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Friday, March 31, 2006

The Pot Boy Gets the Boot

The taxes are done!
Ring, ye dratted bells! The witch is dead!
Angels are whirling the crystal shells of the spheres--
The dead may rise shortly, and
the meek play baseball in the village square,
And the Glimmerglass Opera hover over Doubleday Field--
The ghost of Fenimore Cooper is dancing
on the pinnacle of Christ Church.

The Pot Boy has been booted in the rear
—I’d fire him, but he’s awfully keen on the scrubbing—
Not to mention good-looking and entertainingly vain.

The snow has melted early and engendered is the fleur!
(Yes, I am addicted to Geoffrey Chaucer’s House of Fame,
as are Attorney Clendon and the scullery maids and the Pot Boy.
Probably why he wants to be an Advice Columnist.)

Favorite overheard response of the week—
Leading question by an adult: “Why were 352
(a bit swollen, that number, I hear)
people marching down Main St. the other day?”
My little N: “Because of the Crayon Carnival.”

Regarding the date--
Okay, so it’s not Friday yet. It will be…
And I’ll be too busy frolicking to post. So there!

Pot Boy questions--
He might come back for another round, maybe, mayhap...
If you have a doubt, a wonder, a niggling small question,
drop it by the March 25th post.

Photo credits—
This royalty free picture was taken by Edwin P
of the Netherlands—Noordwijk.
Source: http:/


  1. And the birds will twitter and chirp in glee,
    Serenading from the boughs reaching to the sky,
    Which snag the blue dome.

    Maybe a rainbow will span the heavens, ending in... what else? A collection of assorted pots and pans for the demoted Pot Boy!

  2. Why is the time always so nutty in the Palace? To start with, it's mostly 2:00 a.m. But it's always askew, somehow or other.

    Okay, Megan really wrote at 9:50, and that means that she's visiting the Palace when she should be--toiling in middle school! What are you getting up to, Megan? Is that Pot Boy a bad influence? Or are you all raging blogoholics, skipping from page to page, leaving witty comments?


  3. Usually, I would be working diligently, surrounded by glaring lights and harsh linoleum floors, calculating the value of "X", listing affects of this disease or reading that article and then scratching away busiliy in Ms. L's classroom, where walls are smothered in books and Chinese dragon kites sway from the ceiling.

    But not this week! For now I am free to frolic, wander or leave smudgy fingerprints on pristine crystal window panes in the Palace, for it's Spring Break! Rejoice!

  4. Hurrah for spring break! I want one, too...

  5. Hi Marly,

    Tell the potboy that I appreciate his comments.

    Interestingly enough, I went to a workshop on Writing, Reading and Language Arts this Monday by Linda Rief and was again smitten with teaching this stuff. So, now I may be doing it again next year. I seem to suffer from fatigue along about Feb.-Mar. and get discouraged. But one and a half weeks remain until we get spring break. AH to lull in the sun and see the flowers bloom.

  6. Will do, O Blog Queen...

    Fatigue, O tired and weary of the female persuasion? Have a cup of the old hot and steaming Dong Quai. It'll perk you where you need perking.

    I've had a dire need for flowers. Dire. Now the snow has abruptly packed it in, and I have swaths of snowdrops and arcs of aconite and major crops of crocuses. Hurrah! When I squat down to inspect the little blighters, I feel that I may yet put out a few leaves and bloom.

  7. You're so all a-twitter, I was going to say, but then saw Megan and her twitter, so cancel mine. Let's not be redundant. How's this: you're so all a-flitter. Glad to read about the lightening of the burdens, Ms. YourMajesty. And what's the deal with Friday?
    I'm Nosey and I Know It. Clap your hands.

  8. Oh, nothing--just B, R, and N home from school on Friday for a l-o-n-g weekend. So you may put your l-o-n-g nose in my business without fear of sniffing out something especially interesting.


    Would that I could tell you something especially enticing or exciting or surprising. But no. No doubt it will be books, board games, computer games, movies, and struggles for power!

  9. I'm glad the snow is melting and the flowers coming up. In my brief years on the east coast I used to crowd my windowsills with bulbs in pots. A hyacinth or two does wonders for sanity when outside everything is white and gray.
    I keep pondering questions for your clever and cinnamon loving pot boy. I am so tempted to ask about the meaning of life!
    But then, if I knew the answer it might be like reading the end of a mystery early, wouldn't it?

  10. He is liable to give a very curious answer, being thoroughly distracted by the latest scullery maid, one Wren.

    You reminded me of Northanger Abbey. I think that's the Austen where a girl--probably Catherine Morland--has just learned to love a hyacinth.

  11. jarvenpa - The meaning of life, universe and everything is fourty-two, at least according to The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. Don't ask me why it's fourty-two, I never finished the book series:)

  12. Dear Pot boy, I know you have been busy, but my friends, family and husband must be tierd of hearing me hoop and haller about this wedding I am in tomorrow. I feel like I am going to crumble, and I am matron of honor. I am blissfully happy for my friends, but I am already the fattest brides maid and I fear loosing whatever sense of self worth I have left. The dress is strappless and sleevless and I have never worn one before. I have a little bolero jacket that makes the dress stunning and I am praying that God will put it in her mind to let me wear in during the ceramony. I just got a call that we were to have updos done. Hello Stepford bridesmaids! Now I wont even have my abundance of hair to shield me. I know this is my friends day and all eyes are going to be on her, but I will be there to. and one of my friends got drunk a couple weeks ago and called me fat. I guess I am average for a 30 year old but it all just sucks. I want to be a normal girl and feel good about myself. I took diet pills this week and I feel like they stripped me of my bubbly personality. I couldnt even think of anything to say at the beauty parlor the other day. I dont know how to get my health and fitness under control and its to late for tomorrow. You can delete this if you want to. I just had to tell someone I was so sick inside. I am fixing to go to the luncheon and put on the big smile. I just keep trying to picture mysdelf walking down the middle of the church with my albino self looking so terrible in front of friends and fam.

  13. Dear young matron Lady Galique,

    Far be it from the Pot Boy not to answer what is clearly a cry of the heart! I have never objected to a "little" extra in the way of a woman, and given your portrait under the orange bobbilias of your Halloween hat, I imagine that you cannot possibly have a great deal extra.

    1. So you are not nearly as fat as you think you are. Just don't pig out at the luncheon, okay?

    2. Your friend was drunk. Maybe you were drunk. Maybe you were bemoaning real or imaginary fatness. Maybe she just took up the cause in drunken fellowship. Avoid getting drunk with that woman, will you? Avoid getting drunk, period. It's quite fattening.

    3. Around here, I've washed plenty of dishes for the South Beach diet. Just a thought. But it won't work by tomorrow.

    4. Extra thought: 30 is a perfectly respectable age. Some people around here would be happy to return to 30. The point: Go for a walk and look at your Fellow Americans, now tipping the scales at such enormous sizes that ambulances are moving to gurneys, etc. that can support 750 lbs. Compared to many of your Fellow Americans, you are a Sylph. Say it outloud: "I am a Sylph."

    5. Look at it this way. A large meteorite could fall upon the assembled company. That would be a lot worse than a few splitting seams. Buck up and count your blessings!

  14. Thank you pot boy!

    I take heart in your words. I had a good luncheon and I got to meet an inuate from Alaska.

    One lady said she had a mop sink she wanted to give me because she gave me a tour of her house last weekend and I said how much I would like to have one and someone was throwing a way a good one with metal legs. I chocked on my coffe and she thought I was so touched I was tearing up.

    I got a new pretty frilly shirt to wear to the rehersal tonight and that cheered me up.

    YOur Most Truley'
    Lady Galique
    p.s. I had green beans in a light cream sauce for the luncheon :o)

  15. Lady Galique,

    We live to oblige.

    Inuit, I presume? What was an Inuit doing in the wrong part of the globe at a bridal party, I wonder?

    Light green beans sounds very suitable. Dark green beams would do as well.

    I apprecially frilly female shirts. Down here in the scullery, we see few of those.

    Not do we see such a thing as a mop sink. Or even a sink mop. We use the good old scouring powder and elegant circular motions of the hands.

  16. Dear Potboy,

    with all the blogging and writing that herself does, I know that you have special insight into strange anon comments. I received the most bizarre comment that I just dont know what to think about it.

    I dont know if I should be scared, perplexed or chalk it up to nothing. If you have time after washing and banging pots, maybe you could check it out. My reading comprehension is poor these days. I just got home from a long road trip and I am not sure what this persons deal is. Maybe I am to trashy in my blog. They kind made me feel like I was the whore that rides the beast into the apocalypse. If you want its under "on the street where you live" like 2 or 3 posts down.

    hope herself had a nice time at her party!

  17. A friend traces it and said it was a nothing that had been leaving it on peoples sites.

    hope all is well with you and yours.

  18. Left a highly intellectual analysis of said post at your site. Continue the good hat work.

  19. I literly joined the ranks of the pot boy today via the Kitchen Parade Polks.


Alas, I must once again remind large numbers of Chinese salesmen and other worldwide peddlers that if they fall into the Gulf of Spam, they will be eaten by roaming Balrogs. The rest of you, lovers of grace, poetry, and horses (nod to Yeats--you do not have to be fond of horses), feel free to leave fascinating missives and curious arguments.