Tea for Two

Pucker Up and I have been having a discussion, over tea: I prefer mine piping hot, fresh from a beautiful teapot; she prefers hers lukewarm, laced with honey; the kind that falls to the bottom of my cup, because honestly, who on Earth makes their pup their own tea?

Please.

That'd be just nonsense.

Not that I've not done that for her. It's just not, say, a habit.

Hmmm. Maybe it is. She did rather linger near the tea things once she finally got up (at 9:14am!). I had to tell her we were going to Doggie Daycare (which we were); I totally forgot to mention she'd be staying there. For say, nearly a week. Sort of like Fat Camp.

Actually, not sort of at all.

It is Fat Camp. One does need to do something with lingering honey laced tea calories.

Anyway, we hadn't time for our morning cuppa - had she gotten up when I did? Well. Then there may have been time. Now that she's lazed away half a morning? Simply no time, so much to do today! That sort of thing.

Plus also?

I don't want to get in the habit of saving my tea, for when she decides to get up. I decide when we have tea, thank you very much.

You might be curious how this all fits on here; (Heather, quite honestly is - she told me so herself) I've decided to run a limited edition fabulous tea (and or fabulous latte) cup and saucer. Heather and I argued a wee tad over the saucer; I think it should also include a cake plate, as anyone who's anyone serves tea with cookies. This is the conversation Pucker Up and I were having as well, the need for the cake plate. Quite, says Pucker. As in, you're a moron if you think skipping out on a cake plate is acceptable - since we do not feed out dogs from the table. They prefer plates and cutlery as well. Any well mannered pup does.

Ah, yes, my point!

Be sure to check out the Crate Show, for choices in cups - I need, for example, a slightly shallower one for Pucker, whereas Angus, with his long long tongue is happy with just about anything. Especially if it comes with Only Angus Cookies.

It's four pm. The issue has been discussed, addressed, decided.

Now it's time for tea.

Yes, even a special cup for Pucker.

ps. Only Angus cookies are available for pre-order, to get a jump on holiday sending! They go splendidly with a delicate Lady Grey, or, Irish Tea, should you be of the mind for something stronger.

Only Angus Cookies

I'm embarrassed to admit that our Style Sunday's were forced to take an unexpected detour - I suppose I could have skipped the unexpected part of that statement - no one really plans to detour. Certainly not, you know, suddenly.

Or rather, unexpectedly.

However.

Good things are once again happening! As soon as I can recall how to navigate the website (yes, sigh, I'm still no better at it than before, though eye-squinting and hair-pulling have indeed replaced the swearing, so progress, no?) I'll put up the Crate Show.

Under Crate Show?

All NEW items! Not just for the humans, either....about a year ago, I made humble biscotti puppy treats as gifts from Pucker Up and Smooch Me to all her pals. They were such a huge hit, I've been besieged for either the recipe (hardly handing that out, ps.) or, more. Now, I'm happy to supply Casey, Chloe, Angus, Gussie and Lola with treats from Pucker; the non-known members that requested them?

Let's just say they don't grow on trees, you know.

Thus, I'm adding them in - yes, it's true - you may now order the best ever (that's a direct quote) Only Angus Cookies, in various sizes and shapes, for your pooch.

Only Angus Cookies, you may find yourself asking...odd name for a biscuit...however, these are apparently the only cookies standing between Angus coming into the house when called, or engaging in that lovely (read: horrendous) game: Cat and Mouse.

Or, I suppose, Dog and Owner. When it was just his dad engaging in this routine event at their house, my girlfriend and I found it highly entertaining. When it happened to us?

Not so amusing.

To be fair, Angus has quite the discerning palate: regular dog biscuits or treats of any variety are beneath him. Thus,if it didn't pass the Angus test, I'd've scrapped the recipe.

Angus recognizes the container in which Only Angus Cookies are delivered, will even nudge cookie jar on the counter with his nose, if he's especially in the mood for one. I'd post the rave reviews, but it isn't nice to blow one own's horn, you know.

Angus? He prefers hearts at Valentine's Day, Snowmen at the holidays, or really any shape - just don't try to break them to make them last longer. He'll spit them out. Seriously funny.

Look for them, in various sizes and shapes, in the Crate Show....as soon as I can get it up.

Today finds us dizzy, slightly unbalanced, as our plate - jammed as it is already - nearly runneth over, along with my patience with some funky Balinese weirdo music Heather insists is grounding her. It's sending me flying. I take umbridge at supporting music from countries where we refuse to send our products to be made. A bit of a mixed signal, in my book - do pardon the unintended pun.

I needn't music (especially funky beats) to ground me - cookies and quite a good deal of coffee's quite enough, thank you.

I did what one can only do in said situation - I've donned the Skull and Cross Bone Wellies, waded into Funky Balinese Whatnot, blocking out as much as possible, to remain focused on the task at hand: ordering full size color swatches from Sherwin Williams. Cherries with Danes: ordered. Lemons and Cream: lost.

Don't panic.

I keep repeating that phrase as I wander, frantically from room to room (and they're not that many rooms here) in my head, where only I can hear it, lest I disrupt the simply gorgeous painting Heather has up. Oh, I've tossed the odd bit of "just a sec, luv" (when in doubt, switch to an English accent, it tends to quiet the rising panic in this house at least), along with the ubiquitous "of course it's not lost, what do you take me for?!" as perhaps righteous indignation alone levitates said color swatch palate.

Music. Not. Helping.

Swanning into the kitchen, yet again, I lost focus; suddenly yearning for a deep, rich black tea, with a soupcon of honey. (or a really big heaping splash of it, truth be told) I needn't honey; tis'nt time for tea with a bun. Nearly; though nearly never counts for us. All or nothing is our motto. We're either pleased, or, perhaps, not.

Dry mouthed, casually sauntering back into our Creative Space (a nook, which is sooo fabulous) winking at me behind the drafting table, amid brushes, paint, note scraps lie our samples.

I've not been so thrilled to begin something so tedious in all my life.

I'd dance for joy?

But this is so not the music for it.

There's a perfectly round wet circle in the sofa.

Heather's sofa.

(We toyed around with having her, kids and whatnot make it's way to my house; but I've yet to put the stones on the table, plus I'm rather superstitious - if we leave her table we'd be lost)

We were working on two lines simultaneously (while also trying to find items I'd deleted online) Fox came to tell me, while finalizing the color palate for the new line that there was a spot on the sofa.

Where Pucker was laying.

OH. MY. GOD.

Charming images of the new line dancing around screeched to a horrendous halt, as I wondered whether or not my idiot dog, off whom an entire line is based, FYI decided to christen a sofa.

A most likely very expensive sofa.

Setting panic aside, I did the casual walk out from the office, leaving Heather to tweak a piece of the lemon line to stick my nose up right and proper over the spot.

Thankfully?

She simply licked something out of the fabric, thus, in my opinion at least, reviving it to it's original glory. Thank Christ.

However, amid the drama of four to six kids, one puppy and three adults in and out of the house we've managed to accomplish the nearly impossible: the first line, the second one, along with the third color palate are complete.

My work here is done.

Heather's work is just beginning.

Hey, it's not my fault I draw like a serial killer.

I've been fighting with the website.

For the record, I absolutely realize why it is I've not aspired a career in internet technology - not only do I not exactly enjoy trying to figure it out, it's a skill I've yet to acquire.

At the rate I'm going, I won't need to. This software will be obsolete. I'll be able to dictate how the site shall look, with these colors, and that softness here; the sidebar over there. A little more to the left. No, maybe the right. Nope, I was right the first time, the left.

I can't wait for that day.

Instead, I'm mired in the here and now. In Website Purgatory. Every decision fraught with peril, as I've managed to delete several items in one go (thank heavens for that "undo" button) while simultaneously editing something I didn't want (or need) edited. Now that the copy is perfect?

I cannot for the life of me figure out how it goes on the site.

Where is the glamour, the martini opening parties, for the boutiques I've planned, with fancy nibbles, chilled cocktails, napkins in several of our patterns, fabulous handbag gracing one arm, the other out to hug and smooch all those that helped us get to that point, in a pair of jeans that - oh, wait, I don't want to give away the surprise.

Trust me, you'll love it.

Until the that day, I'm muddling through arranging the website without calling the company in for backup.

As I'm on a first name basis with three of the attendants in customer service, I have a sneaking suspicion they draw straws to see who has to field my calls.

I'd say I'd keep you posted - but I don't think at this point, I know how.

I got lost driving home from NYC.

Oddly enough, I hit every light crosstown green (seriously, all of them, even Broadway, green), found my destination, only to find the hard part?

Getting out. May I just say, for the Powers That Be in NYC: post the 95 signs. Please. Don't make me have to pull off, on exit 18A, call someone, to verify that I am, indeed, on the correct freeway. I was. I just didn't know it. (His co-workers quite enjoyed this call, might I add)

Sadly, I had picked one of the only exits that allowed one to exit the New York Thruway but not re-enter it.

Really? Really.

None of the high-jinx on the ride home however, deterred me from the enthusiasm of breaking laws in two states to call Heather, repeat (nearly verbatim) The Meeting. I'm so thrilled, I can hardly stand it! I do so wish she'd been able to accompany me on this trip; but we did have a client meeting scheduled.

Clients always come first.

The bag will be gorgeous.

I nearly swooned at the choice on leather, piled one atop the other, four shelves deep; the whirring sewing machine, along with the hand sewed felt mock-ups laid out for inspection for another client being lovingly finished - and I, toting nearly every bag I've ever owned, as I wanted details from one bag, the shape of another, the handles on that one. I've quite forgotten how easily the language flows between Heater and I; I need hardly say anything, and she's drawn the thought, the concept, in living breathing color.

The lovely gentlemen with whom I sat, tried his best to keep up with the rather jumbled stream of needs and wants. He doesn't speak the same language Heather and I do. I gave him high marks, however, for keeping up. Seeing a bag in my head, and getting someone to create it? A horse of a different color altogether.

At one point, requiring a reference to shape, I used the analogy of the straw markets, in some hot, sweaty, sandy beachside port somewhere, and these particular bags I'd seen there. He assumes I want our bag in straw. Ah. No. I don't do straw. The shape. Sort of. With this kid of bottom; and those handles. The handles in straw? Good heavens no. I want and need these handles. With feet.

Let's be honest: in a bag? Need and want are the same thing. I need a bag with a beautiful lining, but want one with a water resistant lining. See? Same thing. I (ahem) tend to keep an odd assortment of Completely Necessary items with me at all times, including (but certainly not limited to) dog chews, Matchbox cars, mini-baby wipes for sticky fingers, the usual pens, lipsticks, and whatnot, along with juice boxes and water, snacks, and the seemingly never ending parade of horrifically designed collars. Most of which Pucker's eaten through. That's not really the point though. The point? They were also ugly. Moments passed, as he took in the staggering array of items on the table, before turning his attention to the detail I wanted him to note - and he says, flat bottom, yes?

No.

I need one (and, when you hear this you'll want it too) a bag with feet. There are more germs on the bottom of a hand bag than on a grocery store shopping cart handle! And we put our hand bags on the same counters on which we prepare dinner?

He blanched as I shared that little factoid; he's throwing in the feet for free. He was green enough, I wonder if he'll simply require all bags made by them to have feet.

Renderings are perfect. I'm pleased. Heather will be pleased. He's pleased. Makes a few more notes; muttering to himself as he's drawing.

Bags, he says, with the feet. Always with the feet.

He ended up speaking my language after all.

Meeting with a bag designer is this morning; I suppose, I could have done this over the phone, via fax, email and whatnot, but honestly?

That's so not me. Or, us. Heather, bless her! can see the design hanging in my brain - like one of those conversation bubbles - and can feel it. Draw it. Paint it. I draw like a four year old. We're on the same page with colors, having taken color samples and picked the same ones, over the table, on Sunday's, (when we typically do some of our best work) with the kids playing on the sofa, our latest and greatest addition to the family, Pucker Up and Smooch Me with the boys.

Pucker Up just adores our Sunday Style Retreats, as we've started calling them; not only does she have unlimited playtime with three (or more) children, but, she gets her own scrambled egg. Lucky her! She and the kids nosh away, Heather and I rearrange the stones she keeps on the table (a fabulous idea that I'm going to steal for my own dining room table), talking through the ideas, the lines, the colors; she scribbles and I totally get it - it's exactly as I saw it.

This past Sunday revolved around The Bag.

As we're quite choosy and specific about what we desire this bag to be, to feel, to look, the only real way to ensure my success, is to do it myself. The lovely gentlemen with whom I am due to meet, has the most fabulous italian accent; he says "we drink cappuccino, we draw bag, you bring what you like to me, I make it happen".

He meets (so far) all our criteria: he's consulting personally with us, he manufactures in America, and, well, he's Italian.

Fine. I admit. The Italian part wasn't on the list.

But it sure doesn't hurt.