It’s about time for another peek at the funky design features of this ol’ house and the stuff I’ve stuffed into it. Don’t ya think? No? Tough shit.
That’s the beauty of it being my blog, not yours. You may not have to read it, but I get to indulge my whims at my whim.
When I was visiting with T last week in beautiful San Diego, we were discussing olives. Why wouldn’t we be? I was having a dirty martini at Dick’s Last Resort. Dirty martinis contain olives. My dirty martinis contain three olives. The really good ones contain olives stuffed with bleu cheese. Oh, yes they do.
T doesn’t like bleu cheese. I’m sad for T.
Bug likes to put jars of olives under Peanut’s pillow. For fun. He’s twelve. It makes sense to him.
It does not make sense to Peanut.
It makes Hubs laugh, especially after finding out it wasn’t me accidentally leaving a jar of olives under Peanut’s pillow.
Hello! Just how spacey does he think I am?
Anyway, back to the olives. The reason, I theorized, that Bug chose a jar of olives as his instrument of torture for his sister was because he regularly bumps into the bar cart, jostling the jar of olives. This annoys him. Hence, he removed the jar from the bar cart and needed a place to stash the offending olives. Under his sister’s pillow. Makes sense.
T was impressed that we have a bar cart. She wants to see proof.
In the name of design and honesty, I offer you proof.
See how relaxed T looks now that she’s seen the bar cart? It does that to me too.