I’m back, still shocked by sunset coming so early since I missed the clock change last week. The light was delicious this evening, reminding me that autumn is coming to an end all too soon.
You can kinda sorta see the reflection of some of my office detritus (lamp, picture, mess) if you squint hard enough.
It’s odd to vote and not get the sticker.
(And that guy? Who sued because the sticker ruined his suede jacket? Not only is he a local - the drama unfolded at my very own polling place. And with that, you’ve fulfilled your quota of Patty trivia for the day).
Hands down, these bushes are my favorite part of our yard in the fall.
Nearly at their peak of color, the leaves will be almost gone when I return next week.
More after the jump. But first, take a moment to commend me. It took chutzpah to name a blog post firebush.
What a day. Soccer, pumpkins and costume shopping… Later.
pardon me while I go hyperlocal for a moment.
the stamford, ct board of education ceded their responsibility to redistrict the schools to the stamford public schools superintendent. he is presenting his options next tuesday, during the final week of summer vacation.
regular programming will resume shortly.
The redistricting information for next Tuesday’s ridiculously scheduled meeting by that equally ridiculous (Bo)Ed who made a career of disappointing me is now posted. Huh - meeting materials posted more than 5 minutes before the start of a meeting. What will they think of next?
I’ve started reviewing it, and I am willing to bet that other locals have done the same. So what do you think? Any insights? Any option(s) you favor over the others? Comments welcome.
The post from early August about the Board of Education is now password protected. If you want to read it, email me and I’ll gladly share the password with you. Thanks!
I got over myself (more than once) and told you to go see Seussical at Curtain Call. I ruffled a few feathers with some satire, and also connected with a blog goddess I know a little in the real world. Speaking of whom, the FC bloggers’ media tour continued, and if you kinda sorta squint while moving to the left you can plainly see that I was kinda sorta mentioned as the sky-is-falling tipster to the talented and gracious Stamford Talk. My girl Mo agreed with my assessment of John Prettyboy Edwards. I told my husband that if there was a choice between the two men featured on Nightline Friday night, I’d take Bob Woodruff in a heartbeat. Man of substance versus man of fluff. Plus Woodruff is hawt. Then again, we don’t have a lot of sympathy ’round these parts for douchebags who step out on cancer patients. Not one, not two, but four pairs of new sandals and flipflops survived three days in my house unmolested. Last night we were kickin’ it large sans children. And today, my boyfriend husband showed up post-workout with bagels, coffee, and smoked salmon for my entire swim group. Happy birthday to me*!
*rby and matt, you can thank me later.
Because I know (both of) you are sitting on the edge of your seats wondering what goes down at The House of Wingdangdoo when the children are elsewhere, I’ll fill you in.
While I enjoyed my day of self-indulgence (swim workout, aimless chit-chat with friends, dog park), my husband Sisyphus lugged the remains of last summer’s patio deconstruction debacle to the dumpster in our driveway. w00t! Party on, people.
Look, I know smarter people were wise to your ways long ago. I was an idiot, hoping you’d change and we could have something meaningful. That’s over now.
I really am done with you, (Bo)Ed. You didn’t listen to a damn word I said. I should have listened to the Mayor when he told me I was too good for you. He’s the only one who was able to get your collective heads out of your collective asses. Well, six of them anyway.
I’ve never been a fan of musicals.
Other than The Sound of Music, of course.
Otherwise, the entire genre mystifies me. I saw Cats. It was dreadful. I never went to another Broadway musical again.
When the Seussical posters went up around Stamford earlier this summer, my younger son was intrigued. When he found out his camp’s music teacher was involved with the production, his intrigue turned to insistence.
I brought him to see the show tonight as an early birthday present. I was dreading it, and kept referring to it as taking a bullet for the team. I couldn’t fathom how I’d make it through two hours of overdone, over-sung songs and dreadful dance routines.
Turns out I was being a jackass.
Somehow I tore myself away from untangling a plastic slinky (and yeah, it’s already tangled again) to share, dear reader(s?), my impressions of two new-to-me Hope Street dining establishments.
I'm a twit
