Do Old Ladies Like Key Chains?

This morning I was going through the house, opening the blinds to let in some sunlight in an attempt to help warm our chilly home.  I pulled a cord, the slats turned, and this little guy was sitting there waiting for me.

I was planning on cutting this hydrangea back all fall, as it's gotten so big and top heavy, but then I got sick and then it got cold out and then I saw this fella and remembered our hydrangea bush is a favorite perch for cardinals every winter.  It's tucked into an outer niche of our house, which means it's somewhat sheltered from the wind, but also means I can look out the above window in the living room and watch the cardinals, or...

... I can go into the front room and spy on them from a different angle.  It seems to stress them out when I go back and forth too much, though, so after snapping a couple pictures I left him alone.  The only thing that would have made this better is to have had a female cardinal in there, too, as I prefer their muted coloring and besides, female solidarity and all that.

Last night Derek's mom very kindly drove down to watch our kiddos for the evening so Derek could take me out for my birthday.  I wanted to eat at a restaurant that has these amazing(ly unhealthy) waffle fry nachos topped with pulled pork and other glorious fixin's, and while yes, those nachos were incredible, our joy was somewhat muted by the fact that we were freezing the entire time we were there.  See, this local chain of restaurants builds decks onto their buildings, then for some exasperating, flummoxing reason encloses the top with a glorified tarp and continues to seat diners there all year.  There are heaters suspended from the ceiling, but as Derek put it, we were eating on a three-season porch during the fourth season.  

Why, yes, we did wear our coats, scarves, and hats throughout the meal, thank you so much for asking!  I took my gloves off because I found manipulating my silverware with them on to be a bit unwieldy.  I was so mad I hadn't worn my long underwear under my jeans, as the draft coming in under the table around my legs was brutal.

This wasn't mere overflow seating, either; we saw numerous open tables as we were led through the (deliciously warm and cozy) dining area to the winter porch.

Jethro's, your food is good, but it is December in Iowa.  Please stop with the deck seating.

I MEAN

Let's see, I have talked about one of my favorite birds, my hydrangeas, and complained about a recent visit to a restaurant.  Although I have tiptoed around it many times before, it would seem that 34 is when I begin my official foray into cranky old-ladyhood.  I am comfortable here.

My next request for our birthday date was to visit the local antique mall (hang on while I search for the expedited application to AARP).  Which we did.  And it was, as usual, glorious.

Derek and I will be celebrating 13 years of marriage next summer, and while I know ten years is Tin and 15 is Crystal, I have a feeling 13 might just be Basket of Heads.  If I'm right, I know exactly where to look!  Thanks, Brass Armadillo!

Really, though, the only thing I came close to purchasing was found in this stall.

Do you see what I see?

The good angel was saying, "Do you really need a muskrat foot key chain?  What about the starving children in China?" but the bad angel was like, "It's your birthday:  Treat Yo Self!"

In the end, I did not bring the muskrat foot key chain home, as it's hard to buy something you're afraid to touch.  But gosh, did my grinchy heart grow three sizes that day.

For Derek's Birthday I Didn't Buy a Useless Antique

Yesterday was Derek's birthday.  The Vikings were gracious enough to grant him a birthday win, I made him a giant birthday cookie, and my mom and Mark, since they were in town, offered to watch the kids while the birthday boy and I went on a date.

We enjoyed a nice dinner out and Derek tortured himself at a golf store, but in between those two we went to the Brass Armadillo, antique mall extraordinaire.  (If you click on that link back there, brace yourselves:  There are painful spelling and grammatical errors galore on their website.  Hear me now, friends:  "Isles" DOES NOT equal "Aisles."  When they write "Stroll through isles of..." I, naturally, picture hopping from island to island of antiques and quirky vintage treasures, not, as I can only assume they mean, walking through aisles of the same.)

The thing is, I love the Brass Armadillo.  It's where I adopted Hermione.  I almost always find super creepy dolls and marionettes to snap pictures of and send to my traumatized sisters.  I found a beautifully illustrated old hardcover copy of one of my favorite books there for two dollars.  (Just like this one, actually.)  When I visit that place, I like to take my time, examining any items that catch my eye (read:  half the things there, taking upwards of two hours.  I recognize that this is crazy.).

But when Derek and I went yesterday, he had a stern talk with me before entering, reminding me that we were on a mission, that we were looking for a specific item, that I needed to focus.  I did spectacularly well the first three steps in the door, until I saw a Christmas tree full of truly tacky old ornaments.  I faltered for a few seconds before muttering "Get behind me, Satan!"  (I couldn't tell if the lady manning the welcome station by the front door heard me or not; interpreting her facial expression was rather difficult due to the bold decision to paint her eyebrows on her forehead.)

Thereafter I was a model shopper, whipping up and down aisles in search of a coat tree, pausing only once in a moment of weakness caused by an antique bed warmer.  This is precisely the kind of thing that calls out to me at antique stores, begging to be taken to its forever home.  I knew Derek would ask ridiculous questions like, "What exactly are you going to do with it?  Where are you going to put it?"  Because "Smile at it," pretty much never satisfies him, I tried to frame some kind of persuasive response.  I mentally appealed to his logical side:  "Use it for its original purpose!"  Unfortunately we don't have a ready supply of coal and I had a sneaking suspicion that Derek would veto potentially burning our children alive, anyway.

Still in search of a loving home.

So it was with great sadness that I moved past the bed warmer, sending out psychological messages of "It's not you but it's also not me, it's my husband," which is probably a common refrain in there; rational spouses ruin all the fun but also save lives.

Thankfully I had this fun little trinket to console me when I got home:

My mom ferried this up to me from my grandma.  If you don't have a grandma who buys you random old stuff at auctions, I feel sorry for you.

It's a small tin grease pot that's a little dusty on the outside but immaculate inside.  It makes me wonder if it was ever used, given its purpose.

Actually, what is its purpose?

There's a removable strainer that sits just under the lid, then another at the inner entrance to the spout.  I'm assuming you pour the grease from your bacon or beef or whatever into the top, through the first sieve, then it gets strained a second time when you go to pour that same grease... where?  All over your food?  (retch)  I don't really understand the need to strain and then pour grease onto anything.  I pour our excess grease straight from the pan into an empty can and keep it in the freezer until it's full and ready to toss.  

Still, I like the look of it, and every time I walk by it I find myself singing "Grease is the word, have you heard, it's the word..."  Plus I just found the exact same thing on an ebay auction; it sold for $26 + $10 shipping, and I can promise you my grandma didn't pay that much.

I've also been throwing lots of smiles in its direction, although I've yet to find a good place for it.  I've had it in the kitchen windowsill, but that's a dangerous location as it's right in Derek's line of sight.  It'll probably end up where everything else does: on one of the piles of books scattered throughout the house.  Hey, it's smaller than a bed warmer, right?