Posts Tagged ‘shell button’

Upon arriving home, I found white paw prints leading to two chagrined kitties lurking beneath the sleigh bed, both tails swishing dejectedly. In the spirit of Tom Kitten, they had spent the afternoon frolicking in the bread flour container, and were covered from ear-tip to tail-tip in white powder. All they’d need were curls and ringlets, and they’d be mistaken for unctuous French royalty. Gathering one limp cat under each arm, we had a bath time adventure, and were now snuggled in bed together. I am reading a kitty bedtime story to pacify them. They ‘re wearing newly washed and dried fur, and I’m wearing my turquoise blue peacock Liberty pajamas fastened with fancy-pants Tahitian grey mother of pearl shell buttons.
“Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer were a very notorious couple
of cats.
As knockabout clown, quick-change comedians, tight-rope
walkers and acrobats
They had extensive reputation. They made their home in
Victoria Grove–
That was merely their centre of operation, for they were
incurably given to rove.
They were very well know in Cornwall Gardens, in Launceston
Place and in Kensington Square–
They had really a little more reputation than a couple of
cats can very well bear.”

(From Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer by T.S. Eliot )


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I am meeting you at the Metropolitan Opera to devour the French opéra comique by Georges Bizet, Carmen. We are meeting by the fountain, and I’ve promised to bring an appropriate tidbit. To this end I’ve spent an afternoon making caramel popcorn, which seems suiting for the rousing wide-eyed high dramatics that Carmen inspires. I fasten the softly iridescent shell buttons of my worn cream linen shirt, put on my wine-colored velveteen pants and wide-lapelled jacket, and my meticulously polished black riding boots. I am ready for Carmen.
“Ah! le mot n’est pas galant!
Mais, qu’importe! Va… tu t’y feras
quand tu verras
comme c’est beau, la vie errante!
Pour pays tout l’univers, et pour loi ta volonté!
Et surtout, la chose enivrante:
la liberté! la liberté!”

(By G. Bizet)

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The train portier is softly whistling a Peggy Lee tune as he tip-toes by my cabin, the full moonlight is shining through the half-covered window, and tall fir trees are zooming by. It is the wonderful night; Francy and Lulu have finally settled down, worn out by gambling and caviar. I have changed into my grey lawn pajamas printed in a subtle herringbone pattern and fastened with striped mother of pearl shell buttons, am sipping the last of my cooling chai, and eating a delicate midnight snack of flaky roasted chestnut cookies.
Well alright, okay, you win
I’m in love with you
Well alright, okay, you win
Baby, what can I do?
I’ll do anything you say
It’s just got to be that way”

(By S. Wyche and M. Watts)

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The longest night of the year approaches, and I have invited pals over for an evening of relaxation and play. The parlor is softly lit with tall, ocher beeswax candles, and I have strewn fragrant pine cones in the fireplace. The wool Kurdish saddle-bag covered cushions on the divan have been plumped, with Francy and Lulu feeling the love by slumbering in one tidy fur-pile on the carpet next to the heat of the fire. I am almost dressed, and am multi-tasking; running from the kitchen to remove baking sheets of Fig and Blue Cheese Savouries from the oven, and then back to my bedroom to fasten the iridescent mother of pearl buttons on my starched white dress shirt. I am wearing a dark red silk cravat, a wine-colored velveteen suit, red silk hose, and black velvet slippers and listening to Nico’s smoky, Germanic voice as I arrange tidbits on serving platters.
My funny valentine
Sweet comic valentine
You make me smile with my heart.
Your looks are laughable
Yet, you’re my favorite work of art.”

(By R. Rodgers and L. Hart)

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It has been pouring for days, and is prime dozing weather. Lulu and Francy are snoozing on the deep brown faux fur throw, wrapped around one another so that it is difficult to tell where one fur-monster ends and the other begins. Their tails are the major clue; Lulu’s a bushy striped raccoon tail, and Francy’s a ginger feather duster. Occasionally, Francy opens one eye half-way, peers at the throw in bewilderment, and starts to groom it. I wonder if she thinks the throw is a huge amorphous kitty mom in need of a bath. I feel the need for sustenance, so I wander into the kitchen fastening the Abalone shell buttons on my ratty grey cashmere sweater. Once back on the red velvet sofa, I settle down with a shallow pottery bowl of steaming Cavolfiore e Penne al Forno, the seductive voice of Marlene Dietrich on the stereo, and Laurie King’s The Language of Bees.
“Vor der Kaserne
Vor dem großen Tor
Stand eine Laterne
Und steht sie noch davor
So woll’n wir uns da wieder seh’n
Bei der Laterne wollen wir steh’n
Wie einst Lili Marleen.”

(By H. Leip and N. Schultze)

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It is night and I am between projects. I am lolling about in my Arts and Crafts recliner, wearing rust and black striped cotton pajamas with Tahitian dark grey mother of pearl buttons and black velveteen slippers, and with Francy making gentle bread and purring upon my lap. A scrumptious red currant and poppy seed tea cake has been baked, my dog-eared mysteries have been stacked by the door to be returned to the library, and my apartment has been dusted within an inch of its life. There are no dust bunnies under the bed, nor are there any crumbs between the sheets. This lull gives me space for vapid philosophizing; did I ever mention the sometimes circuitous course of love? I really don’t need to as Puck has said it so well.
“Then will two at once woo one;
That must needs be sport alone;
And those things do best please me
That befal preposterously.”

(A Midsummer Nights Dream by Wm. Shakespeare)

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Can I really and truly eat birthday cake every single day this month? It is a noble calling, but it is only day six, and already I’m a little queasy with all the sugar. No matter; I am going to rally around and make a ginormous, big berry birthday cake. I’m delighted that I get to use real vanilla beans, and am hunched over scraping vanilla bean pods for the cake. Baking on a rainy day is a wonderful solitary pleasure, which I am dressed for in jeans, a well-worn soft turtleneck, and a mocha-colored linen apron fastened with coconut shell buttons, with Keren Ann singing in the background.
“Close your eyes and make a wish
Under the stone there’s a stonefish
Hold your breath then roll the dice
It might lead the run road to paradise
Don’t say a word, here comes the break of the day
And wide clouds of sand raised by the wind of the end…”

(By K. Zeidel , B. Biolay)

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