I'm well aware Tiny Tim had a tougher row to hoe and a better attitude. What of it?

OK, seriously. December already? Could someone tell me how exactly that happened? Pipe down, smartasses; you don't actually need to explain the intricacies of the Gregorian calendar to me. Rhetorical questions are still valid ones sometimes, I say.

So it's December, and I'm supposed to be all glowy with the warmth of the damn holiday spirit, but alas, December is stressing me out. Yes, on only the second day. The whole month stretches ahead of me, and yet, all I can think about are the hand-knit gifts that I was going to start IN JULY but that remain only half finished three weeks before Christmas. Or the salted chocolate truffles that I made recently, thinking that they'd be lovely little tokens for my friends and family, but that for some reason have already grown ugly, mottled light spots like year-old Halloween candy. (Not that anyone would know what that looks like, I assume.) So at the moment, my half-finished and failure-ridden home-made gift efforts seem most well suited to the Island of Misfit Toys (and, er, Candy and Scarves). Woe is me and my dashed hopes of from-the-heart thriftiness.

So I have Christmas shopping to do, and in an instance of excellent timing, I was recently told that my company is maybe not doing quite as well as we've been told all year (read: apparently nowhere NEAR as well as we've been told all year), and instead of getting a raise on what was, awesomely coincidentally, my 12-year employment anniversary, I got a 10% pay cut. Hurrah. Mind you, it was not just a "Happy anniversary" prize for me alone. Word is we all got pay cuts. Or, all of us who were lucky enough to keep our jobs (for now). An undisclosed number were actually laid off or had their hours cut instead. Happy holidays!

[Side note/Disclaimer of sorts:  I do realize that the previous paragraph falls squarely and solidly in the category of "Things I should not blog about" (i.e., "Things I could get fired for"). At the moment and for the record, I sort of feel it's a fair breech. This is my blog, about my life, which I write on my own time, and this is what's going on in my life right now. I will never, ever mention my company's name in this space, nor give any details identifying enough to reveal said name. So I'm sorry to anyone who someday finds this blog and shouldn't, but at the moment, with all due respect, I say kindly suck it.]

On top of that, I still cannot be trusted with a damn checkbook, and one measly little error has caused me TWO HUNDRED AND EIGHTY DOLLARS in NSF fees. Good grief. As some of you may have seen me complain on Facebook this evening, I am well aware that banks need to find ways to turn a profit, but I would much prefer that TCF Bank find a way to do so without coldly bleeding me dry. Yes, that's right, I said TCF. I have few qualms stating that particular company by name. Because seriously, if you are going to punish me EIGHT TIMES for what was quite obviously one single mistake, I am going to tell the Internet (or at least, my tiny corner of it) how disgruntled I am. I am not the sort of societal and financial delinquent you might see on the likes of the Judge Judy or Jerry Springer show. I am a smart, almost wearyingly responsible girl with her head screwed on nearly entirely straight. Would I keep using my check card if I knew there was actually no money in my account? Of course not. But if my unfortunately erroneous checkbook balance indicates all clear, all systems go, I'm going to carry on as usual, and penalizing me charge by charge while your old school paper notices make their way by Pony Express to my house really does me no good at all.Gah.

Sigh. It's time to stop this futile rant, I realize. Times are lean for all of us. Or, times are lean for most of us. I suspect the president of TCF is still doing just fine. In any case, moving on.

I should note that is it not all tears over banking injustices and tight purse strings around here. I did have a lovely Thanksgiving with some lovely friends. More than two people in attendance confidently proclaimed it the Best Thanksgiving Ever, and I dare say I must agree with them. I mean, no eleven hours on the road round-trip back home, no tense conversation with family members who I love but drive me batty, and no day-old KFC biscuits or year-old apple pie! It was a win-win-win, I say. Seriously, people. Look at this spread! Tell me you don't want to have Thanksgiving with my urban family next year.



Note: Those are prosciutto-wrapped sweet potatoes in the lower-left there, people. Essentially, sweet potatoes wrapped in bacon. I know how much the Internet likes bacon. If you're not sufficiently excited about this buffet line, it's only because I failed to photograph the desserts. Apple pie and pumpkin cheesecake (courtesy of me, and both delicious, if I do say so myself). Mmmm.

On a loosely related note, not that my Thanksgiving Day wardrobe should be of any interest to you, but since I am bragging about things I made, how about I return momentarily to those skirts I mentioned making a few posts back? Shana Who Lacks a Link requested pictures, and while I still have no photos of the skirts in action (or at least, in use), I do have some flat, static, "wowsa, are my hips really that wide?" pics for you...

This is the first skirt I made, which is a lovely albeit a bit cumbersome little wrap dealie-o...



And here is the one I made in the Intermediate/Advanced skirt class, which features both a lining and an invisible (or, nearly invisible) back zipper. In other words, I rock.



That second skirt I decided should be my Thanksgiving skirt, so I actually do have a picture of it in use, albeit a not very helpful and showcasey picture at that. Still. Are you up for a game of "Where's Waldo"? Minus the Waldo and plus a skirt? All right. Here you go then.



Do you see it? If so, good work.

By the way, also in that picture? The Ghost of Thanksgiving Past. Or possibly my pal Carrie's mom's arm, at low shutter speed. You decide.

So then. How was your Thanksgiving? I know it was nearly a full week ago at this point, but dwelling on the past is what I do, folks. Timeliness is not always how I roll. So do tell. Any high points or low points for me?

Spoonman

This just in: Did you know there is some sort of very important football contest on your television right now? I may have almost forgotten, but luckily, 37 of my closest Facebook friends have reminded me. And by "closest," I mean geographically closest, because shockingly, the majority of friends NOT located in either Wisconsin or Minnesota haven't weighed in at all. Truth be told, I don't give half a damn about the outcome of this game. My Wisconsin roots tell me to be loyal to Green Bay, but my nearly twelve years in Minnesota make me wonder if I'm supposed to root for them now instead. (Wait a minute. TWELVE? Really?? How in the hell did THAT happen? Here's another "This just in" newsflash: I am OLD.) Neither my Wisconsin roots nor my Minnesota residency can override the fact that I have only a rudimentary understanding of the game, however, and therefore little interest in rooting for either side. I will say this, though: it looks awfully strange to see Brett Favre in purple. I know that at least, anyway.

And thus ends what is likely the first and just as likely the last time you will see me write about football on this blog. You're welcome.

You know who does care about football, though? My dad. I'm sure he is watching Monday Night Football intently this evening, and... Wait. Scratch that. No he's not. He is sitting on his couch with his feet up under the guise of watching the game, but is in fact dozing off with his head back and his mouth open, giant bowl of snacks to his right and giant insulated mug of soda to his left.

And when I say "giant," I do mean GIANT. When I was a kid, my standard-sized dad used to fill a standard-sized glass with Coke and bring it with him into the living room to watch TV. Somewhere around my high school years, he started using the jumbo plastic tumblers stashed in the back of my parents' cupboards, and when I came home for holidays in college, he had upgraded to a large insulated travel mug with a lid and handle. I thought that was perhaps the biggest soda vessel he could find, short of pouring an entire two-liter bottle into one of my mom's mixing bowls or an empty ice cream bucket, but lo, I was wrong. When I came home for Christmas last year, he had somehow, somewhere acquired an insulated travel mug that, were it alive, could have eaten three of his previous insulated travel mugs. I saw this travel mug on the bottom shelf of my parents' refrigerator, where they keep gallon containers of milk and orange juice, and it consumed the same amount of shelf real estate as those gallon containers. I don't know where one would even purchase a travel mug this large, but I suspect is in the same place where one would purchase giant sunglasses and other comically large accessories for parties and practical jokes. Do you remember the episode of Seinfeld where Kramer offered lodging to a group of tiny Japanese businessmen, and they each slept in one of his bureau drawers? If Kramer ran out of drawers but had a travel mug like my father's, I'm pretty sure one of those tiny business men could have slept quite comfortably nestled inside that mug. I think you get my point. The mug is LARGE.

Please don't ask me why my father routinely needs immediate access to a full gallon of soda at a time. I cannot explain that any more than I can explain why he rolls his window down when he pulls his car into the garage, or why he spreads butter on donuts and cinnamon rolls, or why he has upwards of a thousand or more VHS tapes he will never watch again, or why he buys off-brand, nearly expired beef jerky and bagged snacks at the Dollar Store when already he has three full cupboards of uneaten snacks at home. Or why, as I mentioned last week, he brings his own spoon to restaurants. That's right: his own spoon. A few of you asked about that.

I don't have any solid answers about the spoon. Again, I think size has something to do with it. At some point, my father decided that the teaspoons in my parents' silverware set weren't large enough to use for soup or ice cream, so he started using the tablespoon-sized spoons in the next compartment of the drawer instead. That's reasonable enough; even in restaurants, they give you a larger spoon for soup than they do to stir your coffee. But when he decided the tablespoon wasn't large enough either, he upgraded to the serving spoons instead. And obviously once you are used to raising your soup to your mouth nearly a ladle-full at a time, you can't be expected to resort to the tiny soup spoons designed for mere mortals when you dine out, so my dad started carrying one of my mom's metal serving spoons in his jacket pocket at all times. Then he fell in love with all-you-can-eat Chinese buffets, where he'd eat his hot & sour or wonton soup with one of those flat-bottomed, white ceramic spoons. And I guess he decided that a short-handled ceramic spoon would fit better in his pocket than a serving spoon, because now he carries one of those around instead. I'm pretty sure he found his at Goodwill or another thrift store he visits regularly and didn't just pocket one from the Chinese buffet, but obviously the man has some strange quirks; I can't guarantee petty theft isn't one of them.

So it turns out, I guess I can explain the spoon. But I still can't really explain it. I am an intensely logical person, so I want to understand why my aging parents do the very strange things they do, but I know that some things just aren't meant to be understood. I realize that no matter how baffled I am, I have to make peace with it, knowing that one of the great luxuries of growing old is to be able to indulge in your quirks and idiosyncrasies, to be able to thumb your nose at convention and do whatever you damn well please. Really, if we can't have that, there's almost no point in getting old. With that in mind, I could have a lot of fun trying to decide just what sort of crazy old lady I will one day be.

The game is over now, incidentally, and I guess I did have an opinion a little bit, because I was surprised to feel a teensy bit sad when the Packers didn't rally for a last-minute win in the end. So I guess that answers that question, in case there was any doubt. You can take the girl out of Wisconsin, but can't take the Wisconsin out of the girl. Or maybe the gene that favors the Packers is a dominant one. Let's hope some of those other genes aren't.

Just doing my part to give the last Facebook holdouts one more reason to join

First up, a few updates, because giving you even more information about things you probably weren't riveted by the first time sounds like an excellent idea, no? Some people tell worthwhile, NEW stories! That is not how I roll.

So, shockingly, I have yet to hear anything from the charming Josh Ritter, despite how many times I included his name in that last post for the Google-bots to find. I did not even see any Ritter-related search activity in my referrals list this week. It seems I have overestimated the appeal that vanity-Googling holds for celebrities. Maybe stars really aren't just like us after all.

While Josh Ritter hasn't found his way to my blog in search of a new girlfriend, however, it seems other people think I may be some sort of authority on celebrity relationships. (Hint: I am not.) I do not know if Martin Zellar is still married, nor do I have any idea if Alanis Morissette and Jim Creegan have been romantically linked. (I do know they are both Canadian, but nobody is Googling that today.) I hope those particular searchers found what they were looking for, because I am certain they did not find it here.

In other news, I am pleased to report that the dead squirrel count, for now, still rests at two. I remain suspicious, however, as does my neighbor, who is just as baffled as I am why two squirrels would go belly-up within a ten-foot radius of one another in the same month. His first theory was that some plant in his yard might be poisoning them. This is not the first time he's proven to be a more rational thinker than I am, because my first theory was that my yard is, for some reason, the squirrel population's answer to Topper's House. Poor, down-on-their luck squirrels are coming from all corners of the neighborhood just to off themselves in my yard. Why? I cannot say. But in lieu of my sprinkling squirrel-sized portions of Prozac in the vicinity, I do hope they find an alternate suicide spot soon.

I realize this is an unlikely explanation, of course, but it is no more absurd than the one I came up with the following day. Looking out my kitchen window, I noticed that the rabbit who lives in my yard was eyeing a squirrel with more focused malevolence than seemed normal or warranted, and I decided perhaps Thumper (as the elderly woman next door calls him) was to blame for the squirrel carnage. It's probably ridiculous to theorize that a descendant of the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog might be living in my backyard, but that explanation would help me feel a bit less guilty about occasionally wanting to pour cement into the two large holes he's dug in my lawn.

Next up, more about my yard. Or rather, the things growing in and near it. (Wait! Where are you going?? I need your help here!) Do you remember how excited I was when I saw little green balls of promise pop up on the tomato plants I bought? I should have known it would not be that easy. Given that nearly every plant that's ever been entrusted to me has at least half-withered under my care, it should have been obvious that my optimism about those tomatoes was entirely premature. Look at my sad tomato plants now! The leaves at the bottom keep turning yellow! The leaves at the top have all but disappeared! People, what has happened to my tomato-related hopes and dreams?!



I have asked my friend Google what causes yellowing of tomato plant leaves, and shockingly, Google was of exactly zero help. Yellow leaves could mean that I am overwatering or that I am underwatering. They could be a sign that the soil doesn't have enough nitrogen, or enough calcium, or that my poor plants have fallen to some insect or disease.

Surely several of you know more about gardening than I do. Tell me, how do I know which is to blame?!? With all of those options, I have no clue how to troubleshoot. I feel like Rick Moranis in Little Shop of Horrors, pleading in song for sickly little Audrey 2 to grow. (Come on, you remember that one: "I've tried you in levels of moisture from desert to mud! I've given you grow-lights and mineral supplements; what do you want from me, blood?!?") I do want results from these tomato plants, but at what price? I draw the line at opening a vein for them.

Of course, with that thought, it suddenly occurs to me that my tomato plants are actually rather close to where the last squirrel was attacked. Maybe these tomato plants ARE blood thirsty. That would solve two mysteries in one! My sometimes flimsy grasp on reality hasn't failed me entirely, however. So who has a more likely explanation for me?

And finally, on a happier, more pleasant note, I am a winner! A few weeks ago, I entered a contest that my favorite liquor store held on their Facebook page. Their fans were to each leave a comment saying what they love about the store, and there would later be a drawing to award someone a free case of Chardonnay. This afternoon, I received an email from the store. Hurrah; I WON! Whee! Ideally, the prize would be a case of Folie à Deux Menage a Trois Red rather than Finnegan's Lake Chardonnay, but winners can't be choosers, after all. (Wait. That's not how the saying goes...) So I will have to have a Chardonnay party. Or, perhaps, all of my friends will be getting Chardonnay for Christmas. Or, you know, I could just accept that it is summer and be a more frequent friend to whites. In any case, there is a lesson here: lead with your strengths and stick with what you know. My gardening attempts = epic fail. With liquor (and Facebook), I win!

And I thought the last one would have made a good imaginary "How we met" story...

People, I have a situation. It's not a pretty one. I am typing at the moment from a chair in my front yard, not because I enjoy putting myself on display for my neighborhood, all, "Hey, look at me! I am a single woman with nothing better to do on a Friday night than sit outside with a glass of wine and a laptop!" but because I am too horrified to tuck myself away unnoticed in my backyard.

It seems having a squirrel give up the ghost in my backyard wasn't a one-time thing. There must be some sort of anti-squirrel predator or force field in the area between my neighbor's fence and my back walkway, because another dead squirrel is now lying only about five feet away from where the previous one went belly up. This one is on my property, so I don't feel particularly right asking my neighbor to remove it for me. Unfortunately, it's also much more vile than the previous one. Suddenly I'm not sure why I was so terrified to deal with that first squirrel, because I realize now that I would have rather touched that one with my bare hands than scoop the scattered remains of this one up even with a ten-foot-long shovel. I'm really trying to spare you the graphic details. I'm failing, so I'd better just move on.

And oh, look at that. I left my post for five minutes to duck back in my house, and now there is a bug in my wine glass. Fantastic. Bugs in my wine, crows circling overhead, flies swarming in on a revolting target a mere 30 feet away... Perhaps outdoor blogging isn't as appealing as I thought it might be. Think I'll move this party back inside after all.

So then. Focusing on more pleasant thoughts. Last night Josh Ritter was in town, so Carrie and I went to the Varsity Theater to see one of our favorite (Carrie went so far as to say "the original") Boy Meets Guitar. Our pal Lisa was supposed to join us, but unfortunately she had a doctor's appointment earlier in the day that unexpectedly ended with a staple being deliberately put in her head (ouch), and I can't particularly blame her for not feeling up to a concert night after that. (Look at me; I have finally veered away from dead rodents and now I am talking about surgical staples. Aren't you glad you clicked this link in your feed reader today?)

ANYWAY, as usual, Josh did not disappoint. I've already told this story once, but it was two years ago, so allow me to tell you again what's so very special about this boy. The first time I saw him, it was amid a crowd of fewer than 40 people, many of whom had probably wandered into the club having no idea who they were going to see, taking the chance that their $5 cover charge would not be a bust. Lisa and I were there on Carrie's recommendation. She was living in Chicago at the time, and she emailed us to say that a dude worth seeing was coming to our town, and we should go to his show. So we went, and we liked what we heard, and after the show, Josh milled about selling CDs and handing out promotional postcards, so we talked to him for a bit. Despite the small crowd, Josh was thrilled that we were there. "Thank you SO MUCH for coming!" he gushed. "How did you hear about the show?" When we told him our friend in Chicago had recommended it, he wanted to sign a postcard for her. But he didn't just sign it; he thanked her for sending us, and he wrote, "Stefanie is gorgeous, and Lisa is the belle of the ball!" We were both smitten. "I've never been the belle of the ball before!" Lisa said. The boy was just a young pup at the time, but he knew how to charm the ladies.

Since then, I've seen Josh nearly every time he's come to town, and each time, the crowd is larger and more dedicated. He's now successful enough that there are Josh Ritter tribute bands (in Ireland, apparently), but he's still just as grateful someone's there to listen. That wide-eyed enthusiasm hasn't faded; the grin on his face has only grown wider. I suppose it's possible that underneath that stage presence, he is an insufferable diva, a volatile force I would never want to know in person, but I don't want to believe that is the case. As far as I am concerned, he is a nice boy from Idaho who says "Please" and "Thank you," who, despite his success, is still sort of awe-struck that people will actually pay money to come and hear him play, to see him do what presumably he loves best.

It's hard to watch him and not develop a bit of a crush, and Carrie and I are certainly not immune. Last night's show was at the same venue where I met the MPR reporter as a discussion panelist, so Carrie turned to me mid-set and said, "I think you should make a habit of picking up anyone you see on the stage at the Varsity."

It's a compelling suggestion, but somehow I think asking Josh Ritter out for a drink via email might be even less successful than asking an MPR reporter out turned out to be. Of course, I may not actually have to send such an email, as this is the information age, and I have had a blog and a Sitemeter account long enough to know that even on the smallest and least notable of web sites, any words you type about a celebrity do not go unnoticed. No, thanks to Google Alerts and Technorati, Josh Ritter's publicist, or perhaps even Josh Ritter himself, will likely read this within a few short days of my clicking that "Publish Post" button. I sure am glad I talked about inside-out squirrels and head staples in the same post as the lyrical genius of young Mr. Ritter. (Message to Josh: Hi there! Call me!) Sigh.

This and That

I think perhaps I've finally stepped out of the abyss I've been in recently. Whoo hoo to that; another funk passed (I hope). I haven't spontaneously broken into tears in well over a week now, which is solid progress given that for a while there, it seemed crying was becoming a new hobby for me. In fact, I don't think I cried at all last week, either, except when I heard Bob Mould's new song, I'm Sorry, Baby, But You Can't Stand in My Light Anymore. Those tears were totally justified, though. Have you heard that one yet? You can listen to it here. If you've ever likened yourself to a bit of a Wendy Darling, an unfortunate magnet for lost boys, I guarantee you too will feel a swift punch to your stomach when he gets to the line "I always find the broken ones. What does this say about me?" Maybe I'm the broken one indeed. Ouch. (Sidenote: You're not going to click that link, are you? Fine, but you totally should.)

On to things that do not make me cry (or rather, that do draw tears, but only tears of laughter)... This someecard is the funniest thing I have seen all week. Mind you, it is disturbing, but if you're the easily offended type you probably wouldn't be here, given all the shit ass motherfucker type language I've been tossing around lately. (If you are offended by that, I apologize. I'll try to reel it back in to the usual only occasional well placed "For fuck sake" again henceforth.)

In other news, remember that unfortunate incident a few weeks ago where Mr. I Make My Own Traffic Rules turned across my line of traffic and ended up with a sizable dent in his fancy silver Mustang? Our insurance company finally decided where to place blame, and the larger portion of it landed on his policy. Whew. He had a "witness" who claimed I ran a red light, but apparently when both drivers say the light was yellow, a supposed witness's word carries less weight. Nice try, lady. Perhaps you could just stay in your car and mind your own business next time.

Because it was only marginally my fault, I have to pay only $60 rather than my usual deductible, which is well worth it if you ask me. Perhaps it seems silly to replace the bumper on an eleven-year-old car, but on the off chance I actually attempt to sell or trade it in someday rather than driving it into the ground, I'll be much better off without the remains of at least three mishaps marring it. Still, because I am a Midwesterner, grounded in "Oh no, no; I don't want to be a bother" sensibilities (and because my latent Catholic guilt resurfaces whenever I feel I might be doing something the slightest bit shady), I was more than a bit paranoid when the insurance company's damage inspector came to verify the worthiness of my claim. I thought for sure he'd take one look and say, "Are you kidding me, lady? Your car is older than my third-grader, and that scrape over there was clearly the result of you misjudging the distance between your car and a giant retaining stone. We are NOT paying for this." In truth, there is a giant scrape where I misjudged the distance between my car and a retaining stone in the Crapplebee's parking lot, but is it my fault that fixing the damage that was part of this accident will conveniently fix that, too? Answer: it is not. It is a nifty bonus, though.

Let's see. I had other things I was going to tell you, but they seem now even less important than the last four paragraphs of things that were not particularly important. For instance, do you really want to hear about how I found a form on the Wendy's web site today that lets you invite a friend to meet you for a Frosty or a Garden Sensations salad? No, I'm guessing that won't be nearly as amusing to you as it was to me. Incidentally, Lara did not meet me at the designated Wendy's franchise after I sent her that message. What--ten minutes isn't enough notice for a Philadelphia girl to get to the St. Paul suburbs for lunch?

Likewise, you probably aren't particularly interested to know that I am sucking it up woefully in my recent Facebook Scrabble games, with the exception of the game Beej invited me and Aaron to join him in, wherein I used all my tiles and scored 70 points on my very first turn. Damn shame those boys have attention deficit disorder where Facebook Scrabble is concerned. One of my finest Scrabble moments may well be overshadowed by the shallow disappointment of an abandoned game.

But I said I wasn't going to tell you either of those mundane stories. Eh. I say a lot of things. Surely that's no surprise by now. Carry on.

And now, for a total pick-me-up post...

First off, a public service message to my single friends out there. Have you ever had a Catch.mom subscription, but let it lapse (or set up a user name and password, but didn't actually pay for membership, thinking, "I'm just going to lurk and check things out for a little while first")? During that period of non-payment, have you gotten messages from Catch.mom excitedly telling you that someone winked at you(!), and encouraging you to pony up for membership to find out who? In case you have wondered if perhaps Catch.mom is messing with you, if perhaps NO ONE has winked at you, and these mysterious emails are just a way of suckering you over to the signup screen, YOU WOULD BE CORRECT! Do not fall for this trap, my friends.

I am feeling more than a bit jaded and beaten down at the moment, so before my account could auto-renew recently, I clicked through the four pages of hoops they make you jump through ("Are you SURE you want to cancel? No, are you really, REALLY sure you want to cancel? Perhaps you didn't understand the question. Do you really, really, REALLY want to cancel? You must be joking, right? Because NO ONE could possibly EVER want to leave..."), and I stopped my membership. But because I didn't want Mr. Perfect-for-Me stumbling across my profile immediately thereafter and sending me an impossibly clever, well-crafted message that I would actually never see, I also hid my profile so that no one browsing through the listings would be able to view me. And yet, THREE TIMES since I did this, I have gotten messages from Catch.mom, assuring me that Mr. Right is out there, and he's winked at and is waiting for me. Obviously I am unconvinced. If Mr. Perfect-for-Me has the techno-skills to find and view my invisible-to-him profile and discern a way to wink at me, then he should have the skills to locate me in person and woo me in real life, possibly plying me with free drinks. Until that happens, I'm just going to assume Catch.mom takes me for a sucker, and frankly I won't have some silly web site do that to me.

All this is a roundabout lead-in to the question I have been dodging for a while now. I have been vague-blogging recently, and I do apologize for that, mentioning a stupid boy and a metaphorical stomach ache, but not elaborating beyond that at all. I've talked about only one prospect recently, and hence, the question could of course be distilled simply to, "Hey Stef. What ever happened to The Buddhist?"

What ever happened to The Buddhist indeed. Unfortunately, I can distill it to an equally simple answer. I have no fucking idea, to be frank. The Buddhist has, as far as I can tell, completely vanished on me.

I could tell you the long version or the short version of this story. The long version is fraught with idle details and personal commentary, so perhaps the short, "just the facts" version is the one you'd rather hear from me. The facts are thus. I had my doubts. I knew The Buddhist was in a not-so-great place personally and professionally right now. He lost his job the week we reconnected. His finances are a mess. But I honestly thought he had grown up a lot emotionally since we'd last met. I wanted to believe our paths crossed again for a reason. I wanted to believe maybe it was supposed to work this time. There were red flags just like there were eight years ago. But along with those red flags, there were compliments and glimmers of hope. He used the words "relationship" and "girlfriend" in near-direct allusion to me. He gave me the key-code to his house. He told me to remember what kind of cake I baked for his birthday, because he'd want the same cake again next year. We talked about how the last time we dated, he didn't break up with me when he started feeling freaked out about the status of us; he just grew more distant and flakey until it forced me to break up with him. We talked about that, and he looked me in the eyes and said, in all earnestness, "I promise I won't do that this time. I promise that if this isn't working for me, I will tell you it's not working for me. I promise I won't do that to you again." He told me that, and I followed it, of course, by asking, "So... is this working for you?" and he answered, "Absolutely." And a week later, he vanished with no explanation or warning. And I remain hurt and baffled by it.

Without going into too much detail, I can think of at least two semi-valid (in his mind) reasons he might have completely shut down and shut me out. Because I have an overactive imagination, I can think of at least 11 additional, near-ludicrous reasons he disappeared with no notice. But none of those reasons justify the complete and total vanishing act. None of those reasons keep me from wanting to punch him in the stomach should I ever see him again. I say this, and yet, I know this idiot has some hold on me. I am a smart girl, and yet, I still want to hear from him. I want an explanation. And somewhere, in some shameful, Jerry Springer Guest Candidate part of me that I wouldn't admit if I hadn't just finished off the rest of the sangria I made for a friend's brunch yesterday, I actually want to believe we still have a chance.

What that is about I have no idea. When did I become an "I sure know how to pick 'em" kind of girl? Did I tell you that The Traffic Engineer contacted me yet again not so long ago? The Traffic Engineer, who is a perfectly nice man who unfortunately does nothing for me. A man who I had a completely filters-off dinner with two months ago, in which I sighed about my recent (at the time) "best date of '08" disappointment and he gingerly countered by asking if perhaps I'd considered the possibility that I might be too picky. I was not in top form on that non-date. I didn't care what he thought of me, because nice as he is, I thought little of him. And yet, a month and a half later, in comes another message from the man, asking if I'd perhaps like to see another movie together. Maybe The Traffic Engineer is a prideless loser. The more time passes, the more I think that's probably the case. Or maybe he's just a nice guy beaten down by dating just like I am. It's unfortunate I can't muster any interest in him whatsoever. No, instead I'm crying over some apparently fake Buddhist who should be concerned about karmic consequences and yet who's treated me with more disregard than any idiot since my 25 and clueless days. Perhaps you have some insight on that, because I really can't explain it myself.

Maybe I'm supposed to meet The Buddhist again in another eight years. Maybe the third time is a charm. Wouldn't that be an even better Lifetime movie? Or maybe, as is more likely, I need to admit that I was wrong about him, that all that wondering over the years was for nothing and he has never particularly been worth my time. It'd be easier if it really were just that simple, wouldn't it?

The Airing of Grievances

Otherwise known as an ANTI-Grace in Small Things list. Surely we're all allowed one once in a while, no?

1. I lost a pair of gloves today. And not just any gloves, but the gloves that are actually warm enough 90% of the time and that match all three of my winter coats. Also, the gloves I wasted an hour mending not too long ago.
   
   
2. I am pretty sure I lost them at McDonald's. I NEVER go to McDonald's, except at rest stops on the way to my parents' house. I am convinced that losing my gloves was punishment for giving in to a bacon and cheese biscuit craving directly after getting my teeth all smooth and sparkly clean at the dentist's office.
   
   
3. I had to go to the dentist this morning. This isn't really a grievance; it's a necessary evil that, in all honesty, isn't even really all that evil. Still, I can think of at least seventeen better ways to start the day.
   
   
4. The public parking lot a half-block from our office that serves as an overflow lot for us is closed for an unspecified length of time. I do not work in a neighborhood where I should have to hunt for street parking blocks away in order to go to work, and yet? That is exactly what I had to do this morning.
   
   
5. The entire surface area of my forehead has broken out in a way I have not seen since the days when I sprayed Rave Extra-Hold on it routinely to fix my pouf of bangs in place. (To clarify, that was twenty years ago. Just in case there was any question about that.) I am blaming this on the not-intended-for-use-on-face sunscreen I rubbed on my face my last day in Mexico, but really, shouldn't that be out of my skin's system by now?
   
   
6. That stupid boy? Still stupid, as far as I can tell.
   

That really wasn't such a long or horrible list, I suppose. I thought surely I had more grievances to air than that. We probably all know it's that last one that's compounding the attitude that made me compile the rest of them, though.

Tell me. What's eating YOU today?


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Edited to add...

OK, I barely had that published when I started to feel guilty about it. Please stop playing the world's tiniest violin for me, for I do realize that 1) I am ridiculously fortunate to have three winter coats, when some people have none; 2) and 3) I am fortunate to have the expendable cash to blow on McDonald's, as well as access to reasonably affordable dental care; 4) I am fortunate to have a job that requires me to find a parking spot in order to go it; and 5) No major breakouts since my adolescent years makes me more fortunate than Jessica Simpson and everyone else who's ever appeared in a Pro-Active commercial.

I'm still annoyed about #6, though. That's totally fair; is it not?

The good ones may be hard to find, but the not-so-good ones are everywhere

So I'm trolling listings online again, glutton for punishment amusement that I am. Surprisingly, there are at least five men who've caught my interest, but no definitive word yet on whether I've caught any of theirs. Meanwhile, the crop of profiles that test my faith in this whole process is as large as ever. I'm taking a little liberty with my "30 Dates in 30 Days" theme today in the interest of revisiting the Friday Five game I seem to have abandoned indefinitely.

I present you with...

Five men I will NOT be going on any dates with

1. The guy whose tagline reads, "Hey ladys if your looking for the some what boy next door thats me. Fun loving easy going just a man who's up for just about anything." People, in my profile I include punctuation as an interest and I suggest that my perfect match will confidently know the difference between "your" and "you're." I am well aware that both those items might turn some prospects off, but decided that the men who would be annoyed are likely not the ones I want to meet anyway. My profile might as well say "Bookish nerd seeks same." Does the fact that this man winked at me mean that A) he did not actually read my profile, B) he honestly thinks he has a grasp on grammar and punctuation, or C) he's conducting a social experiment? I do not know.
   
   
2. The guy who said, "I do not have a life partner. It is just a search to find the right person. The right person would make the world perfect." I'm going to ignore the part about a woman making his life perfect and just focus on that first sentence. Are there people on Catch dot Mom (copyright Liz) who actually have found their life partner? If so, what are they doing there? I'm going to say that first part should go without saying, but perhaps I'm just a little naive.
   
   
3. Anyone with a blurry photo no larger than a postage stamp, or strangely featuring a Senior pictures-like pose. (These two gentlemen just winked at me. Am I being closed-minded by clicking "Not interested"?)
   
   
   
   
   
   
4. The guy who claimed to be a 41-year-old "intellectual jewish boy," but wrote a message in the style of a 14-year-old child. You think I'm exaggerating. I am not. Here it is:
   
   Hey Stephanie hope your happy today, it seems like most people in the cities are, but I'm still waiting to here about Al Franken, (he's like my Brothers hero) I got him a T shirt and need to go mail it to him.Anyway my computer is completely fakacked all sorts of errors and virus's on it. I'm not that savey so I need to either take it to someone or buy a new one, I'm not sure which would be cheaperhope your having a nice day
   
   Note the repeated misuse of "your," the multiple misspellings (including my name), the entirely arbitrary punctuation and capitalization, and the utter lack of content of any import.
   
   
5. Any guy whose tagline says, "I promise to lie about where we met." Really? Are we really still doing that "fake-ashamed to be here" thing? I'm here; you're here. And most of our friends probably met online. Get over it.
   

Remind me again why I'm doing this?

I predict a riot

For a long weekend recap, bullet points are totally in order, right? I thought so. Here we go.

This Labor Day weekend, I...

• Took in some local art of the political variety. (My favorite? It's a tough call, but I think I have to go with McCain and Obama as Rock 'em Sock 'em Robots.)
  
  
• Introduced myself to my neighbor's new attractive young roommate with the explanation, "Hi. I'm Stefanie. I'm not showered and stuff." (In my defense, I was outside working on my garage, but still. I am smooth.)
  
  
• Checked out two brand spanking new bars/eateries, like the trendy about-town girl I am not.
  
  
• Baked my first pound cake (and found that plain old boring pound cake can be tastier than I thought).
  
  
• Helped a good friend ring in her 34th year on the planet.
  
  
• Saw the sleepy city of St. Paul turn into a police state.
  
  
• Lost four pounds, despite the aforementioned new bar, new eatery, and pound cake, and the not-yet-mentioned butter-drenched gnocchi and mocha chip waffle cone. (I have no idea how I achieved this, but I have little confidence that it will stick.)
  
  

This Labor Day weekend, I did NOT...

• Finish painting my garage.
  
  
• Have a deep, meaningful conversation (or any not-so-deep but meaningful non-conversation) with my neighbor's new attractive young roommate.
  
  
• Eat more than one serving of fruits or vegetables on any given day.
  
  
• Have a drink with Jon Stewart. (He is totally in town, though. I am listening to him mock Minneapolis as I type.)
  
  
• Attend the concert I had a ticket to, thanks to the aforementioned new-formed police state.
  

That last bit possibly warrants more explanation, but suffice it to say that the riots you probably heard about during yesterday's protests at the RNC site led Security to block every street into downtown St. Paul from both pedestrian and vehicle traffic, thereby preventing me and my friends (and presumably hundreds of other concert-goers who had similar problems effectively communicating an earlier meet-up and departure time with their friends) from reaching nearby Harriet Island in time for the show. And far be it from me to say anything disparaging about stone-faced, burly men in protective riot gear wielding wooden sticks and tear gas, but those particular SWAT team members? NOT HELPFUL. To wit...

Us: "How can we get through?"
Not helpful guys with sticks: "You can't."
Us: "Well, how can we get to Harriet Island?"
Not helpful guys with sticks: "We don't even know where that is. We're not from here."
Us: (Pointing a mere ten blocks in the distance) "It's that way. Is there any street that's not blocked?"
Not helpful guys with sticks: (Pointing to their right) "Go three blocks that way."

(Upon arriving three blocks that way and meeting yet another set of men in bullet-proof vests and helmets wielding wooden sticks...)

Us: "Isn't there ANY street where we can get through??"
New set of not-helpful guys with sticks: (Pointing to their left, the direction from which we just came) "Three blocks that way."
Us: "AAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHH."

At the risk of typing something entirely insensitive and inappropriate, can I just say that if this same level of genius and helpful concern for the local residents was in effect in New Orleans a few summers ago, it's no wonder that scene was the well documented fiasco it turned out to be? Nevertheless, SWAT Team: 1, Us: 0. We gave up and went out for late afternoon drinks instead. I will have to catch Billy Bragg next time he's in town. Meanwhile, to the RNC Security staff, I would like my ten dollars back.

Based on yesterday's experience, I'm not so sure our plan to infiltrate the Republicans where they're drinking will actually happen this week, but I'll be sure to keep you posted if it does.

So. What about the rest of you? Seen any good riots lately?

In which you either wish I watched the news more often or you thank your lucky stars that I don't

Some people are under the misguided notion that I'm one of those responsible, socially conscious adults who actually makes a point to know what's going on in the world. Some people are obviously wrong. In truth, I'm slightly ashamed to admit that if it's not listed on Salon.com's home page or rattled off in the 30-seconds of news highlights between song sets on The Current, there's a good chance I won't hear about it. Oh. Unless it's a day when I actually catch The Daily Show. If Jon Stewart mentions it, I might hear about it, too. (What? Jon Stewart is a totally valid form of “real” news. The Internet says so.)

What I'm saying is it's entirely possible that something very big could have happened in my city, my nation, or the world today, and I would know absolutely nothing about it. I do know, however, that the dolphin show at the Minnesota Zoo has been temporarily canceled because one of the dolphins is pregnant and another dolphin is, and I quote, "acting as though she is." I do know this, because MPR told me this morning.

I realize my imagination might sometimes get the better of me, but when I heard that story, I immediately envisioned Mrs. Krabappel pointing at those dolphins just like she once pointed at Santa's Little Helper and cackling "Ha! She thinks she's people!" And then I thought of that US Weekly column, "Stars! They're just like us!" (They drink coffee! They go shopping! They ignore their kids' temper tantrums in public!) Except instead of stars, it's animals, and instead of "us," it's other people... More specifically, the people on the Jerry Springer show.

Come on... tell me you can't see it... Young dolphin faking a pregnancy to hold onto her man... Subtitles across the bottom of the screen to decipher the dolphin clicks and squeaks: "He my baby daddy, bitch. He don't want you, uh uh!"

Um, yeah. I may need to work on my Jerry Springer guest dialect. Also, I may need to rethink the two-martini breakfast. (Kidding.)

It gets better, though. Not only are the two dolphins in question both "gettin' wit" the same dolphin playah (Seriously, who am I trying to fool with my ridiculous attempts at ghetto slang? I'm as convincing as Ned Flanders in the Springfield Elementary School Fire Safety skit: "What a great pot party! Now for a regular cigarette to make the night complete."), but the pregnant one is actually the not-pregnant one's mother. Come on; you know that's trashy talk show gold right there. "Is your man diddling your mom? Call Jerry now!"

Ahem. It's entirely possible the heat may be getting to me. Or maybe this is just my brain's way of telling me not to watch the news, to relax into a life of blissful ignorance instead.

While I'm on the topic of the absurd ways my brain works, have I mentioned that my sometimes trusty Saturn's air conditioner died recently? It's been rather uncomfortable driving around during the heat wave this week, pleading with the black plastic vents as they shoot slightly warmer than oven-ready air at me, crying, "PLEASE, get cooler?? Please? Please? PLEASE?!" I've decided I refuse to take it in for service just yet, however. Not because I am cheap, lazy, or broke (although I am all, to some degree), but because I am convinced without a doubt that having the air conditioner fixed now will essentially guarantee that my aging Rubbermaid bin on wheels won't make it through the winter. That's an entirely logical rationalization, is it not? I thought so; thank you.

Unfortunately, being trapped in a heat bin for 70 minutes a day makes me cranky (not to mention, if this whole dolphin nonsense is any indication, slightly insane). So let's cross our fingers for a cool front over Minnesota soon, shall we?

A milestone of sorts, plus more than you ever wanted to know about my shower

First off, a bit of housekeeping. I'd like to thank my good friend Darren for his excellent guest post the other day. I almost forgot what well-crafted writing with a meaningful start, middle, and end looks like on this site. You mean I'm not just supposed to ramble along about whatever's on my mind? You mean people still write in full, logically sequential paragraphs rather than random bullet points? OK then. Perhaps I'll work on that.

Secondly, I thought I should mention that what you're reading right now is the 500th post on Stefanie Says. Considering it took me over three years to get here and considering there's no prize (not even a flurry of confetti, a balloon drop, or a startling and enthusiastic announcement over a bullhorn), perhaps it's a bit anticlimactic to mention this milestone, but since I'm a little surprised I even noticed the post count in time to announce it, I thought it bore acknowledgment of some sort.

With that in mind, perhaps the best way to commemorate 500 posts is to write a list of 500 more little-known facts about me. Are you ready? Just kidding. That wasn't funny when I threatened to do it after 300 posts, either.

Instead, how about I write a little something on each of the five topics I probably return to most often? Without any scientific polling or counting of any sort, I'm going to decide that those are the gym, Target, dating, alcohol, and my own stunning ineptitude. Sound fun? I thought so. Let's get started.

Regarding the sweat shop...
The other day, my kickboxing instructor had us try a move we haven't done much before. It was nothing complicated, but apparently she was worried if we didn't watch our form, we might throw out our backs. Considering I injured myself cleaning my bathroom last weekend, it's probably more than fair to assume I might need some sort of warning. The instructor apparently doesn't know I'm less coordinated than the average ball of twine, however, because after warning us to be careful, she looked at the small group of only five regulars assembled that day and said, "Oh, you guys are fine. This is the advanced group, right?" Um, advanced group?? Me?? I am the girl who once tore a ligament in my ankle when I tripped on a balloon. The girl who never once won that stupid patch from the Presidential Physical Fitness award--not even in the early years, when the challenge was an eraser relay and flexed arm hang instead of a mile run and a series of chin-ups. I have never been deemed "advanced" in anything athletics-related. But in kickboxing? Apparently I rule. I can crush imaginary foes like no one's business. Look out, air; I'm coming for you. I'm gonna kick air's ass. Kick the ass of air. Ahem. I may be taking this small victory a bit too far.

Regarding Target...
I tempted fate and went into Target with unwashed ponytail hair again. Apparently Target IS still my happy place, however, because I saw no past meMarmony dates while I was there. What I did see was the bar stools I had found online for $99 marked on clearance for $24.99. I got TWO bar stools for my newly sort-of-refinished basement for HALF the price of ONE. As indicated by all that capitalization, I am ridiculously excited about this. I was even more excited when I returned to that same Target this past weekend and saw a fresh new shipment of the same bar stools now marked $99, just like online. I realize this isn't a very interesting story to anybody but me, and yet I've told at least six people (plus now the Internet) about it anyway.

Regarding dates...
I don't have much to tell you here, but I do have a date with another middle-aged bald man tomorrow and a possibly pretentious English professor next week, so perhaps I'll have some stories to share again soon.

Regarding alcohol...
Apparently at our dinner for 18 last Saturday, my friends and I consumed 16 bottles of wine. There was one nursing mother and probably at least a few other non- or light-drinkers, which means that more than one guest drank more than a bottle of wine on his or her own. I'm very much hoping it wasn't me, but considering the five-course meal and subsequent socializing lasted well into the wee hours, I can't guarantee I didn't make a dent.

This weekend, the plan is to skip the wine and mix up some retro cocktails for the inauguration of my newly updated pine-paneled, sixties-tastic rumpus room. Tonight I went shopping for ingredients I have never actually purchased before (Angostura bitters, blended whisky, sweet vermouth), and after dinner I decided I should do a test run and try out a retro recipe or two. I have never actually had a Manhattan or an Old Fashioned before. I figured it'd be best to know what I am in for Friday night. Um, did you know Manhattans and Old Fashioneds are nearly straight-up alcohol? And not the really tasty alcohol, like Kahlua or Baileys, but straight-up whisky with a little ice and sugar just to pretend you're diluting a bit.

I'm curious if there's no chance I will ever like either of these drinks, or if I just picked a bad recipe off the web. Tell me, do any of you make either of these? Do these recipes sound about right? If you have a more successful ratio to share, please do so. Otherwise, I'm just hoping for better luck with the Tom Collins or the Sidecar. If not, it's back to the standard G&Ts for me.

Regarding my stunning ineptitude...
I've already told you that I managed to injure myself during the seemingly simple and innocuous task of cleaning my bathroom the other day. What I did not tell you is just how ridiculously that transpired. My shower is not lined with normal tiles like any normal house. Instead, the walls of my bathroom are covered with thin sheets of metal with indented lines meant to look like grout. After years of water and wear, the fake grout lines have sprouted cracks and rust spots, and that, combined with the chipping coat of paint that the previous owners thought was a good idea to apply, have made my shower a very sad, shameful looking place. I've tried to patch the cracks with caulk and sealant, hoping to get a few more years of wear out of the stuff, but I'm fighting a losing battle. The HGTV "Bad Bathroom" folks would love to rip those metal sheets out of there (if only I could get their attention to come do so). It's a sad, sad site to behold.

Anyway, Saturday morning I decided it was time to scrub the newest rust and mildew stains from the layers of caulk I've already applied and try caulking once again. There's a portion of the fake tile that fell off completely a few months ago and I'm embarrassed to say has been secured with duct tape ever since. My plan was to clean the shower, remove the duct tape, and recaulk anywhere the metal fake tile was cracked. I should know by now that things rarely go according to plan in my house.

About three minutes into this project, I was reaching across the shower scrubbing with a grout brush, holding on to the ceramic soap holder on the wall for balance. At the very moment I thought to myself, "You know, I probably shouldn't be putting this sort of weight on this," the soap tray broke away from the wall and smashed into pieces on the floor of my tub. My left thigh took a blunt hit against the tub as I fell, and only today have I finally stopped limping and wincing in pain with every step because of the resulting bruise. At the moment, I was in such pain (and was so frustrated--at my thwarted plans to end the day with less duct tape in my shower instead of more, at my fear about just how much a full-fledged bathroom remodel is going to cost, and at the fact that I now had a mess to clean up that was going to put me even more behind schedule for the day than I already was) that I sunk down to the floor in a flurry of tears and profanity. And then I looked down and realized that on top of the throbbing leg and the hole in my shower wall, I was also bleeding onto my floor. The gash in my wrist was deep enough that I worried for a minute I might actually need stitches (which would mean not only admitting this ridiculous injury to an emergency room doctor but also completely missing the roller skating party I was already late for).

By now, I have finally accepted that I need to find the budget for re-tiling (sooner, rather than later). I have also accepted that it's actually much more interesting to hurt myself cleaning my bathroom than to do so roller skating. (Anyone can fall and hurt themselves at a roller rink. It takes a special kind of absurdity and ineptitude to do so in one's own bathroom.) What I have not made peace with is how to address the fact that I have at least ten friends coming over on Friday who might be nosy enough to peek behind the shower curtain to see what's there. We all have medicine cabinet-peekers in our life, right? Surely checking behind the shower curtain at someone else's house is equally tempting, don't you think? So what now? Do I tell people about the garbage bag duct taped to the wall before they see it for themselves? Do I hope my friends are less nosy than average? Or do I tape a note to the shower wall for anyone snooping there to see? "Yes, I'm aware my shower is more ghetto than a double-wide. Wanna make something of it?" No? A note like that doesn't say "Welcome to my home"? Well, what do you think the note should read?


-----------------------------------
Note: Can you believe I got through this entire post before I realized that I completely neglected to include in that list of five the topic I undoubtedly write about the most?? Surely I talk about grammar and spelling at least as often as wine, don't I? I mean, I've gotten awards for that obsession! Oh well. Have to save it for my 600th post, I guess.
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Is anyone tired of holiday-related posts yet? If so, I apologize.

First off, a note to Noelle (and to anyone else with a non-Blogger blog who is still having trouble commenting but hasn't been as vocal about it as my good friend on the Christmas tree farm has)... I just saw the following update on the Blogger dashboard, which should (hopefully for real, this time!) fix that pesky "Why can't I leave my damn link?" issue. Blogger says...

Unregistered commenters can once again provide an auto-linked URL... We apologize for having broken this feature for you. Your blogs and Help Group posts showed us the true extent to which you used and cared about this feature, so please let us know if it's still being problematic.

Damn straight, Blogger. Why you be making life difficult for my WordPress friends? I just checked it out myself and it seems to be the real deal. I very much hope I'm not leading you astray by telling you that yet again.

With that little bit of housekeeping out of the way, on to the Friday Five. I am highly anticipating getting the heck out of Dodge (and by "Dodge," I mean my office, of course) for a while, and since the primary reason for this getaway is Christmas, for better or worse the holiday season is on my mind. Let's start with the worse.


Five Christmas-related things I could really do without:

1. The sound of children singing. Specifically on professionally-recorded tracks getting radio play and being featured on television commercials, I mean--I'm sure your kid singing is angelic and adorable.
   
   
2. Those damn giant inflatable lawn decorations. Specifically the super-sized snowglobe one and Snoopy as the Red Baron. What does Snoopy have to do with Christmas?? (Don't answer that, Aaron. I promise I'm not hating on A Charlie Brown Christmas with this.) Every day on my way to work I pass a house that has three such inflatable eyesores in their yard. Every night, they are fully inflated; every morning, they are lying flat and lifeless on the snow. I'm convinced a neighbor who's as put off by these as I am is responsible for the sabotage. I swear it is not me.
   
   
3. Candy canes. Tell me, do these multiply inexplicably when we leave the room? Why are there so many of them around? And does anyone ever actually eat a whole candy cane? I surely haven't. You have to eat them all in one sitting or you get that sticky mess of tangled wrapper, and really, who wants to hold on to a half-sucked candy for later anyway? I realize I am overanalyzing this. Nevertheless, if you are buying me any Christmas candy, skip the candy canes. More Ghirardelli, please, instead.
   
   
4. The phrase "stocking stuffer." Actually, if your family is German like mine, you know that stockings aren't even supposed to be part of Christmas. You get goodies in your stocking on December 6, for St. Nick's Day, not on Christmas. I don't mean to be a stickler about that; feel free to choose your own traditions, of course. It's just that corny phrase I could do without.
   
   
5. Diamond commercials. No one is buying me something very special in a burgundy box; no one is telling me I am his with the diamond Journey pendant; and no one is giving me a gift that prompts me to blurt out "He went to Jarod!!" to all of my friends. I honestly am fully OK with that, but I don't need to be reminded constantly anyway. (Incidentally, this is another reason I so very heart The Current and its member-supported no-commercials format.)

I am not a total Scrooge, however, so here are some things about the holiday season that I really do quite enjoy:

1. ELEVEN DAYS OFF IN A ROW!! Yes, I have to spend nearly half of them in my parents' house rather than on a warm beach somewhere or even in my own home enjoying peace and solitude, but still--eleven consecutive days with likely no alarm clock is a very good thing indeed.
   
   
2. A Charlie Brown Christmas, which I plan to watch with my little sister at some point while I'm home. (See? Like I said, nothing against Charlie Brown and his holiday special; I just don't think the Red Baron belongs on our lawns.)
   
   
3. Presents. Duh. Yes, I am a grown-up and should be above and beyond such frivolities, but come on. Don't we all still love getting surprises in wrapped packages? To quote Sally in the aforementioned Christmas classic, "All I want is what I have coming to me. All I want is my fair share..."
   
   
4. The excuse to wear ridiculous socks, which fall into a completely different category than appliqued vests and festive sweaters (in that holiday socks I will wear with no apologies while vests and sweaters I will not). I shall have to take a photo later of the excellent Christmas striped socks I am wearing to a party tonight.
   
   
5. "It's the holidays!" is a perfectly valid reason for a cocktail.
   

I'm sure I'm forgetting several very important things on both of those lists. So what's on your love/hate list this festive week?

---------------------------------
Edited to add:
I knew I was forgetting something important... Gingerbread lattes! Yum. Which reminds me, I saw a supposedly very tasty recipe for gingerbread cookies on someone's blog recently... I remember the author mentioned it being a good excuse to use the molasses that's been in her cupboard for ages, and I thought, "Hey! I have molasses to use in my cupboard, too! And I was going to make cookies for my snow-blowing neighbor anyway!" And then I promptly forgot whose blog it was and hence, have lost the recipe. Does anyone know what I'm talking about? If so, please fill me in. Thanks!
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Decisions, Decisions

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Are you new here? Thanks for stopping in! For an explanation of this alphabet theme, see my first NaBloPoMo post.
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It's strange that someone as opinionated as I am could also be so indecisive, but there it is anyway: I hate making decisions. Should I cut my hair or leave it long? Go to that concert or save my money? E-mail that boy or let things play out on their own? Buy these shoes or the ones over there? I really just cannot decide.

D, then, is for decisions. More specifically, my lack of any ability to confidently make them.

It's not even just the big, important decisions I'm talking about. I could sort of justify hemming and hawing for a while considering a job offer, or choosing where to live or what car to buy. But I've been nearly incapacitated by the most mundane and trivial decisions--the small ones that could not matter less in the very grand scheme of things. I can decide to paint my bedroom purple, but I'll stare at color swatches taped to my walls for two weeks before deciding just which shade of purple is perfect. I'll choose a piece of artwork to hang, but I'll stand in the frames aisle holding one frame in my left hand and another in my right, unable to decide which would look best surrounding that art.

Merriam-Webster actually has a name for this ailment, which gives me at least some small comfort, I think. I'm not just annoyingly indecisive; I have a legitimate and self-diagnosed problem! I am abulic! I can't help it!

My solution, of course, is to let other people make decisions for me. Sometimes it's Google; sometimes it's Clara, my tiny little Unazukin doll. Sometimes, it's the Internet at large. I do what I have to do, obviously.

Incidentally, at the moment, D could also be for dry skin. It seems that this weekend, along with switching from Daylight to Standard time, we also switched from Normal to Sandpaper time. We've entered those horrible six solid months when no matter how much lotion I rub into my hands, my knuckles could still serve as a fine-gauge sandpaper for light woodworking jobs. Ouch.

Also, it snowed today. Only for a few minutes, and not with any accumulation, but still. Winter, bugger off. I'm not ready for you just yet.

Friday 4 + 1

Four things that made me laugh this week, and one thing that did not.

1. The toddler girl in the gym locker room who, when her mother said the stain on her shirt likely wasn't going to come out, replied, in a squeaky and unassuming and innocent voice, "Oh. Damnit." Incidentally, the mother didn't think it was nearly as cute as I did. I tried to stifle my giggling as she gasped and reprimanded the girl, but I can't help it: little kids saying swear words is way funnier than it really should be.*
   
   * I know someone else wrote about this once, and also linked to a very wrong but hilarious sketch featuring a foul-mouthed little girl. I have no idea which of you it was, though, or where to find it. Feel free to remind me in the comments if this rings a bell.
   
   
2. The following text conversation with my friend Carrie the other night:
   
   Carrie: I'm at Walgreens, standing in front of the lip gloss. Stop the madness!
   Me: We all have our demons. Luckily, no one's gonna send us to Betty Ford for that one.
   Carrie: Brilliant! Thanks, coach.
   
   (Well, you know, I do my part... Being an enabler can be fun.)
   
   
3. This t-shirt. Word-nerd humor AND a Venn diagram, plus clever copywriting to boot? Novelty t-shirt sites don't get much better than that.
   
   
4. The titles (and cover art) for the DVDs on the Free-with-Purchase rack at the sex toy shop I visited yesterday. The store we went to (in search of fun stuff for a friend's bachelorette party this weekend) bills itself as sort of the clean, well-lighted place of sex shops, but that does not mean they're above the obviously tacky and downright absurd. It was hard to choose between Tit in a Wringer (featuring, appropriately enough, a tit being squeezed through a wringer) and Muffalicious, but eventually we made our selections and left with our bag of booty. ("Booty" is, in this case, a bit more, um, literal than usual.)
   
   
5. The portions of my day (and the dollars from my bank account) that I lost when I blew a tire on my way to work yesterday. In case you're curious, losing a tire is (like so many things in life) nothing at all like in the movies. Art imitates life my ass. I did not hear any sort of pop or bang and find myself trying to keep my car from veering into the ditch suddenly and without warning. Instead, I heard just sort of a low ticking noise, to which my response was, "Crap. What the heck is wrong with my car? Better stop at Saturn to have that looked at on my way home." Then the noise got a little louder and more insistent, and I thought, "Crap. Better drive straight to a shop right now, actually."
   
   Within another minute or so, the rattling and rhythmic thwap-thwap-thwapping got so alarming that I realized I should probably pull over to investigate post-haste, but it still wasn't obvious to me that my tire was the problem. I figured I'd get out, pop the hood, and stare inside thinking, "Yep. Engine's still there. Beats me just what the problem is." Instead, I got out, walked around my car, and said, "Oh! Well, I know exactly what the problem is!" Unfortunately, by that point, my tire was so shredded that the remnants of it had started whipping around and flinging themselves against the underside of my car, causing $120 worth of body damage that I now have to get repaired. I also had to endure the suspicious looks of both the tow truck driver and the tire shop guy, subtly smirking as if to say, "You stupid woman. Didn't you know you were driving on your tire rim??" No, sirs. No, I did not. Now kindly suck it, would you?

So then. Anyone want to take a wild guess which of those items falls into the "not laughing" category? It's a pretty tough call, I know.

Blame August

Well then. I was feeling a bit dramatic on Monday, wasn't I? I actually shouldn't put that in past tense, as I'm definitely still out-of-sorts, but I haven't spontaneously started crying in close to 15 hours now, so let's call that progress, shall we?

Truthfully, it's more than just the "sucky hell of August" (as Liz said) or "the summer malaise" (as Nancypearlwannabe dubbed it). I can name a few very real and [I think] logical sources for the current funk; I just don't want to get into them here right now.

So the blog hiatus (bliatus, if you will) is still in effect, but meanwhile, I had to share this: proof that it's not just me (or, just me, Liz, and NPW). August is to blame! Down with August, we say!

I love a convenient but intangible scapegoat, don't you?

Reason #47 that it's best I live alone

Because there was no one around to hear me (and thereafter to mock me mercilessly) when I let out a sudden string of high-pitched squeals (while simultaneously and dramatically hopping around quickly out of the way) after stepping on what I thought was a tremendous bug scurrying around my laundry room floor but which actually turned out to be a black rubber washer I'd accidentally sent spinning with my foot.

I think I ought to steal Abbersnail's "Why I rock" label for this one. Sometimes "Nerdery" just doesn't suffice.

It's the little things

This week has actually been a pretty excellent week...

On Monday's season finale of that show no one but me is watching, Brian for once kissed a perfectly nice, well-mannered, and smart girl, instead of a flighty or infuriating one. Yay! I don't care if current-girlfriend has the same name as me; I still cannot stand that woman.

On Tuesday, I had a lovely home-cooked dinner without actually having to do any cooking myself. (The Magical Boy's got some serious mad culinary skillz... I believe he wants me to mention that publicly in the hopes that "[his] stock," as he calls it, will climb).

Last night, I saw the Guthrie's production of The Merchant of Venice (por gratis, no less, courtesy of a boy who has twice now shared the other half of his season tickets with me).

And yesterday when I returned from lunch, there was a package from Amazon waiting on my desk--a belated birthday gift from Poppy, who scouted out my wish list and decided to send a surprise. She is awesome; is she not? (Thanks, Poppy!)





Incidentally, is it a sign that you've "made it" as a blogger when you start receiving "blifts"?* Actually, no, that's getting ahead of myself more than a bit. I think you've "made it" as a blogger when your blog starts paying your mortgage, and that's not something that's bound to occur at any point in my life.

The good week will presumably continue tonight, as I have a "blate" with -R- for a movable feast at the sushi-boat buffet. And then tomorrow it's off to see Minnesota boy Mason Jennings** at First Avenue with my good pal Lisa.

All in all an excellent week, right?

And yet, despite all those very good things going on, do you know what made me the most happy of all this week? The thing that sent joy and relief to the core of my soul for more than a brief moment or two? That'd be the fact that the left shoe in my beloved pair of brown Danskos, which has been making a bothersome and embarrassing squeaking noise with each step ever since approximately the third week I owned these shoes (shoes that were far too expensive to stop wearing simply because they make me feel like an old lady in orthopedic footwear... or worse, a mild-mannered psychopath hiding out at a photo-mat), finally and suddenly stopped squeaking!

Consequently, the thing that made my heart sink and hit me with a shot of disappointment unparalleled in my life of late? When that damn shoe started squeaking yet again.

Sigh. I should have known it couldn't last, right?


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* That'd be "blog gifts," for those of you who haven't yet incorporated this whole "merge the bl- prefix" thing into your lexicon.

** Who I recently learned is married to a girl from a neighboring hometown, who I actually met at several parties in 12th grade but who I'm sure has no recollection whatsoever of having any idea who I am.