I cannot believe it’s freaking August already. July shot by with tremendous heated, humid force in a series of estate sales having the peripheral involvement of various interesting animals, including a trio of guinea fowl in the basement of an international opera singer’s home, and a duo of curious and escape-prone cats in a Georgetown split level who supervised our entire setup sequence. Those feathered and fuzzy beasts were all accompanying their owners to the next house, whereas at the place we’re working now, in Bethesda, there is a 9-year-old American Bulldogee (an early version of the modern bulldog, with a less squished face) whose picture we posted on the website along with those of furniture and fur coats. Humphrey is just a love bug. He spent each of our setup days wandering from one person to the other, resting his head on their knee so his ears could be scratched, and even tried to lever his 75-pound bulk into my bosses lap, he’s so needful of attention. It’s a divorce situation, and he was left with the wife, who is shifting into a smaller place and wants to travel. I’m not even particularly a dog person, and I can’t imagine giving him up, but perhaps he’s a reminder of unhappy times. Be that as it may, my boss has worked with another breed rescue organization for years, so she’s going to inspect potential homes, once applicants for his paw have been screened by the owner. I hope we find a good match for him—someone who’ll be around to rub his head and tell him what a good dog he is. There’s a list of some six people who’ve expressed interest. If none works, I’m taking him over to the house of my friend and colleague Amy, who’ll be in China for two weeks, retrieving her new daughter. There, he’ll have another beta dog to pal around with, and six cats who’ll put him firmly in his place.
Sheila and I are back writing our novel. We’ve determined the end, which is always useful—it’s nice to know how the story will conclude, so we can fill in the details on the way there!
My temporary roomie, a second-year Naval Academy midshipwoman, is a doll. Rachel and the NPV brought over burgers last night and she ate dinner with us and then joined our criticism of the NBC Olympics coverage (anyone else think Bob Costas looks like a semi-animated corpse? And how about the snippet-only coverage of every event?!). Alas, as my brother Bob has returned to Charleston, I missed his magic touch with the apple cobbler, and so it turned out ugly and less than the delicious treat I was hoping to enjoy. Rachel sweetly ate her portion and insisted that it would be great with vanilla ice cream. The woman is an angel. I think I’m going to have to do some surgery on the leftovers (those that I didn’t manage to pawn off on my guests) to make them more palatable. Fortunately, the Giant Food flyer I got in the mail today tells me that Edy’s is on sale, so there’ll be ice cream of several sorts to help me choke it down.
I made a cake this evening, using my ginormous round pan. Two vanilla layers, liberally salted with miniature M&Ms. It’s for our associate pastor’s retirement party tomorrow night. Determining how to ice it after both layers were done, I discovered that I don’t own a platter big enough to accommodate the thing. So, some emergency shopping is in order. Maybe I’ll pick up some more lampshades while I’m at Ross.
I sold only one lamp last month in any estate sale, which was pretty disappointing. I took the leftovers (which had multiple exposures in sales over the last several months) to the Bethesda consignment gallery, which has had a perfect record in unloading my illuminators. Here’s hoping it continues its lucrative run.