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prance_legolasAh, yes. More Tales from the Kitchen of Doom this week. You can See some of the Prance's colors here
He looks all excited, doesn't he? Wait'll you see what he's been up to now....
WARNING: This chapter contains partial nudity. *wink*
Chapter 17 Games We Play
On Wednesday night, I dash home from work only to dash back out the door again, headed to kid’s choir with Lil’ Pip, followed by our weekly fellowship dinner with my church family. After dinner, the congregation splits up into study groups. Lil’ Pip goes to the children’s wing to practice for a play the kids are going to put on for us. Legolas has found his niche in the kitchen, wooing the ladies that cook and helping clean up by dumping tea from all the used glasses, rolling up all the paper table cloths, and washing up the silverware. As for Yes Dear and I? Hence comes the evening’s highlight — the class for married couples.
We’re a rowdy bunch, having already been moved once on the very first night of class for disturbing the other bible study group that was taking place in the room next door to us. Apparently the laughter coming from our class was too much for the serious students who were ‘seeing the light’ while we were watching our first video in the dark. The giggling stemmed from the fact that when the lights went out, several of the husband-wife teams teasingly switched handholding partners, and the movement sort of took on a life of its own as the switching continued from right to left all the way around the room.
When the lights came back up, the group leader discovered exactly why she seemed to have lost control of her class during a video that was meant to be light-heartedly humorous, but truthfully not deserving of the outright gut-busting chortling that was taking place.
“Alright, alright,” she exclaimed, “it’s not THAT kind of a marriage class!”
Tonight, we find ourselves giggling again. The topic of discussion is how couples fight. We play a game where we have to guess what our other half would say in answer to questions like, “What’s his favorite sport?”, “Without looking, what color are her eyes?”, and “When is your anniversary?” Yes Dear and I are scoring 100%, getting every single answer right.
When we tally up the scores at the end, Legolas pipes up from the back of the room with, “U tu wear MFEO.”
“MFEO?” I ask. “What’s MFEO?”
“Maed Fur Eech Oethur” he answers, sitting there rocking with his chair up on its back legs and his arms crossed over his chest. “PuterPatty tawt me dat.”
“That’s true, Legolas,” pipes in my friend Patsy. “Those two never fight.”
“Yeas dey due,” Legolas answers.
“No we don’t,” I reply.
“Yaes u due,” Legolas retorts.
“No we don’t!”
“Yes we do,” says Yes Dear from my other side.
“NO, WE DO NOT!” I raise my voice. Pausing for a second, I realize I am NOT winning this conversation, so I change tactics with, “So, little elfboy, what in the heck are you doing in this class anyway? Planning something?”
“I herd u geegileeng. I caem tu sea whut u wear laffin abot.”
Once class is over, I head to chancel choir practice. Legolas begs off and asks if he can go on home with Yes Dear, wanting to look at his countertop samples again. He spent the afternoon lining them up on top of the old countertop, comparing how they looked in the light on the left side of the kitchen by the refrigerator to how they looked on the right in the light coming from the hood over the stove.
I didn’t bother to worry him with the fact that the color of the cabinets was going to change from eggshell to white, and that we would be getting a new stove with one of those ceramic flat tops that doesn’t have the coils that always seem to need cleaning, as well as a new range hood and light. We’d also be putting in spotlighting over the sink instead of the fluorescent that resides there now, and even the sink would be different. Sometimes even just a little information is too much, you know?
Later, after spending an hour trying to keep the tenor section from drowning in notes that were slightly off (where is that elf when I need him?), I arrive home to find a hole where the moldy corner cabinet used to be. The butcher block countertop has been sawed straight through, with just enough room for the dish drainer remaining by the sink, its wire rack sort of hanging there suspended by a wing and a prayer. The plywood floor that’s exposed now is covered with black slime embedded in the grain of the wood itself, and the whole house smells like a mixture of mildew and something industrial like Mr. Clean. There’s even a mark in the drywall by the dish drainer where the saw blade must have slipped and gone right through the painted surface.
“What’s going on here?” I demand.
The elven princeling comes bouncing around the corner of the doorway, sliding to a halt in his Joe Boxer white sport socks on the bouncy-squishy linoleum directly in front of me.
“Yaes Deer uzed DA POEWER SAEW!” he announces, his eyes wide.
“I see that.”
“It’z DIS BEEG!” he continues, holding his hands out shoulder-wide for me to see.
“I know. What happened to my kitchen?”
“It’z all saewd uep!” he exclaims, clapping his hands gleefully.
About this time, Yes Dear himself steps around the doorway.
“Somebody tell me what happened in here while I was gone?” I insist.
“I took out the moldy cabinet like I told you I was going to,” he answers.
“You never said anything about cutting up the kitchen,” I retort.
“How else did you think I was going to get it out?” he growls.
Hmmmm. I don’t think I ever really thought about it. I guess I figured he would just slide the moldy wood part out from under the countertop and it would just stand up there all by itself.
“Well, I certainly didn’t think you were going to saw a hole in the wall!” I yell.
“I didn’t saw a hole in the wall,” he replies.
“Well, there certainly IS a hole in the....” I pause as the full meaning of what he just said sinks in. We must be truly MFEO, because at the exact same instant our eyes turn to the quivering mass of anticipation standing to my left.
“I deed it!” beams Prance Helpful. “I goet tu saew wid da poewer saew, an I cuet a hoel en da waell!”
(((Partially naked kitchen as it looked when I came home from choir practice that night....The actual hole in the wall from the saw is just behind the blue checkered dish towel. I apologize that you can't see it more clearly in this photo...I'll look some more....)))
(((What? You were expecting partial nudity of something else??? Shame on you.)))
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Two hours later, it’s time for bed and we’re still not speaking to each other.
I decide enough’s enough, and that it’s time to breach The Deeping Wall.
“What were you thinking, letting him use power tools?” I whisper, hoping elven ears can’t hear me through two bedroom walls and half the length of the hallway. “What if he’d slipped and cut himself? What if he’d gotten hurt? It’s not like you can run him down to the county hospital to be patched up, y’know.”
“I know. He’s not covered under our insurance.”
“That’s NOT what I mean, and you know it. He’s not human — who knows what the differences in treatment for our races would be? What if he turns out to be allergic to something they give him and has a reaction and it kills him? What will we do then?”
“It was just a simple job. I showed him how to do it, and I was there the whole time. He’s a quick learner, and he’s quite capable of pushing a button to turn a circular saw on and off all by himself. You let him run the microwave.”
“It’s NOT the same,” I grumble.
“AND the vacuum cleaner. He could crush his toes off with the beater bar if he ran over his foot with that. Or haven’t you stopped to consider that possibility yet? And what about the washing machine?”
I’m done with this conversation too.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next week turns out to be a tense one. I can’t walk past the kitchen without seeing the gaping hole where the cabinet’s missing, and Yes Dear can’t walk past me without thinking I’ve lost my marbles. After all, he was only performing his duty as protector of the household when he removed the dangerous, allergy-producing, sickness-invoking mold from our kitchen. Now his wife’s on a mission to make his life miserable just because he ‘supervised’ the removal of said offending piece of property. It wasn’t worth a dime all damaged like that anyway.
On Monday, the Prance bounces happily back down the aisle of “VALINOR” to the kitchen and bath center, his myriad collection of little countertop chips stored in a plastic Ziploc sandwich baggie clutched firmly in one hand. He parks himself in one of the tall bar chairs in front of the desk where Connie the designer keeps her computer. She’s busily typing away and mutters without looking up, “I’ll be with you in just a moment, ma’am.”
“Okae,” answers the Prance, settling himself in and beginning to line all of his chips up on the table in front of him as he ignores her gender confusion. Once he gets them all lined up, he begins the elaborate process of re-arranging them by sliding the chips around on the top of the table, arranging them by color groups.
Connie looks over at him, her attention drawn by the little scraping-sliding noises he’s making. Legolas senses her checking him out, though not for the reason you’re probably thinking, which may or may not be the reason he’s probably thinking. In fact, she’s becoming quite annoyed at the disturbance.
“Hae!” greets Prance Helpful. “I baet u wear wundureeng whut tuuk me soe loeng tu coem bak!”
“Not really,” she replies, going back to her typing.
Legolas manages to quickly cover up the look of disappointment that crosses his handsome face. He goes back to sliding the chips again, this time arranging them by descending order of the catalog number for each color which is located on a sticker on the back of each chip. Of course, this means the sliding noise is now accompanied by a tiny snick-slap noise as he flips each one face down to see the number and another snick-slap as he flips each of them back color up.
Connie keeps her composure another thirty seconds (about twenty snick-slaps) before closing the computer file she’s working on and turning to him.
“May I help you?”
“Oeh, dat’z okae. U goe ahed an feenish whut u’re doen,” says Prance Helpful with a smile. “I kin wate. I em immoral... I hav all da tiem en da world.”
Connie just stares at him.
“He means thank you for your time,” I cut in. “We’re ready to finalize our order.”
“Did you bring your specifications?” she asks me.
“Yaes,” inserts the Prance, always cooperative. “He’z rite ober dere.” He points with one long index finger at Yes Dear, who’s currently inspecting the sample kitchen cabinet display inside and out to make sure he knows how it all hooks together.
Connie follows his finger, then looks at me to see if I’m still there. I half expect her to ask me if I’ll pinch her to wake her up from this nightmare, but instead she clarifies, “I meant your measurements and color order numbers, honey.”
“We goet doze tu,” Prance Helpful nods.
With a sigh, Connie tries another approach.
“Which one of the pretty colors did you pick for a countertop, sweetheart?” she asks Legolas, leaning over and looking directly into his blue eyes and speaking a click or two louder on her volume as if maybe he’s a bit hard of hearing. It’s that coochie-coo voice people use when addressing babies. I half expect her to chuck him under the chin.
He leans forward and meets her volume, raising it by just a notch. “Won of dese,” he says, indicating the spread of color chips displayed on the table before him, his eyes twinkling with elven mischief. He catches the tip of his pink tongue between his front teeth.
Uh-oh.
“Well, maybe you could show me which one you think is the prettiest?” she asks in an even sweeter voice laced with just a hint of venom.
I tap him on the shoulder. “Do it now, please,” I request.
The princely elven baby-pout appears. “Buet, al! We’ar plaeyn a gaem!” he whines.
“I see that. It’s time to show your winning card.”
“Aelredy?”
“Yes.”
He slumps back in the chair, the pout now at full-throttle. He reaches forward with one hand and swiftly pushes Wilsonart chip # 1741 across to her.
“Legolas! That’s not the one we picked!”
“She deedn’t aesk me wich won we pikd. She aeskd me wich won I thot wuz da purdiest. Dat’z it.”
Verdi Pompeii. Deep marble-ized green, slick and shiny smooth.
“You can’t have that one,” Connie answers deadpan.
At first I want to smack her. I mean, I’ve just cramped the Prance in the midst of his best game and made him hand over the goods before his time, and now she wants to egg him on. Then it dawns on me.
She’s helping ME.
I tap the Prance on the shoulder again. “Show her your second choice then.” No sense asking him to show the one we picked. Can’t risk a Galadriel special this afternoon — the smell’s too strong to ride all the way home with in a closed-up car.
He reaches out and pushes chip # 1753 to her. Canyon Blu. Nice choice, actually. That would be the one I would have picked as “purdiest”.
“You can’t have that one either,” she continues.
Wait a minute. I LIKE Canyon Blu #1753.
“Why not?” I ask.
“It’s marbleized. You can’t use that for a kitchen. It shows every little nick and cut. One time with the knife without a cutting board, and your whole effect is just totally ruined.”
I pick up the chip and hold it sideways to the light. She’s right. The surface is slick-shiny, and it’s already got scratches on it just from being snick-slapped a hundred times a day for a week.
Connie reaches out and starts to selectively gather up the slick-shiny countertop rectangle samples from the array Legolas has displayed before her. A flash of pale lightning bolts across the table, a manicured hand arrests her progress.
A sweet elven smile accompanies the words that follow, but a warning flares in the watchful eyes.
“Dose ar mien.”
She meets his gaze, then gently sets the chips down in a stack on the table. “Fine. You might as well go ahead and take out the shiny finished ones then.” She pulls her hand away from his grasp and turns back to her computer.
It’s about this time that Yes Dear appears. He leans over and picks up chip # 7002-60. Natural Butcherblock. He hands it to Connie.
“I refuse to sell you a Butcher Block,” she says, turning up her nose and dismissing him with a wave of her hand. “It’s entirely too seventies.”
Yes Dear stares at me. We both happen to like the butcher block.
Legolas is beginning to feel a bit threatened by all this handling of his precioussss chips. He gathers them carefully by colors into little stacks before scooping them up in one palm and sticking them into the plastic Ziploc bag, placing them on his lap for protection. He then produces a single chip and makes one last offer.
“We’al taek dis won den.”
Mesa Midnight. Color chip # 4518-7.
Excellent.
He looks all excited, doesn't he? Wait'll you see what he's been up to now....
WARNING: This chapter contains partial nudity. *wink*
Chapter 17 Games We Play
On Wednesday night, I dash home from work only to dash back out the door again, headed to kid’s choir with Lil’ Pip, followed by our weekly fellowship dinner with my church family. After dinner, the congregation splits up into study groups. Lil’ Pip goes to the children’s wing to practice for a play the kids are going to put on for us. Legolas has found his niche in the kitchen, wooing the ladies that cook and helping clean up by dumping tea from all the used glasses, rolling up all the paper table cloths, and washing up the silverware. As for Yes Dear and I? Hence comes the evening’s highlight — the class for married couples.
We’re a rowdy bunch, having already been moved once on the very first night of class for disturbing the other bible study group that was taking place in the room next door to us. Apparently the laughter coming from our class was too much for the serious students who were ‘seeing the light’ while we were watching our first video in the dark. The giggling stemmed from the fact that when the lights went out, several of the husband-wife teams teasingly switched handholding partners, and the movement sort of took on a life of its own as the switching continued from right to left all the way around the room.
When the lights came back up, the group leader discovered exactly why she seemed to have lost control of her class during a video that was meant to be light-heartedly humorous, but truthfully not deserving of the outright gut-busting chortling that was taking place.
“Alright, alright,” she exclaimed, “it’s not THAT kind of a marriage class!”
Tonight, we find ourselves giggling again. The topic of discussion is how couples fight. We play a game where we have to guess what our other half would say in answer to questions like, “What’s his favorite sport?”, “Without looking, what color are her eyes?”, and “When is your anniversary?” Yes Dear and I are scoring 100%, getting every single answer right.
When we tally up the scores at the end, Legolas pipes up from the back of the room with, “U tu wear MFEO.”
“MFEO?” I ask. “What’s MFEO?”
“Maed Fur Eech Oethur” he answers, sitting there rocking with his chair up on its back legs and his arms crossed over his chest. “PuterPatty tawt me dat.”
“That’s true, Legolas,” pipes in my friend Patsy. “Those two never fight.”
“Yeas dey due,” Legolas answers.
“No we don’t,” I reply.
“Yaes u due,” Legolas retorts.
“No we don’t!”
“Yes we do,” says Yes Dear from my other side.
“NO, WE DO NOT!” I raise my voice. Pausing for a second, I realize I am NOT winning this conversation, so I change tactics with, “So, little elfboy, what in the heck are you doing in this class anyway? Planning something?”
“I herd u geegileeng. I caem tu sea whut u wear laffin abot.”
Once class is over, I head to chancel choir practice. Legolas begs off and asks if he can go on home with Yes Dear, wanting to look at his countertop samples again. He spent the afternoon lining them up on top of the old countertop, comparing how they looked in the light on the left side of the kitchen by the refrigerator to how they looked on the right in the light coming from the hood over the stove.
I didn’t bother to worry him with the fact that the color of the cabinets was going to change from eggshell to white, and that we would be getting a new stove with one of those ceramic flat tops that doesn’t have the coils that always seem to need cleaning, as well as a new range hood and light. We’d also be putting in spotlighting over the sink instead of the fluorescent that resides there now, and even the sink would be different. Sometimes even just a little information is too much, you know?
Later, after spending an hour trying to keep the tenor section from drowning in notes that were slightly off (where is that elf when I need him?), I arrive home to find a hole where the moldy corner cabinet used to be. The butcher block countertop has been sawed straight through, with just enough room for the dish drainer remaining by the sink, its wire rack sort of hanging there suspended by a wing and a prayer. The plywood floor that’s exposed now is covered with black slime embedded in the grain of the wood itself, and the whole house smells like a mixture of mildew and something industrial like Mr. Clean. There’s even a mark in the drywall by the dish drainer where the saw blade must have slipped and gone right through the painted surface.
“What’s going on here?” I demand.
The elven princeling comes bouncing around the corner of the doorway, sliding to a halt in his Joe Boxer white sport socks on the bouncy-squishy linoleum directly in front of me.
“Yaes Deer uzed DA POEWER SAEW!” he announces, his eyes wide.
“I see that.”
“It’z DIS BEEG!” he continues, holding his hands out shoulder-wide for me to see.
“I know. What happened to my kitchen?”
“It’z all saewd uep!” he exclaims, clapping his hands gleefully.
About this time, Yes Dear himself steps around the doorway.
“Somebody tell me what happened in here while I was gone?” I insist.
“I took out the moldy cabinet like I told you I was going to,” he answers.
“You never said anything about cutting up the kitchen,” I retort.
“How else did you think I was going to get it out?” he growls.
Hmmmm. I don’t think I ever really thought about it. I guess I figured he would just slide the moldy wood part out from under the countertop and it would just stand up there all by itself.
“Well, I certainly didn’t think you were going to saw a hole in the wall!” I yell.
“I didn’t saw a hole in the wall,” he replies.
“Well, there certainly IS a hole in the....” I pause as the full meaning of what he just said sinks in. We must be truly MFEO, because at the exact same instant our eyes turn to the quivering mass of anticipation standing to my left.
“I deed it!” beams Prance Helpful. “I goet tu saew wid da poewer saew, an I cuet a hoel en da waell!”
(((Partially naked kitchen as it looked when I came home from choir practice that night....The actual hole in the wall from the saw is just behind the blue checkered dish towel. I apologize that you can't see it more clearly in this photo...I'll look some more....)))
(((What? You were expecting partial nudity of something else??? Shame on you.)))
Two hours later, it’s time for bed and we’re still not speaking to each other.
I decide enough’s enough, and that it’s time to breach The Deeping Wall.
“What were you thinking, letting him use power tools?” I whisper, hoping elven ears can’t hear me through two bedroom walls and half the length of the hallway. “What if he’d slipped and cut himself? What if he’d gotten hurt? It’s not like you can run him down to the county hospital to be patched up, y’know.”
“I know. He’s not covered under our insurance.”
“That’s NOT what I mean, and you know it. He’s not human — who knows what the differences in treatment for our races would be? What if he turns out to be allergic to something they give him and has a reaction and it kills him? What will we do then?”
“It was just a simple job. I showed him how to do it, and I was there the whole time. He’s a quick learner, and he’s quite capable of pushing a button to turn a circular saw on and off all by himself. You let him run the microwave.”
“It’s NOT the same,” I grumble.
“AND the vacuum cleaner. He could crush his toes off with the beater bar if he ran over his foot with that. Or haven’t you stopped to consider that possibility yet? And what about the washing machine?”
I’m done with this conversation too.
The next week turns out to be a tense one. I can’t walk past the kitchen without seeing the gaping hole where the cabinet’s missing, and Yes Dear can’t walk past me without thinking I’ve lost my marbles. After all, he was only performing his duty as protector of the household when he removed the dangerous, allergy-producing, sickness-invoking mold from our kitchen. Now his wife’s on a mission to make his life miserable just because he ‘supervised’ the removal of said offending piece of property. It wasn’t worth a dime all damaged like that anyway.
On Monday, the Prance bounces happily back down the aisle of “VALINOR” to the kitchen and bath center, his myriad collection of little countertop chips stored in a plastic Ziploc sandwich baggie clutched firmly in one hand. He parks himself in one of the tall bar chairs in front of the desk where Connie the designer keeps her computer. She’s busily typing away and mutters without looking up, “I’ll be with you in just a moment, ma’am.”
“Okae,” answers the Prance, settling himself in and beginning to line all of his chips up on the table in front of him as he ignores her gender confusion. Once he gets them all lined up, he begins the elaborate process of re-arranging them by sliding the chips around on the top of the table, arranging them by color groups.
Connie looks over at him, her attention drawn by the little scraping-sliding noises he’s making. Legolas senses her checking him out, though not for the reason you’re probably thinking, which may or may not be the reason he’s probably thinking. In fact, she’s becoming quite annoyed at the disturbance.
“Hae!” greets Prance Helpful. “I baet u wear wundureeng whut tuuk me soe loeng tu coem bak!”
“Not really,” she replies, going back to her typing.
Legolas manages to quickly cover up the look of disappointment that crosses his handsome face. He goes back to sliding the chips again, this time arranging them by descending order of the catalog number for each color which is located on a sticker on the back of each chip. Of course, this means the sliding noise is now accompanied by a tiny snick-slap noise as he flips each one face down to see the number and another snick-slap as he flips each of them back color up.
Connie keeps her composure another thirty seconds (about twenty snick-slaps) before closing the computer file she’s working on and turning to him.
“May I help you?”
“Oeh, dat’z okae. U goe ahed an feenish whut u’re doen,” says Prance Helpful with a smile. “I kin wate. I em immoral... I hav all da tiem en da world.”
Connie just stares at him.
“He means thank you for your time,” I cut in. “We’re ready to finalize our order.”
“Did you bring your specifications?” she asks me.
“Yaes,” inserts the Prance, always cooperative. “He’z rite ober dere.” He points with one long index finger at Yes Dear, who’s currently inspecting the sample kitchen cabinet display inside and out to make sure he knows how it all hooks together.
Connie follows his finger, then looks at me to see if I’m still there. I half expect her to ask me if I’ll pinch her to wake her up from this nightmare, but instead she clarifies, “I meant your measurements and color order numbers, honey.”
“We goet doze tu,” Prance Helpful nods.
With a sigh, Connie tries another approach.
“Which one of the pretty colors did you pick for a countertop, sweetheart?” she asks Legolas, leaning over and looking directly into his blue eyes and speaking a click or two louder on her volume as if maybe he’s a bit hard of hearing. It’s that coochie-coo voice people use when addressing babies. I half expect her to chuck him under the chin.
He leans forward and meets her volume, raising it by just a notch. “Won of dese,” he says, indicating the spread of color chips displayed on the table before him, his eyes twinkling with elven mischief. He catches the tip of his pink tongue between his front teeth.
Uh-oh.
“Well, maybe you could show me which one you think is the prettiest?” she asks in an even sweeter voice laced with just a hint of venom.
I tap him on the shoulder. “Do it now, please,” I request.
The princely elven baby-pout appears. “Buet, al! We’ar plaeyn a gaem!” he whines.
“I see that. It’s time to show your winning card.”
“Aelredy?”
“Yes.”
He slumps back in the chair, the pout now at full-throttle. He reaches forward with one hand and swiftly pushes Wilsonart chip # 1741 across to her.
“Legolas! That’s not the one we picked!”
“She deedn’t aesk me wich won we pikd. She aeskd me wich won I thot wuz da purdiest. Dat’z it.”
Verdi Pompeii. Deep marble-ized green, slick and shiny smooth.
“You can’t have that one,” Connie answers deadpan.
At first I want to smack her. I mean, I’ve just cramped the Prance in the midst of his best game and made him hand over the goods before his time, and now she wants to egg him on. Then it dawns on me.
She’s helping ME.
I tap the Prance on the shoulder again. “Show her your second choice then.” No sense asking him to show the one we picked. Can’t risk a Galadriel special this afternoon — the smell’s too strong to ride all the way home with in a closed-up car.
He reaches out and pushes chip # 1753 to her. Canyon Blu. Nice choice, actually. That would be the one I would have picked as “purdiest”.
“You can’t have that one either,” she continues.
Wait a minute. I LIKE Canyon Blu #1753.
“Why not?” I ask.
“It’s marbleized. You can’t use that for a kitchen. It shows every little nick and cut. One time with the knife without a cutting board, and your whole effect is just totally ruined.”
I pick up the chip and hold it sideways to the light. She’s right. The surface is slick-shiny, and it’s already got scratches on it just from being snick-slapped a hundred times a day for a week.
Connie reaches out and starts to selectively gather up the slick-shiny countertop rectangle samples from the array Legolas has displayed before her. A flash of pale lightning bolts across the table, a manicured hand arrests her progress.
A sweet elven smile accompanies the words that follow, but a warning flares in the watchful eyes.
“Dose ar mien.”
She meets his gaze, then gently sets the chips down in a stack on the table. “Fine. You might as well go ahead and take out the shiny finished ones then.” She pulls her hand away from his grasp and turns back to her computer.
It’s about this time that Yes Dear appears. He leans over and picks up chip # 7002-60. Natural Butcherblock. He hands it to Connie.
“I refuse to sell you a Butcher Block,” she says, turning up her nose and dismissing him with a wave of her hand. “It’s entirely too seventies.”
Yes Dear stares at me. We both happen to like the butcher block.
Legolas is beginning to feel a bit threatened by all this handling of his precioussss chips. He gathers them carefully by colors into little stacks before scooping them up in one palm and sticking them into the plastic Ziploc bag, placing them on his lap for protection. He then produces a single chip and makes one last offer.
“We’al taek dis won den.”
Mesa Midnight. Color chip # 4518-7.
Excellent.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: September 1st, 2006 04:03 am (UTC)Men and their power tools *l*
no subject
Date: September 1st, 2006 04:04 am (UTC)Lordy, you let Leggy near the high-octane tool too often and you'll have another Tim the Tool Man Taylor on your hands! ;-P
no subject
Date: September 2nd, 2006 10:28 am (UTC)"partial nudity"
*snickers*
I saw your wood.
no subject
Date: September 4th, 2006 07:16 am (UTC)Oh please forgive him for the hole - who can resist his gleefulness at being allowed to join in everything!
Laughed from start to finish!
(If he ever gets back to Mirkwood, he'll be a Talan builder par excellence!)
no subject
Date: September 8th, 2006 01:50 am (UTC)I like power tools too. I just never get a chance to use any....
no subject
Date: September 8th, 2006 01:52 am (UTC)Wait'll you see what happens to my poor kitchen next. And to the poor inhabitants of said kitchen. It's not pretty....
no subject
Date: September 8th, 2006 01:53 am (UTC)Oh, dear GAWD, that comment totally rocks! I mean, that is the MOST APPROPRIATE misuse of terms I have ever seen in relation to kitchen home repair EVAH.
*rotflmao!*
no subject
Date: September 8th, 2006 01:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: September 8th, 2006 02:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: September 8th, 2006 02:25 am (UTC)Actually I thought that the walls would be a little more exposed - adding drywall
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Date: September 8th, 2006 02:38 am (UTC)*aka, you asked at a really good time ;~P*
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Date: September 8th, 2006 02:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: September 8th, 2006 02:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: September 8th, 2006 07:50 am (UTC)*rushes off to read next installment*
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Date: September 10th, 2006 03:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: September 21st, 2006 03:43 am (UTC)(((HUGS)))
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Date: September 21st, 2006 06:58 am (UTC)Tease!
Loved the whole countertop selection game at the end, very cute!
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Date: September 29th, 2006 05:01 am (UTC)What, you wanted FULL NUDITY??? Honestly, it's not THAT KIND OF STORY.
*giggles*
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Date: November 27th, 2006 03:15 am (UTC)- Shegollum
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Date: November 30th, 2006 02:21 am (UTC)Y'know, you could steal that line and people might just give you a bit more leeway than they already do....?
O.-