So we've had this big ol' kitchen wood-fired cookstove for the past ten or twelve years. It's one of those many large things we acquired when the Favorite Husband wound up going to a party without me. But I digress. My point is, we have this big ol' cast iron cookstove, and about a week into owning it a latch-hooky part (it holds the pivot bar of a door) came apart. Which is the tendency of cast iron; it is awfully brittle. It broke at the natural stress point, clean through the bolt hole.
First, the long and involved backstory, which by my guess has been going on for the past six or eight tedious months. Elderly neighbor Hanna has been terrorizing the entire Charterstone complex due to her failing eyesight, which causes her to become an absolute menace behind the wheel. Mary Worth, at her most meddlesome, intervenes, visits Hanna and suggests she move to an assisted living facility (to keep her off the road, don'tcha know). She arranges a visit to some convenient-to-the-plot facility (I forget the name offhand), where they are squired about by an elderly widower (read AVAILABLE) named Sean, who falls madly in wuv with mousy Hanna, who over the course of the story changes fairly dramatically from frail, whiny incompetent to the take-charge newlywed biddy we admire today. (There is also a great deal of unintentional off-color mirth about Hanna's apparent ability to play the flute, but Mojo will ignore that part. You're welcome.)
One of the subplots of this magical tale of wuv involves Hanna's equally incompetent and whiny daughter, Amy, and her blob of a son, Gordon. Gordon only exists in this storyline so Amy can foist him on his Grandma whenever Amy has a hot date--which seems to happen far too often for such an obviously nasty and unpleasant person, if you ask me--and woe betide Hanna should she ever not be home to babysit at the last minute.
So Mojo lives where there's snow. Not huge SCADS of it, like they get in Buffalo, or this year in Boston. But enough. It can be cold, too, although sustained subzero temperatures only happen a handful of times a year. It's cold enough for snow, but when the sun comes out and it warms to the late twenties or early thirties it can be downright pleasant.
We've had a lot of snow lately, with another foot promised between now and Monday night. I've been bringing firewood into the house in preparation for this latest bout. I have reached that point every year in the woodshed, when I have burned through all the wood we have purchased from the Wood Guy (as everyone calls the guy who cuts, splits and delivers multiple cords of firewood every fall) and I am now burning wood I have cut, split and stacked all by myself. And every year I get that same gasp of recognition when I realize I am now burning through my own wood, from this very property, instead of that purchased from and delivered by a stranger.
So this past weekend, for some reason buried somewhere in the male psyche, the Favorite Husband decided he was going to sit in the recliner.
I'm sure there are THOUSANDS of men around the WORLD who decided to sit in their recliners last weekend. The thing is, in our house, although he loves his recliner as all red-blooded American men must love their recliner, the Favorite Husband really doesn't sit in it all that much. To begin with, the way the living room is currently arranged, the couch is the beast that faces the oh-so-important television set. The recliner has the temerity to sit at a 90-degree ANGLE from the screen. Because, ya know, that's where it fits in the room. Plus, as you can (maybe) see from the picture, it makes a lovely cat perch for felines who wish to look outside at the various birdies and beasties that mock them from the safety of the other side of the window.
(Now we can only watch in silent awe as Mojo takes this generic announcement of the Favorite Husband sitting in the recliner and weave it into some deft, airy work of art.)