So, it only takes the weeniest amount of encouragement from y'all, and I spring into action to spiff up the nook. Mm, here it is again. It's a pretty tiny little space. I had been neglecting it a bit because it is home to the aforementioned utterly terrifying cat food and cat bowls. I found this little pink shelf of mine in the basement of the shop the other day, and I remembered how pretty Yvonne's little shelf was -- and her other open shelves, too -- and promptly put in the work order to have it hung so I could put my stupid latte bowls somewhere. Yvonne is a fantastic stylist -- I love all of her pictures so much, everything always cheerful and colorful and spare and pretty. Yvestown is a very lovely town indeed. I wish Yvonne could come here and fix up my shelf for me.
I don't know why I was just mean to the latte bowls. I didn't mean it. I love them, actually, but there's nowhere to put them. I think I'm mad at myself because, in spite of the fact that I don't have anywhere to put them, I keep buying them. I go in to unpack groceries and there's another one. "She forgot to give me my avocado! Dangit! . . . Hey, how'd you get in here?" I think I'll put in another work order to have a little shelf put somewhere or other, just for them. They're so sweet. I don't drink coffee out of them, though I've tried, because it sounds just like something pretentious and precious enough to appeal to me; the coffee gets so cold with all that surface area cooling down so fast. How do the French do it, I wonder. I thought they sat around for hours over cafe au lait. Another mystery of France we'll never understand.
I love this tennis girl, too. Her nonchalant, 40-love, so-what-if-I'm-winning posture. She's an old cake decoration. And little Miss Kitty up there is a salt shaker. And tucked way in the back is a patchwork card, given to me by the mod mother of all fairy godmothers, Lisa, made by the earth mother of fairy godmothers, Amanda. Irish oatmeal -- the greatest hot cereal. Since childhood I have been a Malt-O-Meal, farina, Cream of Wheat person. Lately, it's steel-cut oats. By the way, Miss Stephanie? Is it my imagination or were those not steel cut oats we got at Henry's the other day? I think those oats were as flat as pancakes. We should've gotten pancakes. You are two for two "should've gotten something else"s at Henry's now. Hmmm. We're blowing you off next time Henry. Not to mention it was freezing in there, my gosh. Almost as cold as it is in here, actually. Where's the heat.
Uh oh. I'm crabby. You know why? 'Cause I don't feel good. I have a sore throat. I took three Airbornes last night. I should take another one. We were supposed to clean up the studio today, because it's probably going to rain. All I feel like doing is lying on the couch and watching America's Castles. Or Gilmore Girls. Or Judge Judy. I could rival David Sedaris with my love for Judy. Would it surprise you to know that I watch Judge Judy every day? I do. But any of those would be fine. They all feel like poorly-bed shows, somehow, and watching JJ always makes you feel a lot better about your own life. I'm so behind with everything -- the Posie site is so empty and bare. I have lots of things in various states of completion but nothing completed. Errrrr. My body feels like it's made of overheated paper mache. I did manage to put together a gallery of all the Posie-ish things that have sold in the past six months, however. I thought it was a bit of a miracle that I finished that; of course, it is something I should've been doing all along. This little tulle apron with the rickrack and the roses? How cute is that. From Lisa, of course, the font of all things cool and excellent. She sent me another one that will make its debut on the mannequin next week. When I opened them I tried to scream "Oooooooo! OOOOOOooooo! Oh no you di-n't, oh no you DI-N'T girlfriend!" at her via email but I don't know if she could hear how loud I really was. I think she did, but some things are hard to communicate over email. I pranced around with my eyes closed, hugging the aprons to my chest, thinking not for the first time that the woman truly is prescient.
People are starting to notice that . . . I'm having a very difficult time staying on top of my email. Like, they go, "How do you answer your email?" and I go, "Uh, I don't, really," and they go, "Yeah no kidding you loser." My in box is a total disaster. If you've written to me and I haven't replied, I really am sorry. I probably lost your email. I'm serious. There are like 3,000 messages in there because I never delete them, and everything goes into the same mailbox. It's a nightmare, and getting worse and worse. I'm just saying. I really do love you. I'm just totally disorganized. Like, here are some recent comments I have a vague memory of not answering: Paper flower in the upstairs bathroom cabinet? Bernadette Breu, antique store in the Pearl district (Portland). Kind of camera I use? Canon A-80, love it. Paint color in the living room? Can't for the life of me remember even the brand of paint. Do tree peonies smell like regular peonies? Happily, yes! Were there others? Prob.
I'd better go. This post is pretty mental. Please forgive me. Maybe I have a hallucinatory fever and not just a sore throat. Maybe I'm raving. I don't think I'm quite as scary as bullet-eyed Violet over here yet, though. This is the face I call, "Oh, but you will do what I want." She gets so nosy when I come in the nook, her secret lair. I guess I'd better feed her before she puts me into some kind of tabby-induced canned-cat-food trance. I might be halfway there.