Reciprocating saws are full of win.

Today I tackled a problem that stood between Me and Nice New Kitchen Cupboards.

Behold the Wall of Doom!

This was lurking under the old cupboards, which Red and I removed last fall.  Bad enough someone painted the wall such a ghastly shade of dark salmon -- The thing that stood between Me and new cabinetry was this:

Mysterious iron pipes, jutting out of the wall.  This will never do.

So I took the liberty of attacking the plaster and lath with extreme prejudice (plus a claw hammer).

To My relief, one of the two pipes had already been disconnected.  That meant that the pipe on the right was the one connected to this thing:

Já, that's yet more Mysterious Iron Pipe jutting out of the basement ceiling... Through a cold air return duct, no less.  It, too, had apparently been out of service for untold aeons but no one could be bothered to finish removing it.

Of course, it didn't help that both the upper sections of pipe continued above the kitchen ceiling.

So, this is what I did Sunday afternoon:

• Pulled down the 2 remaining ceiling panels in the kitchen, which I had to do eventually anyway.
• Got My trusty reciprocating saw out of the basement tool storage and installed a 14 TPI metal-cutting blade.
• Started cutting.

There were a few interesting moments, such as when I opened the cold air return duct to cut a lower section of pipe:

Wait, what?  A cold air return grate is not supposed to lead to a solid wall.  No wonder there's so much cold air lurking around the kitchen floor; it has to queue up to go down that itty bitty slot right at the bottom of the wall.

*reaches for claw hammer again*

Well, I had to open that wall anyway.  *reaches for reciprocating saw and resumes cutting and removing pipes*

And this is the last bit of the pipe on the right, duly plummet-proofed so that I could safely cut it free from above.

 Total elapsed time:  3 hours, 40 minutes... Including cleanup!  Mission accomplished, and I still had some Sunday left at the end of it all.

"Put down the yoga mat and back away slowly..."

I dodged a metaphorical bullet tonight, thanks to a cup of coffee and a plate of chicken wings.  Allow Me to explain...

One of My not-so-deep, not-so-dark secrets is that I like to start projects. Unfortunately, I like to do that so much that sometimes -- Often -- Okay, most of the time -- those projects go unfinished.

This is something I've been trying to fix, and overall it's been working. Looking back on 2011, I finished the subfloor in My study; painted the dining room ceiling; painted the living room and most of the main hall (currently repairing plaster cracks in the 4th wall); got a new garage constructed; and did an amazing uncluttering of My abode by giving away mass quantities of stuff I wasn't using.

So how did I develop a fixation on yoga mats? More specifically, why did I come home from work this afternoon with the express intent of going out later in the evening to buy one?

Well, a couple of days ago I had been considering going out to a few hot yoga classes to ease various wintry aches and pains. That, however, would mean buying Myself one of those roll-up sticky mats and possibly also a pair of shorts.*  There's perverse humour in this, considering that last year I gave away an exercise mat (not the yoga type, though) and a pair of shorts as well.

Fortunately, I came to My senses sometime between feeding the cats, shovelling a bit of snow and sitting down to enjoy an early supper of chicken wings and coffee so I wouldn't grab something at the mall and call that supper.  I realized that there's already enough going on without opening up another battlefront, and asked Myself if I really, really needed another demand on My time.

Or a yoga mat.

Or shorts.  *shudder*

It felt good to say no for a change, and just relax at home and play My clarinet rather than going shopping for more Stuff.

This doesn't mean yoga is forever off the agenda.  What it does mean is that I'm starting to recognize the mental triggers and motivations that prompt Me to rush into new projects before I'm ready to take them seriously.

Because it's the serious projects that get done properly.  'Nuff said.

---

* Shorts are My way of staring into the Abyss and having it stare back.

The shifting tide of passion

First of all, a belated happy birthday to Burton Cummings, who turned 64 on 12/31/2011. Somewhere in the middle of Saturday afternoon, when My alphanumerically-inclined brain actually twigged on the date, I thought back to My days as a devoted fan of The Guess Who. I have a confession to make tonight: Springy G has a long history of serial fannishness, dating back to around 1963 when I fell head-over-heels in like with Ringo Starr.

The trend has only *slightly* abated since the days of playing the album Twist and Shout on a monophonic RCA radio/turntable combo unit in a kitchen in Otterburn, Quebec. Come to think about it, the trend predates even the Beatles: I have vague memories of being a diminutive fangrrl of the Project Mercury astronauts, John Glenn in particular. Before them, I apparently liked Canadian entertainer Gordie Tapp (although I have no memory of what, exactly, I liked about the chap).

I find it interesting that, with the exception of Suzie Mouse (of Chez Hélène fame), My role models have tended to be male. I'm not even going to try to explain that one, but I will attempt to enumerate them. In addition to Messrs. Cummings, Tapp, Starr and Glenn, as well as drag racer Don Garlits and Montréal Canadiens stars Gump Worsley, Jean Beliveau and Ken Dryden, I've also developed emotional attachments to various fictional luminaries including Batman, Illya Kuryakin and Raistlin Majere.

So what *am* I trying to say here? I'm not getting mushy and nostalgic about all this, but I am seeing a pattern that I can't quite explain even to Myself. Part of it is that all these gentlemen (and Suzie Mouse) have inspired Me to explore parts of reality that I might otherwise not have examined. I've studied drums and piano, and a few other instruments as well; I've learned to drive and quite enjoy it (although I feel no overpowering urge to travel a quarter of a mile in 6 seconds or less); and know enough about hockey, comic books, espionage, Krynnish magic and space travel to hold My own in a conversation.

Although I have no idea what kind of conversation would involve hockey, comic books, espionage, Krynnish magic and space travel. Why do I never get invited to parties like that?

Happy 2012, everyone! If you run into Suzie Mouse, tell her the first round of fromage is on Me.

Of Donair and Double-Digit Deflation

I've been putting off this particular post for several months now because I wanted to be Absolutely, Positively Sure it was for real.

It's official: I am under 100 kg for the first time in approximately 10 years, and it feels good. The only downside, and one I can *quite* live with, is that I have to keep buying new pants. Smaller ones. And that feels good, too.

Oddly enough, the reason for this is that I've been doing more gourmet cooking over the past few months. I've been cobbling together small batches of egregiously scrumptious food and grazing on the leftovers. If I have something edible in the fridge, frequently I don't bother to cook another meal just because it happens to be suppertime.

For that matter, if I'm not all that hungry I may just make a cup of tea and butter a slice of French bread rather than dragging out half a dozen ingredients and fussing over stove or oven for half an hour.

My grocery bills have lost weight, too. One loaf of French bread generally lasts Me a whole week, and sometimes I have to chuck the end of the loaf because it's gone hard as a rock and I'm not in a French Toast mood that day. A 1 Litre carton of milk lasts about a week, too.

I made up for it yesterday, though, at the Astrejurhof Yule party. Chala was uncertain whether or not the table would be able to hold all the stuff we had made: Honey garlic chicken wings; BBQ pork ribs; Donair meatballs (half-and-half beef and lamb, plus spices); orange cake; baklava; a well-stocked cheese board; brownies, crudités; and cookies, cookies, cookies!

The punchbowl and the coffeepot ended up sitting on the fishtank cabinet. Chala and I completely forgot about the mushroom and leek tarts in the freezer. And when I get home, there's Red's Rootin' Tootin' Crisp (apple crisp with raisins and cherries) in the fridge.

Oof.

But when I stepped on the scale this morning, My weight had gone down to 95.2 kg. I do believe I'm onto something here.

Gleðileg Jól to all! Expect the best... In fact, demand it. It never hurts to ask for what you want.

Confessions of a Slightly Wobbly Goddess

November has been... interesting. For the first time in 7 years I'm not going to finish NaNoWriMo with 50,000+ words. In fact, at this moment I'm sitting at less than 5,000 words.

It might be that tumble I took off My back stairs, which resulted in a hairline fracture of a leg bone. I just got out of the boot brace this past Tuesday, after the latest set of X-rays checked out okay, and am now in a much smaller ankle brace.

Then again, it might be the fact that I had to spend more than a few November evenings shopping for a new car, after My sweet little lumber-hauling Cavalier got rear-ended by a large pick-up truck.

Or it could have been that nasty cold that was going around -- Not the Mesopotamian Death Flu, but sufficiently potent a virus that I went to Defcon 2 and even switched to almond milk for a couple of days so that dairy products wouldn't trigger a relapse.

My ankle's healing up nicely, My cold is gone, and I have a lovely new second-hand car that speaks fluent Japanese. I'm still not writing, though.

But I shall.

Just not this November.

Sometimes You just have to kick back, make a cup of tea and give Yourself a break... The kind of break that doesn't require X-rays and splints to put it right.

Cheese Station.... Whaaat?

Cheese Station Alpha. I have no idea what it means, because I don't start to write it for another half-hour.

Yes, CSA is My 2011 NaNoWriMo project. All I know so far is that it involves Gerald Macauley (previously seen as a minor character in A Week of Alibis and The Passion of Marty-Sue), a parade of ex- (and soon-to-be-ex-) girlfriends, and three time travellers.

And here is this year's list of NaNoWords, provided by Red:

academy Vulcan faun sculptor clarity parachute ministry revolutionary loveliness heck glassware bordello Proserpina allusion hunter cornucopia imitate monumental Hydra papyrus career dominant survey encyclopedia craftsmen skeptical exquisite monument 78 surprise

...with "dictator" as a bonus word.

Mm... Has a somewhat classical feel to it, doesn't it?

(Springy G waves Her hand in the air) Waiter! One order of Bulfinch's Mythology to go, with a half-order of Greek comedy and a side of Star Trek.

Well, I *did* say 'time travellers,' didn't I?

The end of the world again? Oh, goody.

Ah, October 21 (and another bogus End of the World prediction) is nearly upon us. Time for another round of cynical calisthenics.

*sighs heavily*
*rolls eyes*
*makes pleading gesture with Her hands*
*shakes head in exasperation and disbelief*
*facepalm*

Ow, that facepalm stings! Now I'm angry. *pace pace pace* Very angry indeed.

Angry enough to make a prophesy of My own:

Harold Camping, you shall never see the rapture or the end of the world. You'll reach the end of your natural life and just keel over like everybody else. No angels. No trumpets. No nuthin'.

In 30 hours or so it should become apparent to the world that Camping's prophesy has failed just as pathetically as all his other prophesies. It may take a wee bit longer before My prophesy is fulfilled, but I'm reasonably sure that I'm on the right track.

In the meantime, I think I'll pop out to the store for some beer.