Remember back in the day (last week, really) when I was going on about the Tiny Happy Things That Keep Me From Calamity? Here is the bookcase I alluded to then, stuffed, as promised, with the crap that normally litters my floor. I bought it at Ikea with my mom, who has gotten used to my late-night calls, begging to borrow the car, so I can feed my compulsive need to Put Things In Order On Shelves. It's not quite finished, but DAMN if I'm not proud of it. I may not be tidy, but I love to organize.* I can colour-coordinate ribbons, line up books by height, and arrange the piss out of candles. Just wait until I start to label those pretty boxes. I fucking love labels. I can feel myself floating further from calamity as I type....
In music-related news, my weekend in the studio might turn out to be pretty productive after all. I'll be spending most of Saturday and Sunday recording, but I'll also be bringing GUESTS. What do these guests play, you ask? A musical saw and a harmonica. The sound you hear is me clapping my hands with glee.
I leave you with an image of my zebra plant sprouting the most spectacular bloom. The best part is that the bloom is really just a cluster of yellow leaves that look like a flower. MAN I love plants. I'll be posting some pictures of my sweet little Christmas cactus soon, too.
*I know. You are probably looking at that bookcase, thinking, "Well, to tell the truth, that looks pretty tidy." DON'T BE FOOLED. I am a messy girl. Case in point: Last night, at 11 p.m., I had the bright idea to make a batch of cinnamon buns. Not to brag, but my cinnamon buns totally kick ass. Okay, that was bragging, a bit. But I tell the truth. ANYWAY. I'm baking away happily, humming to myself, dumping flower, baking powder, sugar and other secret-ingredients-that-may-include-cinnamon into a bowl. What is my partner doing? He is standing next to me with a cloth and a broom. He is following my every move, mopping up my mess, putting things away, and catching the drippy stuff before it hits the floor or my leg etc. Why does he do this? Because if he doesn't, he knows that every surface of the kitchen will be caked with a gluey, sweet, rubbery substance for weeks afterwards. He knows that I won't notice that I have broken an egg onto the counter instead of the bowl, and he knows that I will probably drop the cinnamon buns on the ground after forgetting to put them on a proper plate. He knows that I am, at heart, a total slob. And yet he stays on, clutching a mop in his hand. It's possible that he is my perfect match. Yes folks, he is my Lobster. I totally referred to Friends just then, and no, I am not ashamed.