Despite my whining, we are settling in to the homestead. For the first weekend, we were able to have morning coffee and hang out (while waiting, Godot-like, for the plumber).

By reader demand, I heed the call to present M. in Pacifica, a huge future draw to this little burg, I am sure. Here, he drinks coffee in our garden, as I shall pretentiously refer to our backyard.

It’s like a garden, because shit is growing in it, no help from M. and me so far.

Meanwhile, apparently owning real estate is the deciding factor in my getting my craft freak on. I haven’t crafted nothing for a very, very, glacially long time. (Of course, thanks to global warming, a glacial age is a whole hell of a lot shorter now.)

I had a positively Martha Stewart lightening bolt that unfortunately won’t lead to vast wealth and syndication. It came about because of a long, boring story that’s kernel is: M.’s seamstress (yes, seamstress) messed up some T-shirts I wanted altered rendering wearable but unattractive tourist souvenirs unwearable without my losing a good 70-80 pounds.

Tangentially, I liking buying T-shirts when I travel, because they pack easy and usually you can find something amusing or unique, and with a little hunting you can be sure you’re supporting the local economy. But, jesus h. christ, do the typical style shirts detract from anything like an acceptable fit or look for many a woman built like me. What’s the opposite of a flattering outfit?

It’s kind of a butch, but not in a sexy dyke way, look with a whole lot all the WalMart on a Tuesday night, given up on life or looking good frumpiness. I end up sleeping in the shirts or working out (I never look good in the gym).

Here’s what I did. Throw pillows from around the world.

Technorati Tags: home, Millenials, suburbs