18 September, 2007

bad monkey! bad monkey! don't eat the poop!

which is exactly what mr. m yelled at me as we walked to whyte ave from our new old house. and no, i was NOT eating poop at the time.

and then there was the thing about the guy at that place:

which, you might have noticed, was not really a segue, as a segue presupposes two actual concepts that will be...you know, segued together, and i have nothing to present to you here.


i am baking potatoes, onions and carrots from my cousin-in-law's garden, i am drinking wine and listening to something lovely and classical in cello, thinking softly* to myself how nice it would be to marry the archduke of tuscany and have mozart write the wedding ditty. alas and alack, all i get is anti-fecal-consumption public health and safety for simians bulletins from my beloved.

still...he can rewire a socket, he can do plumbing, he can put in a lock and he can frame, drywall and cook. that's almost better than archdukishness. even of tuscany.

*loud thinking is soooo 80's. like big hair.

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