Overheard at our house, telephonic edition

John, calling parents: “Busy signal?!”

Me (mock horror): “What is THAT?”

John: “I know – where do they live, anyway?”

Me: “1985.”

“That’s what she said.”

I’m taking one of those random days off where you get a lot of stuff done that’s difficult to get scheduled on the weekend.  First on the agenda was getting the chimney swept.  We have a pretty good service – one of their best features is that they are very, very punctual.  So the annual drill goes thusly: guys show up right at 8 and get to work on the chimney.  I sit with the dog and feel useless, then write a check.  At some point, they marvel at how gunky our chimney is and I tell them that, yes, we’re New Englanders and we like our nightly winter fires.  Then they go away.  This year included a particularly irritating addendum to the usual routine.

Mr. Chimney Sweep hands me the work order and notes the price.  He asks: “Do you get your chimney swept every year?”

Me: “Yes, every year for the last eight years we’ve lived here.  Like clockwork.  We know we have a lot of fires.”

MCS: “You should get it done every year, because it was really bad.”

Me: “Yeah – we do.  Every year.”

MCS: “The chimney walls look good, but I’ve written here that you should get it swept every year.”

Me: Silently screaming.  “Okay.”

Overheard at our house, French steampunk edition

Me: “So remember that trailer of that French steampunk film I showed you earlier this year?”

John: “Yeah – I think so.”

Me: “Well, apparently it was only in theatres on limited release and isn’t on DVD in the States at all.”

John: “So, New York and L.A. basically.”

Me: “Yeah probably.”

John: “And Northern Maine.”

Overheard at our house, giant arachnid edition

Our porch roof and railing is currently housing a rather large spider.  I think it may be nocturnal, because it has been out there every early (pre-sunrise) morning and post-sunset evening, but I have yet to see it in daylight.  It took a few days for John to have an opportunity to see it, but he finally did.  We were looking at it this morning before I left for work:

Me: I think he has a friend.  There’s a little spider too.  Same coloring, but small.

John: You know, the bigger spiders are usually the females.

Me: Does this spider make me look fat?

One big reason to love summer

Farmer's market trip

The month-long hot weather has broken, and I was able to take my bike on a trip to the local farmer’s market – fresh peaches, fresh veggies (under the peaches), and some lovely lisianthus.  Bliss!

Overheard at our house, belated birthday edition

John’s finally getting around to recycling the pile of cards he got for his birthday.  Since he turned 40 this time, some are more sadistic than others:

Card from my father, “Ma-cho ma-cho man….”

John (cutting open the card in order to fiddle with the mechanism), “Hmmm…”

Cfmf, “I want to be – a macho man!”

John, “Oh.  So that’s how that works.”

Cfmf, “I want to be a macho!”

Me, “Hit it with a hammer.

Broken no longer!


The new theme is up, it has been tweaked some, and I am enjoying a brief respite prior to starting my FINAL class of my MLS.

Unfortunately, I’m still brain-dead.  Thanks for hanging in with me here.

Overheard at our house, healthy breakfast edition

John: “You want fruit with your breakfast”

Me: “Yes, please – an apple would be great.”

“We have pears.”

“Are they hard?”

“No – they’re right at that point where if you squeeze them a bit, they bruise.”

“Are you bruising my pear?”

“Only a little.”

“That’s it – I’m calling Fruit Protection Services.”

Robynn and Rana rightly note the influence of Eddie Izzard in this post:

Conversations with my brother

My brother (well, stepbrother, but that seems a silly word for him somehow and we call each other “brother” and “sister now – even “bro” and “sis” in a kind of self-conscious, auditioning-for-Leave-it-to-Beaver kind of way now) is making a brief, work-related visit to us.  We stayed up rather too late last night, but a snippet of our conversation remains in my head while he’s still sleeping:

Me: “…Well, after all, I am middle-aged.”

Bri: “You’re not middle aged!”

Me: “Dude.  I’m 41.”

Bri: “Well, if you’re going by numbers…”

Love that guy.

Overheard at our house, Glee edition

John: Those stilts are creepy.

Me: Not as creepy as clowns.

John: Maybe creepier than clowns.

Me: No way.  Clowns are creepiest.  But clowns on stilts…

John: Epic creepy.