All that was missing was a roast duck that smiled at us

So then. Now that I got that belated New Year's post out of the way, should I belatedly talk about Christmas? Eh. It was same old, same old, really. My grandma is gone, but the KFC legacy inexplicably remains, so although my mother actually made a meal from real ingredients rather than from paper to-go cartons for our Christmas Eve dinner, that meal was still accompanied by chicken and biscuits from KFC. People, I cannot explain my family. But you know what? If I'm being totally honest here, KFC is actually pretty good. I mean, it's fried chicken. And delicious, starchy biscuits. How am I going to argue with that? Also, we had fresh brownies for dessert instead of year-old pie, and my older sister ensured we had red wine that wasn't labeled "serve over ice," so really, I can't complain, I guess. Also, we didn't slide into a ditch and die on our way to or from church during the Christmas Eve sleet storm, so hurrah for that as well. Christmas Eve miracles abound, even aside from that whole Son of Man born of a virgin thing.

As for Christmas Day, now that we no longer have a grandma's house to go to, apparently our new Christmas tradition is a movie and the Chinese buffet, and I have to say, that's not a bad tradition either, if you ask me. In fact, next year, when we drive to Sheboygan in search of an open restaurant for our pre-movie dinner, I am going to cut to the chase and outright suggest we drive directly to the New China Buffet, as we have already done the rounds throughout the city twice, and we already know it is damn near the only place open. I have had better Chinese food, certainly. But I sort of love the low-brow ridiculousness of the all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet--a buffet that includes watered down Americanized versions of all your Chinese favorites, as well as imitation crab leg sushi, pepperoni pizza, and a soft serve ice cream machine from which to self-dispense your dessert. On an ordinary day, it might be my last choice, but on a major holiday? It's got a certain ironic A Christmas Story charm.

I also received several useful and much appreciated presents, including a toaster oven that is approximately half the size of my Saturn but that I need to somehow fit into my kitchen anyway rather than admit to my mother that I didn't confirm the specific model's dimensions before adding it to my Amazon wish list. And I am eagerly awaiting my next journey to a location I've not been before, so I can test out my new GPS unit. I remain disappointed, however, that I haven't been able to locate the Yoda voice the marketing copy promised me I could download. I mean, the standard, built-in, personalityless voice named Megan is fine and all, but I totally wanted to hear Yoda say "In 300 feet, turn right you must," or "Reached your destination you have." Wouldn't that make driving about town that much more fun? Then again, maybe Yoda doesn't dictate precise directions at all. Maybe he just says, "The force is strong with you. Find your own way, you shall." Maybe Megan is my better bet after all.

I know I received other lovely gifts too, but I've almost forgotten about them at the moment, as I barely had time to toss things into various disorganized piles before my friend and tiling savior Andy came in with a vanful of tools and started tearing my house apart. I'm exaggerating. Slightly. The truth is my house is a disaster area at the moment and it's driving me a little bit mad, but I'm well aware it's a disaster very much worth enduring, as at the end of it, I will have a very dusty, cluttered home, but I will also have a brand new bathroom with genuine fully waterproof tiles and no duct tape whatsoever in sight. I cannot wait. Meanwhile, however, I still lack a functioning toilet, so I'm crashing at my pal Carrie's place. It actually worked out pretty well, as she happens to be out of town this week, so I can pretend that I am doing a good deed and house sitting for her rather than just squatting on an available couch like a common vagrant. Yes, she is preventing me from having to both pee and bathe in my basement utility sink, but I am doing her favors as well! I am here to make sure her car still starts in this ridiculous sub-zero cold, and equally important, I am here to keep her cats company, too! I have a lap full of cats at the moment, actually, and a keyboard growing increasingly more dusted with cat hair. Who ARE these furry creatures who want little or nothing to do with me when I come over to visit but who are purring like friendly little outboard motors when they rub up against me now? A few days without their usual human around and look how easily they adjust and make do with whoever feeds them. I've known people like that, actually. (With cats, somehow it seems slightly less cheap.)

All right. I have various other things to ramble on about, including very important questions to help me decide upon various details of my new bathroom's design. But right now, it is getting late, and the lap of cats is making it ever more difficult to type, so such surveying will have to wait for another time, I fear. Can I move, however, with a lap full of cats? Is it rude to disturb them? I feel it may be, but I also feel like, "I'm sorry I'm late, but I had a lap full of cats" is not the sort of excuse that's deemed acceptable at work, so chop-chop, off with you, kitties. Night then.

Clearly this post was just one more excuse to use that "Hobos" label.

Is it really Sunday night already? How did that happen? More important, is it really only four days until Christmas? Tell me, is my house the only one subject to time warps, or do you guys have that problem as well?

First, let's review what I did do this weekend. I did manage to...

• Clean and ready my house for a Christmas party last night.
• Shovel six inches of snow.
• Host a holiday party for several of my friends.
• Get pictures from said party online within 24 hours of the event.
• Write my Christmas cards.
• Eat my weight in guacamole and layer bars.
  

What I didn't do, however, was everything else on my list, including wrap my family's Christmas gifts, pack for my trip home this week, and answer the several neglected emails waiting in my Inbox. Oh. Also, I did not hear from the aforementioned Bachelor #3, despite that aforementioned last-date-of-the-year being, from my perspective, one of my best dates of the year.

That's right, folks; you heard me. I had a GOOD DATE. Or, I thought I did, anyway. Apparently either the two of us were on entirely different dates or my instincts are way, way off. It is frustrating and more than a bit disheartening and frankly I have little more I want to say about it than that. I actually liked this one, people. Really. I don't even know what to do with myself over that.

So it seems I will be ending 2008 just as I began it, which I suppose is fine, really. The single life usually agrees with me anyway. I have my own space and make my own schedule, and I celebrated my singlehood today by sending not at all husband-friendly pretty pink and brown glittery Christmas cards. I am now covered in glitter, as is my kitchen table, but all that sparkling should only serve to get me in the holiday spirit, don't you think?

But back to my party. It was a warm and festive evening in my cold but charming basement, and I think I can confidently say that a lovely time was had by most. Menu props go to The Pioneer Woman, who (unlike Bachelor #3) has yet to let me down thus far. I made her goat cheese with fresh dill and paprika rolls (which were fine but actually taste much better when the goat cheese you pay $10 for actually tastes like goat cheese and not like strangely tough Brie) and also her spicy molasses cookies, which happily were a much greater success than the unintentionally rock-hard molasses cookies I tried to make last year. Also, if you read Mighty Girl's post a few weeks ago and wondered, "Should I really put pears and pomegranate in my guacamole?" the answer is YES. Yes you should. I love avocado in nearly any form, but never has guacamole been so delicious.

Also, I received several excellent presents from my fabulous friends, including a knitting book with at least twelve patterns I want to make immediately, a lovely blue glass necklace, and a pair of knit wrist warmers that are much more awesome than the pair I was never going to get around to knitting myself. I am currently typing away in toasty-knuckled comfort just like a modern, techno-savvy urban hobo. Yay!



And with that, I'd best shut down and get some sleep, as the few hours I got after the last of my guests left in the partying-like-a-rock-star wee hours of the morning simply did not suffice. I'm looking forward to two short weeks in a row before the drudgery of January, with its gray bleak days and its cruelly long five-day work weeks, begins. If you are already on vacation until 2009, kindly suck it. I kid, I kid. That wasn't particularly warm-hearted and holiday-minded of me. Happy Christmas week, all.

Red red whine*

When I returned from the movie in Loring Park last night, the thermostat in my house read 88; the faulty breathalyzer read .05, and the clock read close to midnight. Anyone wanna take a guess at how I feel today?

On top of that, the movie was entirely uninteresting, and my handy camp seat was temporarily stolen by a cognitively challenged woman who had earlier been rooting around freely in her nostrils and absentmindedly playing with her spit. To make that last part even better, in my wine-fueled annoyance, I actually thought it was a logical idea to reason with the woman. She clearly had no inkling that she'd done anything wrong, and yet I apparently felt the need to look at her sternly and ask, "Why did you take that?" Considering the way my friends often like to distort this sort of thing for amusement in later retellings, I imagine that simple question will eventually be distilled down to "Stefanie yells at the mentally handicapped," much the same way an incident in a hotel hot tub years ago is now retold as "Stefanie swears in front of small children" and the way our friend Greg's simple complaint to a restaurant server has long been relayed as "Greg once beat up a Denny's waitress." Ah, good times.

Anyway, all circumstances and after-effects aside, it was still a fine summer evening in the city. There was good conversation with friends, a lovely cheese-heavy picnic spread, and wine (oh my yes, so much wine). Still, foggy-headed and crabby is no way to start the week. I may need to take another hobo nap on my lunch break.

-----------------------------
* A shout-out to my dear friend GG on that stolen title, of course. I'm at a loss for anything more appropriate right now.

Who needs sleep?

I got approximately four and a half hours of sleep last night, thanks to the Peter Bjorn and John show at First Avenue, which was very entertaining and enjoyable but which started (or rather, ended) far too late for an old thirty-something like myself on a Wednesday night. Ordinarily I'd be able to make it through the day by simply focusing on the countdown of hours until I can go home and crash for the night. Tonight, however, I have to rush home, change clothes, and immediately head to dinner and a play with a man I might consider dating, and since I might consider dating him, I'd sort of prefer to be my usual sharp and witty self (read: not babble incoherently or repeatedly trail off into unfinished sentences any more than is already the norm for me). I'd also prefer to remain awake for the duration of the play, and the way my eyes are burning, that might be a tall order.

In the past, on days like this, I've spent my lunch hour hiding out in my car on an unpopulated street or parking lot, reclining in my seat for a power nap. It's an unseasonably warm 83 degrees here today, however, and baking in a heatbin isn't exactly conducive to rest and relaxation. (I never did get that "As seen on TV" AutoCool.)

So instead, I walked a few blocks to the relatively quiet and tree-shaded park near my office in search of a comfortable spot to rest my eyes. I picked the rear side of a picnic bench at the far end of the park and I rolled down onto my back on the bench. About two minutes later, I realized that (A) a rubberized coating on a metal grated bench does not, in fact, adequately cushion your head from the fact that it is still pressed against a metal grated bench and (B) it is hard to lie comfortably on a 12-inch wide plank, as there's no logical place for your arms to go. I considered moving down to the grass, but I hadn't brought a sweater or blanket to put under my head, and the fear of ants and gnats in my hair is even less conducive to rest than my 80-plus-degree car was. Hence, I stuck it out on the bench.

It took a while, but about twenty minutes later I jerked to consciousness aware that I had, in fact, fallen asleep for at least a few minutes. And then I realized something. I slept on a park bench. In a city park. In the middle of the day. I am a modern, urban hobo!

The evidence goes beyond today's lunch break, actually. I can quickly think of at least four previous occasions when I've taken a nap in a public park. It's usually been with my friend Sarah, during a vacation in another city or on the return route from a camping trip. Sometimes we've even taken our Slumberjack sleep mats out of the car to nap properly on the ground in the park.

The uncomfortable metal grate benches are no accident in this particular quiet suburb, I think. It's a hobo-thwarting plan, if ever I saw one. And on behalf of would-be suburban hobos everywhere, I am hurt (or at least, my poor skull temporarily is).