Today my brother, J., is picking me up after work and I am going to give him any words of advice I might have on his new kitchen cabinets and countertops and such. He's been re-doing his kitchen for, oh, about 3 years now but it's getting closer to finished. (I should talk. Our master bathroom has been out of commission for at least as long and we haven't even started the process of getting it redone. I do, at least, have a recommendation for someone to do it. Step one, people!)
Anyway, why is it so much easier to give advice to other people about stuff like this than it is to decide about your own house? J. has chosen pale wood cabinets, will probably chose black countertops, will probably chose a neutral flooring of some sort. I assert that the kitchen needs some color and I think one wall (it's a big kitchen with an eat-in area and then laundry area/powder room at one end) should be a sock-o sort of color. Cayenne, or Pellegrino bottle blue, or broccoli green (Heh. Like those foodie colors I made up there?)
I meant, darn it, to smuggle my camera into work today to have it with me this evening. Drat.
Our friend Don brought us dinner last night from Yamato (one of our favorite local restaurants) as...well, I'm not sure exactly why. He said as a thank you for having him to dinner often, but really, there was no necessity. Sure was nice though. Yum....Crispy Golden Roll.....
Today there will be seaming. Sigh.
Post-Lunch Edit: The sweater is done! I had a marathon of seaming at lunch and it's finished. Pictures tonight if there is still light when I get home from kitchen-consulting!
Current Reading
I am reading Lisa Tucker's The Cure for Modern Life. (Pretty cover by the way.) And there is something about it that is bothering me. I always hear that writers should show, not tell. And while I'm not sure I know exactly what that means, I think that may be one of the problems here. There is lots of "this is how she felt...this is how he thought...here's how he felt." Pages where there is actual conversation feel like a cool drink of water in the desert. But I'm still reading...
Yesterday afternoon, in about an hour or less, I read David Llewellyn's Eleven. Set in a financial firm of some sort in Cardiff, Wales, the novel is made up entirely of e-mails sent among a group of friends and co-workers on September 11, 2001. Starts out funny and gets very bleak at the end. It's an attention grabber.
And I came home from Borders last night with a bag full of books I want to get to. Quite a haul. I love having reading to look forward to.
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