Barb, may I suggest a small lock? You probably have a pre TSA luggage lock hanging around that will do.

I'm considering it, Vortex.

I did find the hammer-- in HIS toolbox. Which was downstairs in his office. While his hammer was upstairs on the dining room table from where he'd been hanging pictures earlier today.

I know exactly how this happened. He went rummaging in my toolbox for a hammer, forgetting that he hates my hammer (it's fairly lightweight, which works well for me, while his is this big, horkin' thing that I don't care to use). He probably tried using my hammer anyway, decided for the umpteenth time that he hated it, went in search of his hammer, actually found it in his toolbox and chucked my hammer in there when he took his out and then totally forgot about it.

How do I know he totally forgot about it?

"Honey, do you know where my hammer is?"

"Isn't it in your toolbox?"

"No."

"Then how should I know where your hammer is?"

"Because it's not in my toolbox."

"Are you suggesting I took your hammer and didn't put it back?"

::crickets chirping::

"I really don't think I took your hammer."

"Where's your toolbox?"

"Back there." ::points in vague direction, I go look and imagine that, find my hammer which I hold up as evidence::

"You sure you didn't leave it there?"

::more crickets chirping::

"Yeah, okay, I probably left it there after I grabbed my hammer. But is it really that big a deal?"

"I'm holding a hammer here."

"Yeah... sorry."

"I'm holding a hammr here."

Sufficient warning, I'd say.

Poor foster catling, yay Harvey!

smonster, the *#@&!! books are still in one of a bajeeeeelion boxes so I can't find the exact precise ones. New Directions Press was one translation, a Robert Bly translation was another. The specific poems I needed copies of were You Darkness, The Unicorn, Lovesong, and an excerpt from Letters to a Young Poet. I managed to track them down.

Something about a translation different from "mine"--maybe not the first one I heard, but the one that resonated--is just wrong. If and when I unearth the books, I'll send you the publishers and titles.

...and then there's the Neruda.

My father used to take the silverware and kitchen knives for everything from refinishing and gardening.

I live alone. I own two hammers and sometimes can't find either.

Thanks to everyone who checked out my Felt Farm. Better pictures will be taken sometime soon, and the Dragon is really more meaningful when she's been photo styled and accessorized with a box of treasure and a lot of beads. I figured, dragons have hoards, so she got props and became Princess Tourmaline, Jewelry Dragon. (Also I will have a closeup of her dangerously sharp claws).

Hooray for Harvey spending the night at home where he belongs. Poor Grace, the old sick cat we adopted, routinely got bladder infections that got better with antibiotic treatment. I decided that I didn't care why they kept recurring, since they were manageable enough for her to be comfy. And she got to die in her sleep, in her bed, after a day of sitting in my lap in the sunny spot. So that girl, she had a good run and a good end, bless her cranky heart.

As for the plural of penii, I like Mr. Garrison's approach and refer to a penis pack as "a mighty redwood forest of penises..." ah haw haw. (I am twelves)

Hec, I'm really hoping I can manage to get to the 2011 Edwardian Ball. Really, REALLY hoping.

You must start to set aside a penny jar or something.

And I'll do the same for JZ.

Barb we seem to be married to the same man, at least in this regard. Makes me think I need to buy me a toolbox.

Cooking is still relaxing even when exhausted.

I agree, at least it can be. Today is a case in point. I was beat, but got home and made kielbasea for the kids and a yummy couscous and lentil salad for Cody and me. Oh, and proper cocktails.

Oh KB, if I didn't say something earlier, let me say now how much I love your work. Terrific.

Speaking of being 12, I'm have been looking at television wall mounts, and I find myself snickering at things like "single-stud full motion mounts."

When I was a theater tech we were supposed to bring our own c-wrenches. One of the other women on the crew suggested I'd keep mine longer if I painted my name on it with as bright, glitzy pink a nail polish as I could find. So I did, and I still had it when I graduated. My hammer, which I also lent out on occasion, has my name on the handle in shiny gold letters.

My dad use to collect tools, plus he got a lot of them for presents. Then his father, who had a barn full of tools, died and left all of them to Dad. He fitted me out with a full toolbox when I moved into my first apartment and you couldn't even see a difference in his toolshed.