3 Ring Binder

Last night I went with a friend to see the National Theatre's movie presentation of Hamlet starring Benedict Cumberbatch as the tortured Dane. I was so proud of myself for agreeing to go out on a weeknight and see a movie of a Shakespearean play that I didn't think my night could get any better. It did.  There was a bar at the theatre!  It's not that I would in any way need a bar to sit through four hours of Shakespeare. No! It's just that it was such an unexpected delight. It's almost like I hadn't been to the movies since they invented the reclining seats. But, I digress.  Not only did the theatre have a bar, but there was "real" food.  (By "real" food in this context I mean anything not made by Mars, Incorporated or deep fried.)  As it was the Ides (of November, so not really), I ordered the Caesar chicken salad wrap. After many, many minutes and missing the beginning of the Cumberbatch mini-interview, I got my food an...

Although my current home does not reflect this, I'm a huge fan of sleek modern architecture, minimalist interior design, and modern conveniences (Okay. I have modern conveniences). Even so, there has always been something about the old sprawling farmstead -- the building that seems to accrue organically as space and functional needs dictate -- that has always been attractive to me. But this one took me by surprise. On first inspection, it's an lovely old New England farmstead, freshly whitewashed with a vibrant red door nestled among the rolling hills of Berkshire County, Massachusetts. Pretty.  Through the dusk, the landscape seems well-managed and the shapes oddly regular. On closer inspection, however, we see that it is not what it first appears to be! Front (a little sterile) Back (bam!) Side (glowing) Interior (clean and sleek)  Hey - we have those Eileen Gray tables !  Plan (and structure) by Hugh Newell Jacobsen Set on 146 acres in Great Barri...

According to a New York Times article and its interactive info-graphic , last week my household was like over 500,000 other households in the US with a married couple and three kids, two under the age of 18.    Then, when one of my daughters turned 18, our household became less common, if you will, with a married couple and three kids, but only one under the age of 18.    As my son prepares to move out into his own house, we are left with the fact that we are soon to become a household like over 1% of the households in this country.  Even more frightening is the fact that as my daughter heads out to college, our type household will become quite commonplace: a married couple with one child under the age of 18 – similar to over 5% of the households in the country.   Staring down that sea of sameness and struggling, somehow, to distinguish ourselves, we came up with a plan. 

We've recently added four feet to our home.  It’s not a dog (although the youngest is lobbying hard for another one and she’d prefer one that did not eat the Pug), but two zebra finches!  Have you ever heard these birds ?  They're so damn chirpy in the cutest way possible. Say hello to our newest feathered friends, Darcy and Elizabeth. Right now, Darcy is still in his quietly brooding phase; Elizabeth is quite garrulous. Although my husband bought them for me for our anniversary , the twelve year-old named them.

Autumnal Delights The sudden cool of morning brushes skin, Air scented thick with ripened apples mulls, Piquantly spiced with nutmeg, cinnamon, A breeze, a whoosh of fallen leaves, then lulls. Perhaps still green, remains a supple leaf. As maple bursts in orange-red, umbered oak, And aspen’s deepest gold, explode! In brief Calliopes of color: Nature’s cloak. Surrounded by the changing atmosphere, Imbibed in richly, flavored, shades of earth, Awash in subtle, brilliant, bracing air, My senses wake! I breathe autumnal birth. Outside grows cold as inside’s glow ignites, With Fall’s imbued sensorial delights.

I love Sunday afternoons in the fall. I know it's not officially fall, but the cooler weather is here, the local apples are prime for picking, and the Patriots are on the TV while Stephen does food prep for the week. Over the past few years I have really come to enjoy watching football (great play Guyton!), and I enjoy analyzing the commercials as well.  Mostly, the beer commercials are so dumb, they're not even fun to watch, but they seem to be getting slightly better. And I've always enjoyed a good play on words. Hope you're appreciating your Sunday afternoon, too.

Say hello to our latest addition: Sharkbait-ooh-ha-ha (or as the rest of us call him, Chum).  Chum made his debut as the pet part of the bedroom decor of our 17 year-old today. What a difference a flash makes. For those of you keeping score, Chum joins, rather than replaces, Danny in our betta household.

After fifteen years of cohabitational bliss, my husband recently acknowledged the near-complete integration of our lives. I choked. I laughed.   I shook him by the shoulders to make certain that he meant it.   He had indeed, purposely, referred to one of the CDs I brought to the relationship as “ours.”   In order to have my reaction make sense, you should know that only within the last two years have I been able to convince him that packing and using the same suitcase, as well as allowing his individually encased toothbrush to co-mingle with mine in the drug bag (we call it the HBA bag when flying) was a more efficient than each of us carrying our own stuff separately. Even with these recent concessions toward couple-hood, he left me ill-prepared for the unsolicited acceptance of any part of my lesser—in both quantity and quality, according to him—music collection. (OK. Given that I think I may still have a Milli Vanilli CD kicking around somewhere, I’m willing to co...

First the fly invasion, then the chickens cavorting with wild animals. What’s next? Boiling seas? Since I’m not into human sacrifice, and given that the temperature will exceed 90°F for the next four days in a row, I tell you where I’ll be ending my days: sequestered in the East Wing with the quieter, more efficient AC, my books, and all the wine I can drink! Who knows? Maybe I’ll even let the rest of my family join me.   If I can get a good wireless signal up there, I may never leave. Note to self: Must bring pepperoni and cheese.   And toothbrush. Stay cool, friends.

We did watch the most exciting two minutes in sports yesterday, not because of any Eliza Doolittle fantasy, but because it followed directly after the most exciting thirteen minutes and fifty-two seconds in sports – the Bruins overtime win over the Flyers !   So tonight we decided to celebrate the Kentucky Mud Race and the previously-but-no-longer muddled game-winning-goal scoring Mark Savard , not to mention this 90°, hot and humid weather with some mint juleps. I turned to my trusty cocktail resources: Vintage Spirits and Forgotten Cocktails , and Mix Shake Stir . The first had a fabulous history of the julep drink dating back to a Milton reference from around 1634 and then an 1803 reference by Washington Irving, but neither mentions mint.   It was Senator Henry Clay, who, in 1850, gave his version of the enduring mint julep. But the julep was not always made with bourbon - in fact, it seems it was originally made with real peach brandy, not peach-flavored brandy liqueur, ...

I knew there was Gentian violet in the formula . Yet, somehow, I was not moved to put down newspaper when spraying the feet of one of my chickens who apparently had become the victim of something (most likely another chicken). Now I have this lovely modern art exhibit permanently installed in my mud room – until I repaint. Upon finding me laughing at my own stupidity while attempting to clean it up, my husband noted the titular truism and then said, “I’m just glad I didn’t do it.” And the chicken? She is getting personalized attention, exotic spa treatments (her name is Barbie), and should be re coop erated fully by Monday.  

1) The pop and scream of the brass in Blood, Sweat & Tears music. 2) The strain and whine of the garage door opening signaling that my husband is home. 3) The quiet and joyful humming of my daughter clearly delighted by her own ability to figure out basic algebra problems.

LB's home office tip of the day: Do NOT keep time to your daughter's violin practice with your touch pad finger unless you want 17 instantiations of Outlook on your desk top. Just call me Hell, Louise?!

LB's homemaking tip of the day: Do NOT pour egg whites down the drain followed immediately by a hot water chaser. Just call me Hell, Louise?!

Four reasons prompt her choices of the day; There are four reasons in the woman’s mind: She has her Home , clutter to keep at bay Safe for living, even for the dirt-blind: She has her Children , oh sweet young being Whose righteous growth she must attend And remind herself that daily overseeing Is about the means and not the end: Her Husband is part of her ageless plan That halves the sorrow and doubles the joy Remembering that while she married the man, She remains the girlfriend to the boy: She has her Self and about this she is wise; Knowing Self is that on which all the rest lies. Inspired by and with apologies to John Keats’ The Human Seasons

My decluttering efforts sent shockwaves not only through the house, parts of which I hadn’t seen in quite a while – namely, the floors, which suddenly screamed out “HELP ME” – but also in my appreciation for the art of homemaking with style . It was only natural that I expand the scope of my housekeeping to include floor maintenance. The central vacuuming system that came with our house, in addition to sounding like a 747 which would soon land in our yard, never worked quite well on the carpeted floors. Our upright vacuum was too big and clunky to clean the carpeted stairs, and a mass of hair (let’s be fair to the dog – it was mostly the long human hair that screwed things up) constantly caused the driving belt to slip which created tremendous friction and eventually caused a nice burnt rubber smell to permeate the house each and every time we vacuumed. Yes, these are some of the better excuses reasons my floors are never quite as clean as they should be. Now, those reasons no longer ...

I have a problem. Okay, I may have more than one, but right now I want to address only one: Crap Creep. Those of you who are also afflicted with the problem know what I mean without further explanation. Those of you who are excellent housekeepers, who have a place for everything and manage to keep everything in its place, those of you who would never, ever , even temporarily, store stuff on the sides of the stairs because you didn’t feel like going up them to put that stuff away, I’m here to explain the issue. Crap Creep occurs when the stuff of your life begins to take on “hazardous” proportions; when no horizontal surface is safe from your stockpiling stop-gap measures at keeping your house livable; when you can put your finger on Christmas decorations without leaving the kitchen – in July! These are some of the signs that Crap Creep has reached capital letter status. Until very recently (maybe a few weeks ago) I could live with my random piles of “Stuff I’ll Get to Later” because I ...

But without the singing, dancing, or helpful vermin.

1. Our main floor bathroom is very small. 2. Hardly anyone uses our ½ bath. (Could be due to the huge painting of the scary lady.) 3. The boy is away at college. Fearing that I will someday lose my mind and mix Clorox with Bleach with Windex with Ammonia (or mix first then lose my mind along with my ability to breathe), I’m glad bathroom cleaning is over with for this – well – let’s just leave it at “for now”.

If we tried to suppress the expansion of the subprime market, do you think that would have gone over very well with the Congress? When it looked as though we were dealing with a major increase in home ownership, which is of unquestioned value to this society — would we have been able to do that? I doubt it. Alan Greenspan , discussing how despite the fact that he didn’t understand the complex derivative products of “easy money” mortgages, he couldn’t do anything to stop it. Why is home ownership of unquestioned value to this society? It may or may not be part of the American Dream. If it is, then it is possible only in an America where the ability to make something of yourself, no matter who you are, is not only a proud tradition, but more importantly, an ability which falls directly from our government's mandate to protect individual rights. And is the "home ownership" he speaks of the same as private property as protected by the government? Clearly not. The first is a g...