One delicious outcome of our Italy trip ten months ago was my espresso intake went up–how could it not?–and I’d started having trouble limiting myself to one latte a day. There are all sorts of good reasons why one should be enough, but you know how it is: no amount of commonsense can always outweigh the desire for a treat.
So, for this and other reasons, Kelly and I bought the world’s most adorable milk-whipper a couple weeks ago. It makes hot foamy milk, cold foamy milk, and hot unfoamy milk. (Also hot unsweetened chocolate almond milk, which: mmmm!) And it’s damn near silent, which is deeply wonderful. I could whip milk at the crack of dawn pretty much right beside Kelly’s ear and she wouldn’t wake up.
But the real selling point, in the end, the reason we couldn’t leave it at the Bay, was the red fireplug cuteness of the thing. Sometimes you just have to give in to the OMG squee, how fantastic!!
My beloved, shadow-colored Rumble is going through one of those phases where his favorite place to be is underfoot, preferably at three in the morning. This is troublesome, naturally, because at three I’m a lumbering, nearsighted beast with a wobbly ankle, bound on autopilot for the bathroom. He’s gotten stepped on twice and punted once, and I think it’s sinking in. (If it doesn’t, I’ll start slowly and carefully stepping on him whenever I see he’s in my way. Otherwise an ugly trip to the human or kitteh emergency room is an inevitability).
There’s been a fair amount of kitty acting out lately, what with my having torn up the office and, as of last Wednesday, mostly closed it to feline traffic. It’s all less traumatic than actually moving them to a new home would be, but they can’t appreciate that. I did manage to open the door for part of yesterday while I was rearranging for the next stage of painting. Minnow was visibly happier after she’d had a chance to see that the room still existed.
After the painting, the next stage for this little project is to move the office stuff into the bedroom, and the bedroom stuff into the office. The former will be quite the tight squeeze, but that will hopefully motivate K and I to continue getting rid of some of our not-so-needed crap.
The office is as close as Minnow gets to having her own territory in the house, so I am expecting there will be another explosion of cat unhappiness and maneuvering once that’s all accomplished. Rumble will not cede the bed or bedroom to anyone. He barely tolerates me sleeping in there. (What? I am enslaved by cats. This is news?)
I’ll have to build Minnow an exceptionally nice nest in the ‘new’ office.
I’m up to “Fear, Itself” this week on the Buffy Rewatch. Enjoy!
State of the Office:
This weekend I went off for what turned out to be a 7.5 km walk with Barb in Everett Crowley Park and environs while Kelly went to yoga. We then grabbed up a Modo Car and went OMG, everywhere. Lunch at Triluzza, the recycling depot, the paint store, Gourmet Warehouse for hominy, the drug store, the produce market, and some other errandy place I can’t remember.
On Sunday, we had made a reservation to go spoil ourselves at the Urban Tea Merchant. We had a thoroughly decadent tea (which didn’t photograph as well as I’d like but what can you do?) and then returned home in a state of caffeinated bliss and attacked the painting of the first two walls.
Look! It’s the cover art for my novelette “Wild Things,” which will be out on Tor.com on October 3rd. If you went to any of my BLUE MAGIC readings, this is the story whose beginning you heard; it’s set in the same universe, between the events of the two novels, and deals with the effects of the mystical outbreak in British Columbia.
Here in the real B.C., (though there’s a lot of stuff about phones in “Wild Things”, oddly) our home phone stopped working, probably sometime last week. Maybe earlier. Did you fail to get through to us? Sorry.
It wasn’t just that we both have mobiles now that kept us from noticing. We’re neither of us much for the phone in any case, so everyone in our lives tends to e-mail us when they need us. Except, you know. The doctor. The pharmacist. The bank. Work.
I spent an hour yesterday futzing around trying to get it fixed, while simultaneously trying to get the tech to give me the number for the people who’d cancel it altogether. Here’s what being on hold looks like at Telus these days:
In the end, the technician walked me through 90% of the let’s fix your phone script before I managed to convince him to tell me who to call to just kill the landline. I’d forgotten, though, that the phone jacks also control our door buzzer. And that too seems to be dead dead dead, so now I’m asking our property manager and strata guys to look into fixing a problem that probably wasn’t Telus’s fault in the first place. But which made them notice we weren’t using the phone, and which thus cost them a monthly more-than-pittance for phone fees.
Letting go of our old phone number was a little weird–we have had the same phone account and number since 1991. But paying to hang onto the number for nostalgia purposes seemed a little silly. It was weird, too, because it feels like a thing you do when you’re moving. And though we’re not moving, you can’t tell it from the state of my not-yet-painted office:
One of the great delights of this year has been having membership to the Sun Yat-Sen Classical Chinese Garden. We like the walk through Strathcona to Chinatown and Gastown (not to mention the impeccable coffee to be had at Revolver) and being able to stop in on the garden on the way is a marvelous luxury. It’s peaceful and gorgeous, and you can just sit and take in the splendor, or even read. I keep meaning to go there and write under the trees, but that hasn’t happened yet.
What did happen, though, was polliwog sightings. Tads, turning into frogs with tails! Transformation in action! Does it get any cooler than going from this: