).



In addition to granting us some much-needed time away from our screens, the game (as always) provided me with infinite hilarity as I rearranged my letters in my trough to form mildly profane expressions.



In fact, if "points" were given for this achievement rather than "making actual words in accordance with the board layout," I might have beaten your father once or twice.

(Also, one small word of complaint. I love Scrabble as much as the next word nerd, but I don't know if I'd characterize a game in which people can read entire paragraphs of their books between turns "edge of your seat" anything.)

BUSTED!

Ever since your mom discovered that she has an allergy to dairy, your father has been really "enjoying" being the only one to drink out of the milk jug.



I mean really enjoying.

And I can't even get upset about it, because it's not like he's being unsanitary--he's only sharing germs with his future self, after all.