Paul was on vacation last week. A luxurious time of non-stop projects and all-day banging, sanding, sawing, powerwashing, and twenty-seven trips to Home Depot. At the beginning of the week, he sat down to make his list of things to do. I was excited, because there was a project I’d been waiting for him to(…)
“I am not a cabinet maker.” Is what Paul said to me months ago, when I showed him my ideas for a giant, recessed, extra-tall, medicine cabinet. He explained that he is not a woodworker, or a finish carpenter, or an elderly Amish man.
Picking bugs off plants.
I only buy books that I’ve already read and loved… I will linger months and months on the library’s waiting list because it irritates me to buy something and be disappointed. Except at the library booksale—where for a dollar, you might discover something wonderful: The Big House: A Century in the Life of an American Summer(…)
Last weekend Paul and I went to Disco America—a Hustle dance competition. When I say, “Hustle” to people, it conjures up big mustaches, gold chains and skeevy guys. Lots of cologne, Saturday Night Fever, gold lamé, Scarface, white polyester, bubble machines and feathered hair. It wasn’t quite as awesome as all that—but it was pretty(…)