You Say Oo, I say Long

Absolutely wonderful and hilarious, if you love tea as much as I do:




Thank you, Elemental!  
Found via The Flâneur

Fairytale Friday

For your Friday, some Fairytale fabulousness from the Rice Spring-Summer 2010 catalog:

It's snowing (again) today.  These bright, cheery images make me smile, despite the gray skies.  Wishing you a colorful weekend!

Rednesday #2

Here's my small contribution to Rednesday this week: the windows next to our dining room table.  I do love German windows--more on them another day.  

And on another topic, if you loved Toast's visit to San Miguel de Allende, you should visit with Ruche as well.

Competition

It's time for Willow's Magpie Tales, week four!

"Score!  This baby's mine!"  She pushed him aside, gave him the best her left elbow had to offer, as she spied her prey on the top shelf, almost--but not quite--out of reach.  "E, for elephant."

He crossed his arms and glared.  "Okay, I think you may have injured my spleen.  You really are insane.  Sometimes I'm not exactly sure what I see in you."

She smiled and clutched the small wooden elephant that much more tightly.  "You couldn't do without me, and you know it.  Besides, you're just mad I'm beating you.  And your spleen will be fine."

"I guess I should have known better than to engage you in an alphabetic thrifting competition.  Remind me to bring along a white flag should I ever happen to challenge you to a game hunt on the savanna."

She turned from their shopping basket to face him.  "I keep telling you, Sweetie: never attempt to out-shop a woman.  Speaking of white flags, since we're only going to "H" today, you really should surrender now and get it over with.  How about some coffee and a pastry back at home?"

He spotted a white cotton pillowcase in the linens bin, pulled it out with a flourish, and waved it overhead.

Monday, Monday

I've just come from a special academic award ceremony for The Boy and a handful of his school-mates (so proud of him!).  A reception followed.  May I just say that 8:30 a.m. is too early for cake for pretty much everyone besides a sixth-grader?  Actually, 8:30 is too early for most things, in my opinion.  Because I'm tired from getting up too early and also from the effects of a virus I apparently had all last week, I'm not in a blogging groove today.  I think I'll take a nap instead.  

But I'll leave you for now with a couple of random photos from my house.  Also, I just found the blog Ensuite.  These two French sisters write about and take photos of interesting, real (not hyper-designed) Parisian flats, including the home of the fantastic Nathalie Lété.  You know I'm a big fan of hers.  Happy Monday!

Vintage Anthropologie 2

From February 2008:

So, does somebody here at this blog have a bit of a thing for caravans?  Okay, yes--I like them, a lot.  They're so cozy and eclectic, as a rule.  I'd love to have one sitting in my back yard.  But mind you, I wouldn't want to travel in one.  I am so not a camper.  I have tried, people--oh, how I have tried--but sleepless nights do not become me.  I digress.

The Weight

This is my third time to have fun with Willow's Magpie Tales:

It had happened two hours and seventeen minutes ago.  Just another step, maybe two--that's all it would have taken.  Forty more centimeters and he'd have been out the door, in the clear.  The security guard, all six-feet-three-inches of him (let's see, that's over 185 centimeters), had grabbed the back of his windbreaker and yanked it--too roughly, he thought.  The five-centimeter hole that man had left would need repairing; his mother could do that.  

He calculated how long it would take her to get to the jail from work: twenty-six minutes, if she made half the lights.  Of course, this was assuming she'd show up at all.  One hundred fourteen pounds of sass and attitude but seemingly double that in patience, she might have finally reached her limit.  His father had reached his long ago; he'd been gone for six years, three months, and fourteen days.

The boy sat and assessed the female officer who'd shown him the phone to make his one call: size seven shoes, size five pants, quite pretty--he'd give her a "9."  It had taken him years to realize how much numbers comforted him in times of stress.  He'd read a book that told him his numbers were either a brain malfunction or a defense mechanism of sorts, a way of dealing--or not--with a world that tilted so sharply it constantly threatened to tip him into an immeasurable abyss.  He could imagine nothing worse than immeasurability.

And now he'd risked so much for a book that must have weighed, what?  A kilogram or so?  About two pounds--yes, that sounded right.  It had felt perfect as he'd slipped it inside his jacket--there had been a leveling, settling effect from his head to his feet.   But it wasn't meant to be, not this time.  He looked down at his watch; another eight minutes had passed.