Composting -- E.

I'm curious how often this has happened to the rest of you married men: You are enjoying a quiet Saturday afternoon with your wife, when without warning she stops what she's doing, grabs the car keys and zooms off to the hairdresser.  Is that normal?  Was this covered in premarital counseling?  Is it an unpredictable phenomenon, or does it have anything to do with the comb and scissors that are still in my hand?

It all started with our new composting system.  My family recently moved in with Queena's sister, who I decided needs a compost bin.  So for the last two or three days, I have spent most of my free time browsing the web for compost bins and general composting advice.  The bin, which will be ready in a few days, is going to be beautiful . . . while the advice has been both colorful and entertaining.  Everybody seems to have a secret ingredient for making the perfect compost.  Kelp.  Urine.  Human hair.

Yes, human hair.  While we want to stay away from most animal products, like meat, bones, and dairy, human hair is said to be one of the most abundant sources of nitrogen around.  Or maybe carbon -- I don't remember.  It's something important for good soil.

I can only guess these were the thoughts running through my subconscious as I was deciding how short to cut Queena's bangs about an hour ago today.  It's our quarterly Mutual Haircut Day (she cuts my hair, then I cut hers), and I think I was hoping for my own haircut to yield more clippings than it did.  Then it was Queena's turn, and suddenly here I was with some nice sharp scissors, and there in front of me was a beautiful head chock-full of nitrogen.

I insist these were not my conscious thoughts.  My intentions were only to try something a little different on Queena's hair, and somehow I got the cool diagonal bangs an inch or two shorter than I meant to.  That's not always bad, unless you're planning on two-and-a-half-inch bangs.  My dear wife, who usually trusts me with her life, drew the line when it came to her hair.  All the hair I got from her was this . . .

. . . after which she panicked and forbade me to continue cutting.  Now she's out there getting some "professional" to finish the job, who will probably throw the hair clippings in the trash, completely unaware of the lost compost potential.  And I am at home, hoping against hope that there's a professional out there who's good enough to fix my poor wife's hair.

Books - E.

I would like to read more.

Specifically, I would like to do so today: settle down in the window's sunlight for an hour or two, and enjoy a good book.  Or a so-so book -- at the moment I don't even care.

It's mainly the sunlight in the window that I want.

January Scenes -- E.

This post is not about snow.  I already wrote one about snow.  (It's also not about Malaysia, so try again later if you're here for that kind of material.)

This post is about rural Western New York.  It's about fishing, the small forest my family planted, the house I grew up in, the joys of a tire swing, my son's invincible fingers, and my daughter's very vincible ones.

Not Wistful, and Definitely Not Mushy -- E.

I'm starting to notice things that I won't be seeing in Malaysia.  This past week, I've been thinking about . . .
 

. . . mourning doves . . .

. . . sugar maple trees . . . my good friend Steve . . .

. . . Dad . . . snow blowers . . .

. . . snow.

Ah, yes.  Snow.  They say you can buy just about anything you want in Malaysia, but I have my doubts about snow.  I will miss times like this up in Western New York.

Oh the Sticky Glory--QM

We've arrived in Western New York for Christmas!

It's Christmas Cookie time! James loved the animal cookie cutters...

He also enjoyed his first attempt at painting with frosting...

...but guess what was his favorite part?

Finished product. Who can pick out the two my son did?

To celebrate a job (well?) done, a game of Wits and Wagers was called for. The most dramatic face won.

PS Thank you for all the votes encouraging our little camel to come with us to Malaysia. I think it can come, and I intend to make it a yearly tradition of crafting ornaments as a Mast family. Maybe next year we'll do three wise men to go with Mr. Camel.