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I went to the last Confessional with Monsignor at the Merc on Friday night in my birthday outfit, of course. I used to look forward to his nights because yay fetish and fun, and if I remember correctly it had been ages since the last one. As I told Monsignor, he was a bright spot in a dark time for me. Chatted with actual Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, for whom I have a soft spot, natch.
Oh, and I also finally found out what happened to his family's ownership of Merchant's Tavern in Pioneer Square. Basically, Monsignor's brother is a poor businessman.
Saturday I (nearly) finished dealing with the fallout from the Great Bed Frame Swap: I bought an orbital sander, sanded out that 2 m gouge in the floor, and applied polyurethane floor sealant. It... looks better as long as you don't look at it too closely. Things I learned:
Having gassed myself out of my apartment with nasty organic vapors, I cast about for people to eat out with. (Yes, I sometimes ask people out to dinner at the last minute, and I know that in general that's a bad habit. Only Funny Lady and I are cool with it, and she wasn't available.) Ramen at Sushi & Amigo Ramen in Wallingford followed by Molly Moon's with Much Younger Woman. It kind of hit the spot.
ETA: There's a jam-packed and poorly organized used record store called Fat Cat records in Wallingford now, in the old gas station where I used to get my hair done. Mm, used records within biking distance. I picked up a couple of Om Records titles from the aughts.
I went to Ex's to give my son the car. Because Ex can't not feed people, I came home via transit with a good-sized bag full of her mighty fine baked goods, roasted chick peas, etc.
Circumflatulation frustration this afternoon. 'Nuff said.
The Wendling should be coming over for Christmas dinner imminently. Says Ex, he's a goldfish: he can't hold a list of things to do longer than one item in his head. He does not, of course, think he has a problem. I listened to Ex talk herself out of infanticide; I told her I know some good forest roads. You know the situation is bad when even she goes meshugah from frustration.
Oh, and I also finally found out what happened to his family's ownership of Merchant's Tavern in Pioneer Square. Basically, Monsignor's brother is a poor businessman.
Saturday I (nearly) finished dealing with the fallout from the Great Bed Frame Swap: I bought an orbital sander, sanded out that 2 m gouge in the floor, and applied polyurethane floor sealant. It... looks better as long as you don't look at it too closely. Things I learned:
- Even with a sander that collects dust in a bag, as does mine, there will still be DUST EVERYWHERE and you need to carefully clean everything, especially the area that you want to seal.
- Despite my floor sealant having a brown tint to it, not even three coats of sealant haven provided a good color match. Instead of a 2 m gouge in the floor, I now have a 2 m slightly lighter stripe the width of a 1/4 sheet sander, i.e. about 15 cm.
- Acetone will get polyurethane out of a brush maybe once before it's fossilized, so don't bother with a nice brush as I did.
Having gassed myself out of my apartment with nasty organic vapors, I cast about for people to eat out with. (Yes, I sometimes ask people out to dinner at the last minute, and I know that in general that's a bad habit. Only Funny Lady and I are cool with it, and she wasn't available.) Ramen at Sushi & Amigo Ramen in Wallingford followed by Molly Moon's with Much Younger Woman. It kind of hit the spot.
ETA: There's a jam-packed and poorly organized used record store called Fat Cat records in Wallingford now, in the old gas station where I used to get my hair done. Mm, used records within biking distance. I picked up a couple of Om Records titles from the aughts.
I went to Ex's to give my son the car. Because Ex can't not feed people, I came home via transit with a good-sized bag full of her mighty fine baked goods, roasted chick peas, etc.
Circumflatulation frustration this afternoon. 'Nuff said.
The Wendling should be coming over for Christmas dinner imminently. Says Ex, he's a goldfish: he can't hold a list of things to do longer than one item in his head. He does not, of course, think he has a problem. I listened to Ex talk herself out of infanticide; I told her I know some good forest roads. You know the situation is bad when even she goes meshugah from frustration.
