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Ya know, when I started this post I had three full paragraphs about how crappy I’ve been sleeping, how overwhelmed I feel - despite the weekend off, and about my head hurting today.  Well, poo!  Who freakin’ cares?  I’m not even sure I do.  So instead I’ll tell you about last night’s dinner.

I got home about an hour late last night from work.  D and I spent some time chatting about our days and then I slipped off to my office/craft room to wind down a bit before starting dinner.  I got pretty engrossed in what I was doing and a lot of time passed. Gradually, though, I became aware of a sizzling noise coming from the kitchen and the smell of something cooking.  “Are you cooking something?” I yelled and got no answer.  So, I rushed to the kitchen to find out for myself.  Yes, rushed, and in a mild panic too.

For the last seven years I’ve been the only cook in the house.  D is limited to frozen pizzas and carry out, and even that I do most of the time.  I’m fine with it, mostly because early in our dating he cooked for me twice ... the same thing, and it’s a wonder I lived to tell the tale.  D survived most of his bachelor years on broiled chicken, which is arguably better than the Raman noodles, canned tuna and hot sauce my brother survives on, but its not the method I have an issue with – it’s the production.  D’s version of broiled chicken is heavily dusted with cinnamon, and then covered with ketchup before being cooked within an nanosecond of jerky dryness.  Sure, balance the spices a little, upgrade the ketchup to tomato paste and pop it into a tangine and you’re well on your way to Moroccan fare - but you’ll have to take my word for it, he’s a long, long way from Morocco.

When I hit the kitchen he had three Bubba Burgers going in a skillet, leftover potato salad already on the plates with chips and dip and not a jar of cinnamon* in site.  Bless his heart, he’d even fixed me a rum and coke.  Dinner was late and a little over done, but in all honestly it was one of the nicest I’ve had in a while!

*Probably because there are three varieties in the house and he’s not sure which one he likes - heh.

Somehow the weekend managed to be both relaxing and exhausting.  Though I promised ‘no housework, laundry, or yard work’ I ended up doing some of each.  I dunno about you, but that last pair of clean undies (you know the ones you shove to the back of the drawer and never wear - unless you have no choice) is a great laundry-doing catalyst for me. 

The yard work took place at the office.  My uncle had a bike accident last week and broke his collar bone, he normally does the lawn work but for obvious reasons cannot, so I figured since I was here I’d take care of it.  And house work was really just clearing a path so we could walk - har.  Ok, not true, but trust me it was strictly ‘guy clean’ only.

Saturday was shot with work, errands and the birthday party.  Sunday I worked on cutting out the things I wanted to sew (if I’ve never mentioned it - I hate cutting), made two bunnies and two bags.  When given a choice of dinners, D elected to have our ‘cook out’ on Sunday, so much of the afternoon was spent in the kitchen.  I know that sounds like work, but when I want to cook I really enjoy it.  I made ‘confetti potato salad’ from a new recipe that was quite good and some of the best deviled eggs I’ve had in a long time*.  Sadly, the rhubarb pie I promised D, did not turn out well.  He said it tasted ‘rotten’, and after a comment like that I was not brave enough to taste it myself to figure out what I did wrong.  If you have your grandmother’s famous rhubarb pie recipe (no strawberries, just rhubarb) and don’t mind sharing I’d love to see it.

Monday, with the exception of laundry, was the true day off.  I dabbled here and there, watched The Great Escape with D, had leftovers for lunch, finished two more bags and two more bunnies, and spent a fair amount of time on the game.  I also exchanged a few e-mails with a girl I went to high school with, and that was a real treat!  I remember being truly enamored with her in school, she was cooler than cool, had punk hair, drove a pink car (Farelane maybe) and brought me photos of Adam Ant she had taken at a concert.  I still have them somewhere.  She was everything I didn’t have the balls to be - and oh how I admired her for it.  It was like getting a response to a fan letter - and yeah, I’m a sap - heh.

Really a fine (though busy) weekend that has rolled into what promises to be a very busy week because everything I didn’t do is still waiting for me, its just taller or dirtier than it was.  I’ll leave you with a pic of two bags and a bunny that set sail to new homes today, and I hope your weekend was as fine as mine!

* I can say this without being conceited, because although I believe I’m a better than average cook there are some things that elude me - deviled eggs being one!

I have lots of promised sewing ‘due’ this weekend. Two ‘swaps’, and one ‘challenge’ need to be in the mail on Tuesday, as well as three other ‘promises’ that I just want to get done and off the list. I had anticipated spending the three day weekend sewing, no house work, no yard work, just three relaxing days puttering in my sewing room – heck I wasn’t even planning on getting out of my pj’s unless absolutely necessary. I did my grocery shopping last night so we could have a mini bbq of brats, baked beans, a new potato salad recipe I want to try and a rhubarb pie for D on Monday. And bought quick easy things for dinner the other three nights (frozen pizza, nacho fixin’s, chicken stir fry) so I could just settle into a leisurely weekend for a change.

D informed me this morning that he wanted to go into town on Saturday, my step-mom reminded me that I have a baby birthday party to attend Saturday afternoon, and I just got a call that some work I’ve been waiting to have completed on our office building will finally take place Saturday (I need to be on site). So my Saturday plans, at least, have crashed and burned pretty badly.

Luckily I had a bit of a sewing urge last night, and after dinner I sat down and figured out and finished my submission for the Pincushion Challenge. The theme for this month was fruit so I give you fruit.

I need suggestions for how to photograph it a little more pleasingly. Compared to some of the other submissions mine looks a little like a mug shot, ok a lot like a mug shot. I was thinking maybe a brown paper bag, a half eaten sandwich and an open bag of chips might be cute, but it also might look very wrong as my apple core is closer to grapefruit sized than apple sized. Certainly improving the light would improve it 100%. The suggestion box is open!

Though I haven’t said much about it, I am hard at work on my Backtack bunny.  I’m holding the Wee Wonderful pattern as an emergency back up, and am trying to devise my own.  The guy on the right is a Simplicity pattern, and the guy on the left my own.  Obviously the color and size will have to be changed to satisfy the Backtack rules, but I do feel I’m off to a good start.  These two will be going to friends with kids sometime in the near future.

I also got a surprise package from Greenie this week.  She sent me really cute dragon fly bird feeder/bath.  I snapped a quick shot on my way out the door this morning but its pretty bad.  You can see a better one here.  I’ve put it near a small dragonfly trellis I keep by the front door.  Very, cute - Thanks again Green!

And finally, to appease the blogging gods, a photo of me.  No, not in my prom dress, or (as Rox suggested) in my prom dress on my new bike.  But, just sitting in my office, in my shiny blue shirt.  Hey, lookit, my cheek bones are coming back - heh!

I created a lot of confusion yesterday when I posted a picture of the party hostess and D together at the hookah.  I put a little ‘me’ and ‘D’ over D and myself in the group shot, but it doesn’t show up very well.  For the record, I wish that was me in the green dress, but its not.  So, to help out, here’s the only photo I made it into ... and even then not all the way.  The wide open mouth, and big boobs (wine colored dress) partially obscuring the hostess, that’d be me.  The lady across from us (whose name I do not know) may have the only photos I’m in, as she took a few while I slaughtered the cake.  If some turn up, I’ll let you know.

Not that you can really see us, but here we are in all our black tie glory.  Of course by the time the photo was taken D had traded his shirt and jacket for a black t-shirt.  I lifted these photos from the birthday/graduate’s site, the only other one I’m in shows the side of my head and my boobs, in other words, “not net worthy”.  D on the other hand, is in five or six photos.  For the record, the hookah is filled with apple tobacco, or at least that’s what they told me - heh.

I spent a little time in the yard early this evening, and while I was pinching spent dahlia blooms, I found this interesting fellow.  I’m calling him a ghost spider for obvious reasons - in truth I’ve no idea what kind he is.  I suppose its better than calling him ‘Bob’.

Friday nights show was a blast, I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time. Once it was over we decided that we’d go grab some dinner at a nearby Mexican restaurant. The first clue that we may have made a slight mistake was the four security guards standing at the door and the velvet ropes leading in that are not usually there. One of the guards looked at us and said, laughingly “I guess you guys aren’t here for the dance.” They told us to go right in, not bothering to ‘wand’ us for weapons. Our second clue was the ear bleedingly loud music, I was very surprised my father didn’t turn us around before our butts could even warm a chair. When a server finally approached us, we asked if we could move to the patio, hoping that it would be quieter. It was, by about three decibels and had the added addiction of a line of colored stage lights directly over the table which gave our food unnatural color in time with the beat. By the time we finished eating the dance crowd had started to trickle in, Hispanic men mostly, in freshly pressed jeans and pearl button shirts. But there were also younger boys who were given orange wrist bands to indicate they were below drinking age. Their dress was more hip-hop, low hung pants, boxers peeking out the top, greased hair and bandannas tied around their heads. The older cowboys paid us no mind at all, for the younger men though we were definitely a curiosity and they openly stared, one even going inside to bring his friends out to see the silly white folks. By the time we finished eating the crowd had increased, but was no were near what it promised to become. The security troop at the door had doubled, and standing in the parking lot were five police officers in black t-shirts with ‘gang control’ emblazoned on the back. My step-mom tapped one of them on the shoulder and asked ‘Is it like this every weekend?’ They all answered in the affirmative and by their expressions I guess things get pretty tough ... I was glad to be leaving.

The weekend’s other project, the cake, went off with a hitch. And yes, I did mean ’with a hitch’. Early yesterday morning I was pouring the batter for the first round of cakes into the pan, supporting the mixing bowl with one hand and scraping out the batter with the other. The bowl was heavy and ungainly and I guess dangerous. When I turned to the sink to rinse it out something under my left shoulder blade seized up and hasn’t let go yet. For a while there I couldn’t pick up a glass, or bend over or even turn my head a certain way. It hurt, but mostly it made me mad because it just seemed so stupid. Poor D had to rotate the cakes for me, test them for doneness, and take them out. He had to pick up everything I dropped on the floor; it seemed like every two minutes I was calling him to help. Coloring my hair was difficult, ‘dressing’ it nearly impossible, and putting on my panty hose a herculean feat. For me to sit was a controlled fall, and standing could only be done by sliding my butt to the edge of the chair so my legs could do all the work. Picture a pregnant hippo in an evening gown and you’ll have a pretty good idea of how graceful I was last night. Nonetheless, we had a great time and D did a fine job on the cake, dontcha think? **schnort**

A little more than a week ago my mother received a phone call from a woman who said she was organizing the twenty-year class reunion for my high school.  Being the busy woman my mother is, she promptly forgot about it, till the woman called her back.  So last night, after a little weekend phone tag, I contacted R, whose face I recognized in the year book, but mostly just acquainted with in school.  My original plan, was to politely decline - I kept up with no one after high school, and then spend some time trying to turn ‘butter soup’ into icing*.  An hour and a half later, I was still talking with her, and now I think I want to go. 

Sure there was the brief questionnaire where I had to admit that I am still single, have no kids, and am permanently wedged in the blue collar world ... certainly a failure in the eyes of my female classmates who must by now be up to their knees in kids, happily married and holding down six figure jobs. Luckily there was not a box for ‘weight gained after graduation’, or ‘how many pets do you have’, though there at least I have excelled mightily.

To borrow from Romy & Michelle, “If you can’t impress them, why even go?”
“Because,” I answered myself, “It’s not about impressing them, it’s not even about impressing yourself.  If you really think you’re the only person, who’s gotten fat, or grey, or is still single after twenty years...then you are well and truly cracked.”

And, after that brief exchange with myself, she and I caught up a bit on her life and mine, her husband (who I do know) interjecting occasionally from the background.  And then the discussion widened to who she had found and who she had not, and who was lost to us forever.  Six of my classmates have died in the years since our graduation, including Tony Serrano, whom I knew.  And it was probably that as much as anything that sparked a desire to go; that reminder that life is short.

We covered the old gossip of our band director who ran off with a junior (he now teaches at a school just south of here) and I helped her find that girl’s name and photo in the year book.  We searched our brains for the name of a song her husband wants the DJ to play - (Keep Feeling) Fascination by the Human League.  I learned that he still has the old yellow pick up that he was so well known for in school, and that it is parked in the garage alongside her ‘67 Mustang fastback; their everyday cars are parked in the driveway.  I was told of folks who had become dentists and preachers.  The preacher was of particular interest, because some years after high school while digging through papers and yearbooks it occurred to me that he had liked me – and until that point I had never realized it.  It would be nice, I think, to tell him I was sorry I hadn’t noticed. 

If I went it would be a very quick trip; fly in on Friday night and out on Sunday.  The best flight I can find is over $300, and then there would be a rental car (the reunion site is a little over an hour from the airport at a lake resort), and a night or two at the resort (hopefully at a discount).  If it were a couple of months deeper into the year I’m sure I could swing it, but it is on the second weekend of July, just two weeks before D’s and my drive to Wisconsin.  She is sending me a packet with more information, once it arrives I may be able to better assess the cost.  To be honest, I am considering committing the mortal credit card sin and just announcing that “I’M IN!”.

*Reviewers of the icing I’m making for this weekend’s birthday cake are split 50/50 between it being the best icing they’ve ever made or the biggest ‘butter soup’ mess they’ve ever made. 

I am not a fashion plate, not even in the slightest.  Most of my clothing choices have been driven by the job I had at the time rather than what was prancing down the runway.  I’ve worked in restaurants and worn uniforms (when I started at Steak & Ale, it was tartan plaid mini’s, peasant blouses and black tights - hee), I’ve worked in retail and worn khaki’s and a button down oxford, and probably the dressiest job was the store design department of Hallmark (as in cards) and worn suits and heels.  In fact I got that job wearing a hot pink linen jacket with linebacker shoulder pads, a black skirt, heels and my permed hair teased up in a banana clip - and yes, it was the 80’s.  One of the advantages of working for a family run, service based business is that most of the customer interaction on my part is done by phone; meaning I wear jeans, knit shirts and tennis shoes to work everyday.  And that is what you would have most likely found me wearing outside of work at any other time in my life.  The only change being the tightness of my jeans (looser now, comfort is in) and my t-shirts have graduated to casual knit tops.

That is until recently.  My responsibilities are changing, and I am gradually sliding into the boss’s chair.  The change will be very slow, and it will be a few years until I assume the position fully.  There are hurdles of all sizes between myself and that day, not the least of which being that I really don’t command a lot of respect from the other employees.  That’s the p.c. way of saying, I’m not well liked.  Some of that is due to being the boss’s daughter and the rest to my having poor people management skills.  My father is charming, and handsome, he exudes a presence that commands respect and even when he’s being an asshole the guys like him.  I, on the other hand, am viewed solely as a bitch.  In our many meetings together I’ve asked my dad if he had any recommendations that might help me build respect among the other employees; he had two. 

First, remove / reduce the manifestation of my personal life at work.  Don’t hang out in back talking, something everyone else does for great amounts of time through the day - including him.  Don’t bring personal things to work, like sewing projects, to show my step-mom, and don’t discuss these projects, at least not at length or only over lunch.  And reduce the personal effects in my office - I’m down to three plants and one photo. 

Second, present a more professional appearance.  After eleven years of jeans and knit tops, my sudden appearance in slacks and dressier tops probably gave more than one person the idea that I had a funeral to attend.  Except that I’ve now been to a funeral everyday for the past two weeks - heh.  To be honest, I’m overdressed, feel a little stupid, and my feet hurt.  The technicians wear uniforms, blue polyester pants, blue cotton shirts, black shoes.  My uncle, who handles parts, wears similar pants and a knit shirt of his own choosing.  My dad and step-mom, most often wear shorts and polo shirts or t-shirts.  She often wears sandles, and he wears running shoes.  Today I’m wearing dress slacks, a knit top, and low heels that had put my toes to sleep before I even walked out of the house.  I look nice, I suppose, but I feel foolish.

My new professional appearance is not helped in the least by the fact that my new slacks have a button, a hook, a snap and a zipper (Elisabeth loves extra hardware) and I evidently get tired when I reach the snap because I keep walking out of the bathroom with my zipper down - doh!

Over at Back-tack they’ve announced that we’ve now reached the half way point in the project, in fact some of those goody goodies are already done .  Even though I’ve entered ‘cake week’ and can think of nothing else, I should update my Back-tackee of my progress.  Have I even started?  Technically, yes, I have.  And I would show you a hint of my progress except for two reasons.  (1) I’m working mostly in white ... have you ever photographed white, its not as easy as it sounds; and (2) I loaned my camera to my mom. 

The person I’m making for just started her blog so there are no archives for me to dig around in and divine something that I know will please her, and she’s very bogged down with school and a new mentorship and hasn’t had time to advise me of her likes and dislikes.  So I’m flying a little blind, but I do have a plan.  Without giving much away, I can say that I’m thinking of texture, with a small amount of print.  I’ve decided on a bunny, but I’m still toying with patterns and may still end up using my own.  I know where the buttons will go, and I have limited myself to using the ones from my grandmother’s button box so none will match.  My 20% color will be bright, but I wont be using 20% - more like 3% and even that will be somewhat hidden.  And, as a tease, I will have to use my computer to finish the project.

If I’m not dead by Sunday, and don’t spend the day cleaning the kitchen, I hope to do a lion’s share of the work that day, and then finish up during that week or over Memorial Day weekend.  The shipping deadline is June 1st, and I should make that no problem.  I’ve mailed her a little card with a teaser in it ... just for fun, and so she knows I haven’t forgotten (I don’t think she’s visiting here very often).

Now, cake.  I won’t put you through the whole assembly process this time, once, I’m sure, was enough, but I will try to post a finished photo if I have my camera back.  Normally I’d bake the cakes off on Friday night, assemble and decorate on Saturday morning and hope there was time for the whole thing to ‘rest’ in the fridge for a few hours.  Not so this time around, we are going to a show Friday night.  I will either bake Thursday night or very early Saturday morning (like 4am).  The frosting this go-round it a little complicated ... it involves a candy thermometer and ‘soft ball’ stage, to me that’s complicated ... so I’m not sure if I’ll try to make it Wednesday night or Saturday, probably both.  This is why I say I’m consumed with ‘cake week’… so many details and so little time. But I’m excited too, we ‘go out’ very seldom, so I am looking forward to the show and the party.

I told you Friday that I was not good at hemming articles of clothing, and to prove it I woke up at 3am this morning with the realization that I’d done it wrong. D even came into the room yesterday while I was cutting off the excess and asked “Doesn’t that scare you?”.  “Its terrifying”, I answered.  And for some reason kept right on doing what I was doing, oblivious that I was working with the wrong measurement.  Why my brain slipped out of idle and into gear at 3am I’ve no idea.  I was supposed to make the hem ½” longer in the back, instead I made it ½” shorter.  It’s not ruined, it’s just not right, and I’m aggravated that I screwed it up.  Now I’m debating shortening the front, so the hem will at lest be even or just leaving it as is because after the first drink no one will notice.  I’m heavily leaning toward the second option.

Other than that snafu the weekend was fine.  Mom came over for dinner Sunday night and then she and I played Scrabble.  Possibly the toughest game of Scrabble I’ve ever played - her first draw was all consonants (including Q and Z) and mine was all vowels (can you say four freakin’ ‘i’s).  And it only got worse from there.  We stuck with it for about two hours, but finally gave up about 9 o’clock.  I won, but barely, the best word I played was ‘ennui’ and I didn’t even get to use up one of my ‘i’s to do it - heh.

This morning has been one of those where I just cant seem to get going.  We spent several minutes looking for D’s iPod and then several more looking for his keys and ended up leaving the house late.  I should have stopped for gas on the way, but decided there wasn’t enough time so the truck in sitting on fumes and I’ll be lucky if I make it to a gas station at lunch.  It is certainly a very ‘Monday’ kind of Monday - sigh.

Yesterday morning I spent some time moving components off of my own bike and onto the new one, things like water bottle cages and a cycling computer.  The computer and I have a somewhat strained relationship, because it is smarter than I am and it has this annoying habit of telling me exactly how far I haven’t gone and how fast I didn’t get there.  When I finally set out I had hopes of putting in an hour of ‘seat time’ and I invited the computer along to help me keep track.  About five miles out I made a tactical error, I turned onto a 55 mph highway that used to have a decent shoulder.  No more.  Instead of turning back, I kept on, figuring I only had 2-3 miles before I could turn off.  After the third or fourth dump truck went roaring by, so close I could feel the backwash of his passing pulling me up the road I gave up and jumped off into the parking lot of an abandoned “U-Pick” vegetable stand to consider my options.  Basically there were two, get back on the highway or see where the road next to the stand went.  Despite it having more potholes than concrete I chose it over the highway and it led me back about a mile into a small farming community I did not know was there.  A sign procllaiming that it was a private road maintained by the community was the first sigh of life I saw, and it made me giggle as I bounced along at a painful crawl.  As bad as that road was, it lead me in the right direction and in the distance I could see the light towers of a ball field that was exactly where I needed to be.  And it did take me there, right up to the back fences where parents watched tiny kids chased a soccor ball play soccer.  But no further, and the brush there made any kind of overland shortcut impossible.  So I turned back to the highway.  Nearly back, across from the sign I’d found so funny, was a rutted double path through the grass.  I couldn’t quite see the end of it, but I thought I could see the occasional glint of cross traffic.  Not a great choice, but still better than the highway, so I took it.  And was very thankful of my new bike because the road bike would have never put up with such abuse and would have certain thrown me into the weeds just for spite.  The hybrid however (and my butt) was happy to leave the broken pavement and travel in the layed-over grass.  Grass gave way to gravel and dirt which led through an abandoned nursery, a golf cart graveyard and mounds of construction debris.  And then I hit sand, deep, impossible to ride in, sand.  So I started walking, still happy to be off of the highway, and more than passing interested in my surroundings.  I knew I was going in the right direction, parallel to the highway, but was still unsure if I was going to come oun on pavement.  Houses began appearing on either side of the broken nursery buildings, complete with a six foot chain link fence that likely ran the length of the commmunity, so, no cutting through into that neighborhood; I kept walking.  Sand gave way to large broken roofing tiles that had been spread as gravel.  The pieces were 4 to 6 inches in size and well packed, pretty easy to walk on but I elected not to ride fearing I’d cut a tire, or twist the bars out of my hands by catching the front wheel in one of the large gaps.  I could see a sign way ahead, I figured it was the nursery sign, or said ‘No Tresspassing’ , but I also figured it was too late not to tresspass, so I kept walking.  And sure enough, that tile gave way to pavement.  Ditch to ditch pavement, with narry a pothole; a welcome site indeed.  The highway was surely to the left, so I went right, marveling at the smoothness of the ride.  And, happily, that smooth strip of road dumped me out in front of a school I knew to be about 2 miles from the house.  All in all I managed 11.7 miles (laugh at that .7 all you want - at my fitness level you’re lucky I didn’t give it to you in feet just to make it sound better!) and it took me almost an hour and a half.  A pretty poor showing in the world of cycling, but a fine morning adventure regardless.  Unless, of course, you ask my bum—which is still wondering what the mountain bikers see in all that bouncing around. I hope your weekend was as adventurous as mine - and less painful, heh.

Would you believe that I went to a fabric store at lunch, and walked out without any fabric?  Well I did, and believe me I’m as astounded as you are.  This wasn’t just any fabric store either, this was the one that carries all the imported Italian cotton (in the most amazing patterns).  I guess what stopped me was the $100 I had to shell out to get my serger out of the repair shop.  I really should learn to work on sewing machines, ‘cause I’m telling you, it’s a racket!  The norm in this area is $69 just to get it on the serviceman’s work bench, all parts and labor are extra.  In my case, all I needed was a new blade, just imagine if I’d broken something important!

Ah well, it’s good to have it back.  I do not use it as often as the sewing machine but it does have some very specific jobs.  This weekend I have to hem the ‘prom dress’ - eeek!  Folks, I am not a hemmer.  Not in any shape, form or fashion...so (sew) this should be interesting.  Also on the docket for this weekend: bags, hats, bunnies, poppies and Mother’s Day.  Bags are for a friend, hats are for a friend and to sell, bunnies are for BackTack, poppies are for me, and Mother’s day is, well, for mom.

My furry kids don’t remember me on mom’s day (boogers!), but I hope your kids, be they two legged or four, remember you and I wish you a wonderful and happy day! 

Some time back I wrote about one of my worst habits - hoarding stuff.  A habit that has resulted in closets full of clutter and wasted things.  Perhaps my greatest defense against this has been to avoid purchasing things I recognize that I would love so much I’d never use them.  Most recently that meant passing up on some beautiful hand made soap.  I love it, but I’d never use it because then it would be gone!  I am aware that there is no logic to my rationality.  Anyway, today I am being tested again, because I stumbled over ‘flowering tea’.  I’ve never even heard of it, but oh, how lovely.  Basically tea leaves are hand sewn together and often centered with a flower like jasmine or chrysanthemum.  When you drop them into hot water, they ‘bloom’.  There are some lovely photos of it here.  I swear to you I’d never drink it, I’d probably never steep it and if I did it would stay in that glass teapot (yeah, I’d have to have that too) so I could look at it..certainly it would never see a cup!  My cracked sensibilities aside, isn’t that just one of the neatest things ever?  If my mom drank tea, this would be her mother’s day gift, just so I could play with it - hee.