I mentioned here that the other day was the middle gel’s thirteenth birthday.  Her present this year is that she and Mrs. R hopped the train for Noo Yawk City this morning and are going to go ice-skating at Rockerfeller Plaza.  This leaves ol’ Robbo holding teh fort at Port Swiller Manor, where he is now facing an interesting honey-do list.  (Facing it, that is, by drinking a second cup of khaffee and blogging about it.)

First, it’s time to finally take down the Christmas things.   This is always a bit depressing to me because once one strips all the ornaments off, one is left with, well, a dead tree.  Then there’s the whole mess with the needles, some of which I am usually still finding the following August.

Then, the youngest gel’s room used to be her nursery and the walls are still painted a bright, nurseryish yellow.  Well, teh gel turns eleven this week and has decided she’s tired of nursery-yellow walls.  To this end, she and Mrs. R went shopping for new sheets and a new rug, all of which are in various shades of purple, black and gray.  The combination of all these elements may be described as nightmarish.   The infuriating part is that Mrs. R knows she doesn’t even need to say anything, but can instead rely on my own aesthetic outrage to motivate me to repaint the damned room.  Well played, madam.  Well played.

Well, I suppsoe I’d better have at it…..

UPDATE:  Decorations gone.  (I now wonder how long it will be before Mrs. R notices I scraped the ceiling again getting the tree out of its stand.)  Every December I grumble over the tangled wad of lights that I have to pick apart before stringing them up on the tree.  Every January, however, I’m so tired of the biznay that instead of properly coiling up the strands, I just wad ’em all up again and chuck ’em back in the bag where they live.

Also unexpectedly on the agenda for the day, supervising the youngest gel’s science fair project, which involved combining various proportions of borax solution and glue solution and comparing the resulting wads of slime.   Conclusion?  A fine mess.  In addition, I foolishly let her attempt to bake a giant cookie with smashed up Jolly Rancher candies in it.  As Oliver Hardy would say, another fine mess.   (In case you’re interested, the candies melt and fuse themselves to the baking sheet.  I needed a new one anyway.)