Please. I like it. Patronize me up and down and all over, Saint Jotul. Hear me! I pray to you, Saint Jotul of Gorgeous Woodstoves and Gas Stoves!
”The spirit of Jøtul is all about a passion for warmth. In both senses of the word. Not only the heat generated by the stove or fireplace, but the atmosphere created around it. It is an obsession for life around the fire.
For the perfect atmosphere. The perfect surroundings. And the perfect moment – of calmness, peace and harmony.”
Calmness. Peace. Harmony. Let’s talk about that, Jotul.
West Coast to East Coast red-eye, courtesy of bossy bossy bossy Alaskan Airlines. (In flight, my mom whispered, “Is it just me, or do you feel like we’re back in Catholic school again?” Upon which a flight attendant smacked Mom’s palm with a ruler and flogged her with a bag of peanuts.)
This weather always sneaks up on me before I am ready, and this year’s life developments make it harder than ever to get crackin’ on the yard, on whitening the coffee-stained smile. I hate the pressure to be cheerful, to be out and about, grinning, traveling, waving to friends! Hi! Great weather! Perfect weekend! Just got back from the Cape/the Hamptons/Maine/Jamaica/Maui, how about you?
ASSUME THE POSITION! ALL FOURS! SAY MY NAME! THAT’S RIGHT, MISTRESS LINDSEY! NOW CRAWL OVER HERE AND LICK MY SHINY BOOT, YOU LITTLE BOY-WHORE. I’M GOING TO TIE A STRING AROUND YOUR B**LS SO HARD YOU’LL NEVER FORGET MY NAME AGAIN—
Hattie Belle bursts into the room. “Who was that mean lady on your computer, Mommy? Why was she yelling at the boy?”
Crap. Snap laptop shut. “Oh, um, it’s just a game she was playing. She was playing the mean witch.”
Hattie Belle considers this. “Did he like the game, or did the man think she was too mean?”
“Kind of both, honey.”
I am getting really sick of these emails from marketing folks requesting free commercial space from “mommy bloggers”…
I went with the ads. But I may have to add phone sex to my schedule as well. When I earn enough to buy my private jet, you are all so totally invited to rock on over to Iceland with me. And Dove will keep our skin looking great after the hot springs! And if [...]
“I’m sure it’s fine,” he says reassuringly. “They were probably just calling to tell you that.”
“Usually no news is good news. I don’t like vague news. Were they vague?”
It was a dumb move on both of our parts, two debt-ridden artists with gloomy financial forecasts marrying each other. We need to keep telling ourselves that we are Special and our love was Meant to Be and no orthopedic surgeon or corporate attorney could satisfy either of our Burning Bohemian Souls. We need to repeat these things to each other frequently or we would go postal in the turkey bacon aisle. It is a dangerous union.
My job (the one that feeds the family and pays for vet bills) requires that I stay on top of the latest trends in home decor, which means I spend a lot of time browsing “shelter” magazines.
Which, if you happen to meet the definition of poverty for the state you are living in, is about as good for you as eating three cups of Jawbreakers immersed in a bowl of Coca-Cola for breakfast every morning.
But knowledge is power. I hereby pass the savings down to you.
Please stay and keep chatting. My children hate me and my thumb still hurts and my heart may never stop hurting and I am covered right now in microscopic shreds of the fecal material belonging to two 5-year-old gymnasts.
I washed my hands. You’re safe where you are.
“It was this big.”
