Happy Halloween...

...from Mikey, Dad and me.

My (first) cousin (once removed), Mike, is an artist of some renown, mostly for his oil paintings, but more and more for the wholly Mike-ish tales he tells in his newsletter, The Right Brain Express.

Every year about this time, Mike resurrects this story, and every year it gets a little creepier.

The Jon of the story is my father.

Mike's other art can be viewed at www.michaelomeuntiedt.com

Now CHILL!

Oiche Samhna;

Slam Dunk Spook

PROLOGUE:

Every year people ask me if I have revised the story about Old Aurora and the ghost of laughing Jack Smiley. As I think about this I look at myself in the mirror and see that the treacheries of Time have added more white to an already grey head; I wonder how much revision is necessary? My boyhood steps led me to a palette and easel of unfinished canvas. My cousin Jon, youthfully prominent in the story, has cast his life to flow into a comfortable one of trout streams and gentlemanly contemplation. Though our lives are located in the pleasantries of different times and locations than that dark and wretched Halloween of 1960, the surprising horror of that night cannot be forgotten…or redeemed! Recently, as in this past year, the City of Aurora has gone to great lengths, and expense, to reportedly “upgrade” the old City Park on 16^th and Dayton. Granted, this aged and time-worn part of town does not deserve neglect and decay. Yet in the cold winds of a darkening October sky with pale yellow leaves carpeting the ground like a veil of shifting whispers, one must ask if the recent face-lift is one of community development or of convenient cover-up. Cover-up of the proof of the profane, of Laughing Jack entrapped in an eternity of terror. If such is the case, no amount of asphalt and designer poured concrete can ebb the flow of the Devil’s tide, or hide the mark of His ill gotten gain!

The Story of Laughing Jack

It seems it is always stormy on Halloween. I remember Halloween 1960. The storm that night blew over the bee tree, from which my brother Pat and I scooped handfuls of sweet honey treat the next morning. This storm was also the last time Laughing Jack Smiley was seen walking this good earth...

We lived on the former Hugh Berry farm south of what was then the small town of Aurora, Colorado. The Berries sharecropped the William Smith land for years. William Smith was one of the founders of Aurora, and his eighty year old unmarried daughter Margaret still lived in the old Smith Mansion, a Victorian Denver Square built up against the Highline Canal at the end of Park East Road. The road was a gravel farm path then, and crossed a bridge behind the mansion that led to our home. Aurora pretty much ended at Sixth Avenue, and the Highline Canal meandered through miles of farmland. My uncle, Bryan Untiedt, purchased the Smith farm and along with my father Ome, was beginning to build houses on the land which became known as Park East. In 1960 the area was still alfalfa fields and pasture with giant cottonwoods along the ditches and Canal. Aurora Central High School was new, and my cousin Jon Untiedt attended there. I was infatuated, as any eight year old would be, of cousin Jon and his friends, all athletes and ball players, and was from whom I first learned of Laughing Jack Smiley, and the tragedy that followed.

Laughing Jack Smiley lived in a small, overgrown cottage on Alton Street in old Aurora. He was my cousin Jon's age, and often met to play basketball with all the older high school boys on the new basketball court in Aurora City Park at Dayton and 16th Avenue. That court is still there to this day, though the newness and sparkle has long ago worn away. City Hall has moved, Aurora has grown to hundreds of thousands of citizens and the old City Park has become one of those off-the-beaten-path forgotten places. I doubt if the name Laughing Jack Smiley would be recognized by any living person there today, though the bare spot still exists on the eastern side of the basketball courts, the bare spot that appeared on that terrible night.

According to those that knew him, Laughing Jack was a peculiar sort. Tall and dark-haired, he rarely spoke, and when spoken to often responded with a shy half smile, from whence came his nickname, Laughing Jack. Though none ever mentioned personally knowing his family, the Smileys were rumored as being related to an ancestor who, in the previous century, helped dig up the graves in the old Denver cemetery where Cheesman Park is now located, and moved the disinterred to Riverside Cemetery on the Platte River. That bit of history is fraught with rumors of greed and disrespect, and that a Gypsy Curse followed the most disrespectful of the grave movers and their descendants. I can't attest to the truthfulness of this rumor, but it makes sense and helps explains the events on Halloween night, 1960.

October evenings were a time of basketball on the court in Aurora City Park. My cousin Jon and his friends would meet every evening to divide up into teams and play ball until the cold dark settled on the blacktop and they could no longer see to shoot. Laughing Jack was often present but rarely played, instead watching from the sidelines with that queer smile engraved on his countenance. Remember the times, these were the days of Wilt Chamberlin and Jerry West. Basketball was a game of large dunks directly under the basketball, or long practiced jump shots from the floor. This was before the days of Dr. J or Magic Johnson, and the Flying-Slam-Dunk was an unheard-of move… the Flying-Slam-Dunk…indeed, who would have ever imagined?

One afternoon, several days before Halloween, Laughing Jack asked if he might join in a game of pickup basketball. "Sure" was the answer, teams were chosen and a game commenced. Laughing Jack played in an unremarkable fashion, until late in the game, as the sun was setting over Mount Evans, and a cold crispness was spicing the air. Jon intercepted a pass and made a fast break down court. Big Denny Rider, whose father Doc ran the Aurora Auto Supply on Dayton Street, made a great defensive lunge, requiring Jon to pass off to Laughing Jack at the head of the key. Laughing Jack caught the ball, and in a mighty leap, four feet high and ten feet long, carried the ball soaring through the air and stuffed it in the basket. The ball cleared through the net and struck the pavement with a baleful thunk. There was not a sound on the court, or in the park, save for the breath of frost on yellowing leaves. Everyone stared at Laughing Jack in disbelief, tinged with fear of the unknown. You see, in those days no one had ever seen such a move, and its strangeness was as a man sprouting wings and taken to flight. Laughing Jack stared at his team mates, smiled in that half way of his, and took off at a slow dog trot down Sixteenth dribbling a basketball. Even as he disappeared into the evening his footsteps and sound of the ball echoed on the sidewalk and Jon, Denny, and all the players shook their heads and turned for the safety of their homes and families.

The next day some of the boys asked Coach Butchkowski from the high school to stop by during the evening game, in case Laughing Jack was playing. They wanted Coach's opinion on the legality of the move Laughing Jack had displayed. Laughing Jack showed up and again asked to play. As like the night before, his play was unremarkable until the last rays of sunlight were gleaming like ice frost over the western mountains. At that time, in the power of the gloaming light, Laughing Jack was offered the opportunity for another fast break Flying-Slam-Dunk. He successfully seized the moment, and as the ball struck the pavement, it resounded with a hollow bounce. But unlike the silence of the night before, this cool fall evening the basket was met with shouts and curses. You see, we fall victim to human weaknesses, and once the newness of something wears off, we often replace quiet unknowing with self-righteous indignation and anger. Coach Butchkowski stepped in to prevent fisticuffs, and rendered his verdict on the legality of Laughing Jack's move. "Now boys, calm down! I watched Laughing Jack carefully, and he took no more steps than you would for an ordinary lay up. There are no rules about how far you can jump when taking a shot, so long as neither foot is touching the floor, and his were definitely off the floor! Though I have never seen anything like it, I would say what Laughing Jack did was perfectly legal, and a new way to play basketball. I would like to know where he learned such a thing!" But laughing Jack spoke offered no explanation, and with that half smile tattooed on his face, turned and silently dribbled away into the waxing light. The boys would not play another game of basketball after Butchkowski's ruling, and the court remained empty until Halloween evening. You might view this as a harsh reaction to a new strangeness, perhaps even cruel. But we must be careful to pass judgment, now, a half-century after the fact; for our present seat in the story is a safe and comfortable one.

Halloween 1960 started off as a beautiful day. At Lansing Elementary School we had parties and watched "Legend of Sleepy Hollow" in the school auditorium. As darkness came storm clouds were building in the west, but the storm looked far off, and my mother allowed brother Pat and I to walk into town, to spend the night at Billy Lombardi's house, along with the rest of our bunch, which included Billy, Steve Rider, Corky Metcalf, Pat and myself. The plan was to trick or treat and watch horror movies on late night TV, which we executed in high style. We slept in Billy's dad's camper, and I remember well the lightening, wind and driving sleet that rocked the trailer, and helped our vivid imaginations drive the spirit of Halloween into our dreams. In the morning the storm had passed, and Pat and I walked home, our feet crunching in the wet gravel of Park East Road. As we passed Miss Smith's, we noticed that the storm had blown over a giant cottonwood tree, a tree William Smith had planted back in the 1880's when he first came to Aurora. The tree had fallen across the bank of a feeder ditch just below the head gate, and had broken in two. The tree had a beehive in it, and the hollow exposed core was a mass of honeycomb and golden honey. We feasted in high style, and could verify Halloween 1960 being one of the sweetest on record. That is, until we later learned of the Halloween fate of Laughing Jack Smiley.

It seems Jon had been to a party on Halloween, and driving home about 11:30 p.m. through the wind and sleet, had passed Aurora City Park. By the flashing glare of lightening he saw Laughing Jack shooting baskets on the basketball court. He stopped and despite the rain asked Laughing Jack if he was OK and perhaps needed a ride home. Laughing Jack smiled in his strange way and waved Jon on. As Jon was driving up Dayton Street, heading for Colfax, he passed a tall man in a slouch hat and long black coat walking down the middle of the street, towards the Park. This seemed strange to Jon, even more so when he didn't recognize the person. You have to remember, in those days Aurora was not the bustling suburb it now is, but was a small farm town east of Denver. Everyone knew everyone else. As Jon drove closer to home he became more bothered by Laughing Jack shooting baskets in the rain, and the tall stranger walking alone down an October street. He turned the car around and drove back to the Park, just to make sure Laughing Jack was OK. The Park was empty, and Jon could find no sign of Laughing Jack, or of the tall street-walking stranger. Jon seemed to notice a faint glow on the east side of the basketball court, but he was sure rain puddles and flashes of lightening in the sky were responsible. Satisfied with his inspection of the peculiar recent events, Jon returned to his car and drove into what became the rest of his life. Not so Laughing Jack.

Laughing Jack was absent from school the following week, when at last the high school attempted to contact his parents about Jack's truancy. The over-grown cottage on Alton Street was empty and boarded up. Every trace of the Smiley family seemed to have disappeared. The police were notified, but nothing came of it. After all, no one was sure anything untoward had happened. Eventually the disappearance of Laughing Jack Smiley became a numbered police report in the dusty files assigned to the vagaries of time.

But occasionally, when the late light of fall disappears over the Rocky Mountains, the sound of a dribbling basketball can be heard in Aurora City Park, when no players are present! After that Halloween night, 1960, a large bald spot appeared in the grass on the east side of the Aurora City Park Basketball Court, and it is there to this day! The City has tried to hide it with a playground, mulch and gravel, but it is there still, for no living thing will grow on it. The unholy spot is camouflaged with happy cries of children swinging and sliding through a timeless ritual. Despite the joy a playground brings, there are rumors that you can stand by this bald spot of ground on Halloween, and hear the distant thump, thump, thump of a dribbling basketball, and a weakening voice crying out "help me, please, please...help me!"

Halloween 1960 will always stand in my memory for the wonders of the honey-laden bee tree; but even more so, though the spirits of Halloween brought the miracle of honey to this October night, they also took something away. There are those I know who believe in the Cheesman Gypsy Curse, and payments made to quiet the dead, and to this they account for the disappearance of Laughing Jack Smiley. The Curse is based on an old legend, hard to verify and harder yet to satisfy the questions of a discerning mind. After the facts I have related and attested to in such good faith, I believe there is an undeniable explanation for Laughing Jack's predicament, if a predicament may be called such when it represents an event that lasts an eternity. Laughing Jack Smiley was taught the skill of the Flying-Slam-Dunk by the Devil himself, at the cost of his soul. In that fateful storm of Halloween midnight, 1960, Lucifer visited Aurora City Park to collect his debt; and collect his debt did he!

copyright 2011 Michael Ome Untiedt

Google is a Harsh Mistress

Mom and Dad used to play S&M† and Kings in the Corner, vicious little card games that led to lots of trash talking and certain bragging rights.

Dad and the Peach have been playing Kings in the Corner, but Dad wants to branch into S&M.‡

"Didn't you say you found the rules online a couple of years ago?" he asked.

"Yeah, through the magic of Google," said I.

[SUMMARY: This is not subtle foreshadowing.§]

*************

From: "Dad"
To: "Marin"
Sent: Thursday, January 28, 2010
9:08:43 PM GMT -07:00 US/Canada Mountain
Subject: S & M

Daughter,
I googled "S & M", "Sadism & Masochism" , then put "card game" behind each... went through about a dozen pages of sex topics¶ without finding anything about the game.
Help?
dad

*************

[SUMMARY: You knew it was coming, but you still laughed.#]

I had to remind him it stands for "Spite & Malice."


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Stop it. That's my DAD you're sniggering at.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Enough! I don't laugh at your father's predilections. Of course, if you blog about them, I might.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): But you're going to laugh when you get to the punchline anyway.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I know we're not talking about my Dad's weirdities, but does anyone else think there's a sitcom moment in the fact that he apparently continued to browse through dozens of sex sites before he called for help?

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Told you so.

@RANDOM ADDITIONAL FOOTNOTE (atted): What do you suppose this post will do to *my* Google searchability?

Holiday Conversations with Father

Marin: Omigosh! I didn't know there was a book on Bill Watterson!†

Father: I know.

Brother: Dude, you got her a book? That's pretty gutsy.

Marin: Yeah! You got me a book? Me?

Father: If you had known the book was out, I would have heard about it from you.‡

And that, my friends, sums up many, many aspects of my life, my personality and my relationship with my family.§

[SUMMARY: You're welcome.]

And happy holidays.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): With the inscription, "Maybe you'll finally find out why Calvin & Hobbes disappeared." My father knows what troubles me.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Don't tell, but I will actually completely clam up about something -- even hid its existence -- if I want to get it for somebody else for Christmas or birthday. Wouldn't it have been funny if I got that same book for Dad for Christmas?

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Deep stuff, people. Fitting for end-of-year-end-of-decade rumination.

My New Favourite Thing

Dad sent this to me. I love it. I want to turn it into a mural on my living room wall.

Ein Kleine Wachtmusik

We had an auxiliary father-daughter dinner last night. We† needed to be sure my iPod would jack into Dad's stereo and the sound would be good for dining and dancing at the wedding.

The wedding on Saturday.

[SUMMARY: A moment of stunned silence, please.‡]

Even as I type this, I'm aware the full impact of what I am about to impart will be lost. Y'all don't really know my dad.

This is a man who doesn't own a tie.§

This is a man who won't wear clothes with words or wild prints¶ on them.

This is a man who thinks big, fancy anything is worth nothing more than a headshake.

This is a man who has no idea where his cell phone is. Almost ever.

This is a man of even temper, good cheer, relaxed attitude, low maintenance, low overhead, relentless good sense and an inherent Protestant work ethic.

So when he turned into Groomzilla, nobody was more surprised than me.

Last night:

Dad: So I got the kids -- being flowers -- taken care of and then I was going to set up the speakers...

Me: When you started that sentence, I heard, "I got the kids, whom I decided to dress like flowers to perform some sort of elementary-school-musical-program at the wedding."

Dad: I wanted to do that. I got vetoed.

[SUMMARY: More stunned! More silence!]

And it's true. A month ago, he told me he wanted to have all the grandchildren gather and sing "We Wish You a Happy Wedding"# at the ceremony.

While various evil stepsisters have been true to form, telling their mother how tacky and passé all her wedding wants†† are, I have to tip my hat to whichever one of them undoubtedly gave my father that you've-been-smoking-crack look and said, "No. There will be no children's chorale."

[SUMMARY: W.C. Fields wasn't blowing smoke. Dogs and children; don't do it.]

Anyway, there will be a skit, but it will be performed by the bride and groom.

Not kidding.

Songs that didn't make it to the wedding playlist:

Flight of the Valkyries - Wagner‡‡
Love Will Tear Us Apart - Joy Division
Another One Bites the Dust - Queen
Achy Breaky Heart - whoever does Achy Breaky Heart§§
Bolero - Ravel¶¶
She Works Hard for the Money - Donna Summer
The Breakup Song - The Greg Kihn Band
Existential Blues - Tom "T-Bone" Stankus
Danse Macabre - Saint-Saëns
Tom Sawyer - Rush
Gin & Juice - Snoop Dogg, or even the Phish## version

At one time, I considered them all. Cooler heads††† prevailed.

*************

No. 5: Illicit Sex - JEREMY SCOTT [sic] & Philippe Roques (Part 5 in the series)

Marin says: Rose -- deep, woody rose with a definite float of bitter orange and a touch of aldehyde.

For me, this is strongly reminiscent of Chanel No. 5, but with a hair less aldehyde and a bit more rose and a skosh of orange. There's something brilliant about the way it captures that memory of Mom and Dad going out for the evening in a cloud of Chanel, while going just far enough into a contemporary space that I could inhabit happily.

Eventually, it parses down to a clear rose, travelling back into history and faded beauty.

The name, Illicit Sex,‡‡‡ doesn't quite meet up with either the scent itself or the perfumer's notes on fragility and strength in love. Do you suppose they really, really hope sex sells?

Six Scents says: ""Illicit Sex is an essay on love: the encounter of fragility and strength." - Philippe Roques, Perfumer

Ingredients: Bergamot,$ Aldehydic,$ Pepper, Nutmet, Rose,$ Benzoin, Olibanum, Cedarwood,$ Musk.

Hans says: Hmmm. It's pretty light. It smells like... I get some incense.§§§ Like Arabian market.¶¶¶ You smell like an Arabian market, Marin. Good morning.###


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): And by "we," I mean, "my father, who has somehow become convinced that I am a technological dummy who will populate his wedding reception with death metal and pimps-n-hos rap music."

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Not that we didn't know it was coming, just... still a little stunned.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): A fact that led to a wedding battle over whether or not he should have to go out and buy a tie for this one tiny occasion when a bolo tie should work just as well. For those of you scoring at home, he won that one.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Like stripes.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Y'know... to the tune of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas."

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Balloons. She loves balloons and wanted some, until Evil Stepsister told her it was tacky and totally 1980s. I say let the woman have her balloons. Who cares if it's tacky -- the guest list is comprised of her children and grandchildren and Dad's children and grandchildren. If ever there was a situation when one could get tacky without repercussion, this is it.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): I have four musical divisions: Taps for the processional (I'm not kidding and it wasn't my idea -- this is all the groom), an hour of classical music for dinner, The Rose for the first dance, two hours of dance music for the reception. Under the heading "classical music," it appears my taste is unsurprisingly gothic, with lots of skeletons and sturm-und-drang. I'm guessing "O Fortuna" isn't a good idea. I have to go get some Handel and Vivaldi or everyone will lose their appetites.

§§FOOTNOTE (do-si-do): Peach wanted me to put in some country music suitable for line dancing. For my country cousins. I told Dad I figured they can dance the Electric Slide with everybody else if they feel a need to line dance. I am NOT BUYING Achy Breaky Heart. Yes, there will be Electric Slide. Possibly Chicken Dance too, because I think those are funny wedding traditions I am willing to follow for my own wicked glee.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (beat that... drum): I saw 10.

##FOOTNOTE (I will pound on this until you get it): Please to pronounce "P-hish."

†††FOOTNOTE (three stepsisters, all in a row): Or at least my Inner Evil Stepsister.

‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (sex on the wrong side of the tracks): Illicit sex should be rumpled, sweaty, hurried, shameful, furtive, seedy, possibly up against the stall wall in a club restroom. There should be nothing fragile or strong about it, unless you count the leg muscles it takes to have sex in a bathroom stall. Essay on love, my ass. Though that may be another way to do illicit...

$FOOTNOTE (on the money!): Well, look at me!

§§§FOOTNOTE (give that man three rounds of applause!): Hans is getting really good at this. Speaking of Hans, he's very disappointed nobody commented on his prom picture. I told him I figure out there was a shocked silence as everybody in his fan club said, "I didn't know Hans was gay." His girlfriend thinks that's really funny.

¶¶¶FOOTNOTE (camels in the desert): And Hans knows of which he speaks -- he lived in Saudi for many years.

Tuesday, Tuesday... la laa la l-la laaaaaa

I played hooky yesterday. It was marvelous.

For some reason, sitting around knitting and reading and communing with the North 40 is just so much better when I realise Hans is in the office working.

*************

You know what those 13 little stars mean... we're going to lick the pig!

*************

This is not my story to tell, but I feel I must relate it anyway.† Many of you don't know Mary Beth and most of you weren't there when she was telling it. I feel I would be remiss if I didn't spread the word.

Wherever you live, there's a good chance the question of urban chicken coops has come up recently. I thought it was that way in Denver because of recent changes to city ordinances, but it turns out it's just part of this big push toward organic self-sufficiency.

Anyway, Mary Beth is going to raise chickens. Which takes a lot of paperwork and governmental meddling.

First, she had to be issued the application from Community Planning and Development and Neighborhood Inspection Services. The completed application was then filed with Animal Control.

Somewhere in here, she bult a chicken coop which apparently rivals the Ritz Carlton and Mary Beth wants to move into it herself and maybe let the chickens have the run of her house.

Animal Control did a home visit to see that the chickens would be clean, comfortable and pest-free. She was approved for six chickens, a feat only slightly less bureaucratically arduous than fostering a human child.

THEN she paid $50 for a chicken permit.‡

Finally, she ordered -- I love this part -- an assortment of chicks.% Which come by post. From mypetchicken.com.

Getting on the Internet and ordering the six chicken assortment and "mypetchicken-dot-com" made me so happy. Some days, just knowing things *exist* out there is totally happy-making.

*************

You will all be delighted to know the sleeves of the guitar sweater for TFN's birthday are on their holders§ and I'm roaring down the sweater body with speed and something approaching accuracy.

Intarsia also makes me happy.¶ Frankly, I'm usually not that big on the look of a lot of it, but it's engaging knitting, the kind where time flies.

*************

I'm beginning to think the new Big Girl Phone may be too much phone for me.

I'm wondering if I want to be *that* connected. Ah, well. I signed a contract. I'll live with it for a couple of years and probably become one of those asshole people who can't leave her phone alone for two minutes and insists on texting at her own wedding.#

It does take nice pictures, doesn't it?

*************

My father is getting married August 22nd. I am in charge of two things: the music for the wedding itself†† and the food‡‡ for the "bachelor party"§§ the night before.

I'm kinda hoping I get some ripe tomatoes from my garden before then.¶¶

*************

Speaking of gardening, did you know cucumbers don't put out big root systems? They have to be watered more frequently than, say, tomatoes or peppers because they won't go looking for the water, you have to take the water to them.##

This was a lesson hard-learned. I lost many baby cucumbers††† before I read that particular bit of cucumber wisdom.

*************

[SARAH! DON'T LOOK! AVERT YOUR EYES!]

Hammacher-Schlemmer apparently heard from my nephews about my spider preferences. They sent me an email about this today.




I'm assuming Batman is posing under the spider arbour rather than Spiderman because he's better colour-coordinated...?

*************

No. 4: Diagonal - Gareth Pugh & Emilie Coppermann (Part 4 in the series)@

Marin says: Dill! Seconds of dill, then off to a very close-to-the-skin, very warm woody scent that could be a spice or richer floral tempered by a delicate amber. I certainly like it, which is good since nobody else is likely to know it's there.

For the record, I put this on mid-afternoon and the next morning I still had a very steady amber/musk finish clinging to my wrists. This would be great for long meeting days when I don't necessarily want to be remembered for my perfume, but I may still need surreptitious sniff during water breaks to boost morale.

Six Scents says: "Contrast, ambiguity, duality. Gareth Pugh said about his style: "it's a struggle between lightness and darkness." this is what I tried to translate in this perfume. The contrast between different raw materials, masculine and feminine, rough and smooth, dark and light, fresh and sensual." - Emilie Coppermann, Perfumer

Ingredients: Dill,$ Black Pepper, Nutmeg, Palissander, Black Tea, Amyris, White Amber,$ Musk.$

Hans says: Well, now, that smells like some kind of food. Mushroom? Fried mushroom? Actually, it doesn't smell like mushroom at all, but I'm sticking with it.

*************

Speaking of Hans, he went to his college roommate's wedding this weekend. The photographer had a ring of lights thing set up, so the wedding guests took turns seeing who could take the best cheesy prom photo.



I believe Hans and Trav‡‡‡ win.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): If nothing else, it's the foundation for this whole pig-licking and I couldn't very well leave it out.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Annual. $50 a year for a chicken permit. You have to pay $50 every year for your chicken permit. By "you," I mean, "Mary Beth." I just love saying "chicken permit."

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Apparently, chicks can live without food through the first 72 hours after they hatch so they can be packed up in boxes and mailed.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): In the grand tradition of circus knitting, I am going to attempt to knit both sleeves at once on two circular needles, in situ. I see no reason it can't be done. Speaking of circus knitting, did you see some guy at Sock Summit was knitting seven pairs at once? Hmph. Been there, done that -- way ahead of you, big guy. I guess if SOME OF US had just gutted up and gone to Sock Summit, we could be famous for our Xtreme Knitting too.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): And intarsia in the round makes me feel like a superhero.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): This is not an immediate danger, just an example.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): The temptation to abuse this power is fierce. I could do two hours of very pointed songs. I won't, of course... the Electric Slide will almost undoubtedly feature, but I *could* propagandise.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): I'm thinking a couple of homemade pizzas, a big ol' salad, some finger food in case a poker game breaks out and a cherry pie made from cherries I picked myself. Hi! Remember me? Susie F. Homemaker?

§§FOOTNOTE (backhanded bachelor party): In quotes because, as Brother said, "You have to have some kind of activity, but clearly we won't be making the bachelor do shots of Jager until he barfs, and the standard substitutes (like paintball) probably won't work..." There will, of course, be no naked girls. Or boys. Or porn of any kind. So it's not so much a bachelor party as a "get Dad from underfoot so the evil stepsister doesn't kill him before the wedding" gig.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (round, ripe tomatoes on the vine): Not quite so much because I'm looking for quality ingredients as I'd like to show off.

##FOOTNOTE (cucumber trellis): Thank you, Dr. Science!

†††FOOTNOTE (stake the cucumbers!): Very sad -- they go dark brown and crispy.

@FOOTNOTE (atted): You should go check out Nathan's pictures of the packaging. Kinda freaky, in a skully-good sort of way.

$FOOTNOTE (on the money!): And if I weren't so lazy at the moment, I'd Google "palissander" to see if it might qualify as "woody."

‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (long and winding road): Trav is a friend of the groom's from out of town. Hans found him delightful.

How Fortunate

Which was just going to be a one-off smart-ass post, only I got a call yesterday afternoon from the client that gave me the Tiffany necklace a couple of years ago† and she has an extra club level seat for the Rockies game this afternoon.‡

By the time you read this, I will be sipping a mid-afternoon ballpark beer§ and musing to myself, "Self,¶ I wonder what the poor people are doing right now."#


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): I say this not to highlight the Tiffany necklace aspect, of course, but simply for context.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Also for context, as I also went to the Rockies on her [very nice and exclusive club level seats] ticket before.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Y'know... after the four-course steak lunch at Sullivan's. With wine. 'Cause nothing warms you up for ballpark beer like a fine Chianti.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I always call myself "Self."

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Dad says the correct answer is, "Who cares?"

Birthday: the Last Gasp

Do you feel it?

There!

That change in the air, that specific tang to the breeze, the way the light slants just so?

That's birthday season coming to a close.

[SUMMARY: Drama R Us.]

Thus I present the final photos and a eulogy for the glittering phoenix that is My Birthday.

As previously mentioned, Nathan sent a small truckload of chocolates to the office so I could share. Which I did.

Really.

Because I'm a *giver*.

Fortunately, the people in my office are pathologically opposed to taking the last of anything, so I got at least one of each kind. My review: *grrrgle*

Fran's Chocolates make Godiva look like Hershey's.†




I love the heavy, rich boxes and Miami strip club-worthy‡ satin ribbons.

But mostly I love the chocolate. I had apricots, ginger, coconut, almonds and caramels.

And figs.




I didn't really share the figs so much. One might say I didn't share them at all.

I did let Hans look at them.




They're stuffed with dark chocolate ganache and dipped in dark chocolate and *grrrgle*...

[SUMMARY: Experiencing technical difficulties.]

Juno sent me this perfume, which smells like nutmeg and cloves and vanilla and is not nearly as sugary as you might think from this description. It's rich and ever-so-slighly understated and makes you snork your wrist as you try to go about your business.§

And just look at the kick-ass bottle.¶




She even wrapped it up in pretty pink paper.

[SUMMARY: From candy to candy-coating.#]

Speaking of spiders††...

The nephews got me what they hoped would be a remote controlled nightmare.




I had to explain that I'm not so much afraid of tarantulas. It's MEDIUM-SIZED spiders that get me.

Tiny little dance-on-the-head-of-a-pin spiders, no big deal. Tarantulas are basically eight-legged gerbils.‡‡ Medium-sized spiders are forever scuttling out of corners, dangling over my head at dinner, hiding in the sheets when I get into bed at night...

*shudder*










That clicking at the end is me trying to get the tarantula to turn around, but the batteries were dead.§§

Let's see... Dad got me a family membership here. Brother got me two tickets for this. Aunt Chris sent a gift card. I got many cards and greetings and well-wishes and comments.¶¶

All in all, a delightful birthday season, but over.

[SUMMARY: Alas.]

Time to pack away the birthday suit## until next birthday season.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Please note that none of these things is in the least bit bad, just some are gooder than others.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Let's all thank Hans; I'll never look at satin the same way again.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): By "you," I mean, "I."

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I took a picture of my own bottle but somehow managed to miss it in the Blogger upload. So I kyped this from a website. It's probably just as well. Mine has nose prints all over its shiny black surface.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): If you cloak a black widow in pretty pink paper, are you not candy-coating in a metaphorical sense?

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Yes, we were.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Which is not to say if a gerbil scuttled across the kitchen floor from a dark and hidden place I wouldn't scream like a girl and possibly wet myself. Sneakiness and the scuttling really get me. But medium-sized spiders freak me out on sight.

§§FOOTNOTE (turn! turn!): I can't imagine why. We only played with it for about an hour on my birthday.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (see? I'm tearing up from the beauty of it all): Thank you. I love you all.

##FOOTNOTE (those may be extra chocolate pounds): Y'know... like when you clean your sweaters and put them in a space bag for the summer.

Here Now, the News

----- Forwarded Message -----
From: "Dad"
To: "Marin"
Sent: Friday, May 15, 2009 8:29:36 PM
Subject: Breaking news - Celebrity Swine Flu Fatality

I grieve with you....

Breaking news - Celebrity Swine Flu Fatality




And we all know who gave it to him…

The Reveal†

As you may remember, a crucial dinner with Dad was cancelled two weeks ago because of the NCAA final.‡ With that postponement, we were left on the edge of our seats as to the questions, "Etcetera... what?", "What kind of trowels exactly?" and "Does Dad have a name for the chicken footed gardening implement?"

Our mutual educations hang in the balance.

[SUMMARY: Antici... ]

The answer to the first two questions can be seen here:




OK, one question, really. I don't know about you, but I can't identify the etcetera in this drawer. I see a pile of trowels and what could be a hot water bottle.§

[SUMMARY: ...pa... ]

But I think we can definitively state that there are no garden trowels in the Trowels, etc., drawer at all, hence, no chicken footed gardening implement.

HOWEVER...%

I did flat out ask Dad about the chicken footed gardening implement, and he got that slightly bemused Dad look on his face¶ and said, "Well... I don't know that there is one... it's certainly a garden [insert international sign language for chicken foot garden implement here]... a cultivator of some kind."

[SUMMARY: ...tion]

I win!

Dad did not have a ready, conclusive name for the chicken footed gardening implement. Brother owes me lunch.#

Funny epilogue: We were in Peach's vast foyer†† explaining the trip to the basement.

"I bet Brother Dad would say, 'Well, I don't know...' and make something up for the chicken foot thing and he said Dad would *know* the name so I won. And we were curious if there were gardening trowels in the drawer, but there aren't. Just masonry trowels."

"There are garden trowels?" asked Peach

"Sure," said Dad.

"They look like a miniature shovel," said I.‡‡

"Ahhhh. And is there a name for the..." she hung out there, apparently not sure about the "chicken foot" construct.

"Well, yeah," said Dad, with a distinct hand signal. "Sort of. It's a cultivator."

"A cultivator," said Peach.

"Yeah, but you have to make the sign when you say it," said Dad, demonstrating international sign language for chicken footed gardening implement for her edification.

In case y'all ever wondered how I might have come by my sense of humour.

[SUMMARY: Your wait is over.§§]

Honestly.

That's how I came by it.

Dad, by the way, is fishing this week,¶¶ so we skip yet another father/daughter dinner.

The gelato level in my blood is getting low and I'm getting mean.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): I'm pretty sure "reveal" wasn't a noun before reality TiVi. There's also a chance "reality" wasn't an adjective before reality TiVi.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): For those of you who follow college basketball, I think we can all agree dinner with me would have been WAY more entertaining than that game. We played the odds and we lost on that one.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Could be another trowel. Could be a secret door to the land of Narnia. I can't figure out what it is.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): In my best Steven A. Smith voice.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): The familiar and exact look I told Brother he would get on his face.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Any side bets on whether Brother tries to welsh by saying he won because Dad *eventually* came up with a name?

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): You could fit my master bedroom in that foyer.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): ...deftly mixing my singulars with my plurals.

§§FOOTNOTE (tied 'em up in knots): We've just tied up so many loose ends here today, haven't we?

¶¶FOOTNOTE (I really put my foot in it this time): Miss dinner for basketball... miss dinner for fishing. One more abandonment issue and we're going to need to find a daughterly version of "Cats in the Cradle."

Evolution on Easter†

Once upon a time of changing family dynamics,‡ two boys went to the Denver Museum of Nature & Science with their dad, their grandpa and their dear ol' AntiM.

Every exhibit started with a movie.§

In the Space Odyssey, there was a really boring movie with no rockets or asteroid fields or supernovas and some of the grown ups¶ in the group wondered how in the hell the museum planned to keep kids interested.




Fortunately, Dave Cuomo showed up# and saved the day with a reasonably engaging Q&A about what hurricanes and big cities and Dubai look like from space.

Then the happy family went out amongst the displays and interactive educational experiences and played to their collective hearts' content. Tallest Hairiest Nephew liked to push buttons -- any buttons -- and Dr. Doom went to the museum to shoot things.

One toy they all played with was the shooting-metal-balls-into-the-sand thingie.††




A video recorder captured all the scientific action, after which whomever was big enough and strong enough to muscle everybody else away from the controls could watch it backwards and in slow motion.

This is what it looked like when AntiM shot the ball into the sand‡‡:




What scientific lesson was to be learned from this was unclear, but it was button-pushing, shooting-stuff, video-editing fun for the whole family.

Once Space Odyssey ceased to capture the attention of certain short attention spanketeers,§§ they moved on to the Prehistoric Journey, more fondly known as "dinosaurs."

Of course, no self-respecting prehistoric exhibit gives you dinosaurs right off the bat. AntiM and the boys puttered through many dioramas of trilobites and the crinoids and brachiopods they lived and loved with in the Cambrian world.¶¶

They learned one very important thing:




"Well, duh," said AntiM.

"What?" asked Tallest Hairiest Nephew.

"What? Nothing!" said AntiM.

"You said, 'duh.' Duh what?"

"Where's your dad?"##

So they moved on to the dinosaur bone room††† where they were just in time to catch the dinosaur repairman‡‡‡ with that part that was ordered nearly a year ago.§§§




"Yay!" said the intrepid explorers.

They headed to the rock exhibit, where there were no good picutres to be had. Then Dr. Doom announced he was ready to go home.¶¶¶

They lunched on crackers and ham and tiny carrots and Danish puff### and lived happily ever after.

The End


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Am I going to hell for the evolution thing or bridging the worlds of science and theology through my saintly works?

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Understatement of the century.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): The dinosaur movie had a narrator with a mild speech impediment. I said, "Mawiage..." and Brother and I giggled madly.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): And I use the term loosely.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): OK, it wasn't actually Dave Cuomo, but it LOOKED like Dave Cuomo, it SOUNDED like Dave Cuomo and it even LAUGHED like Dave Cuomo. I went to college with Dave Cuomo. Turns out Dave Cuomo looks, sounds and laughs a lot like Dustin Hoffman.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): I have better pictures, but I like this one because Brother looks like a light bulb.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): That would be a video of a video, which I'm pretty sure is meta.

§§FOOTNOTE (don't get confused): Span-keteer, not spank-eteer. That's a whole other subject, which I'm pretty sure shouldn't involve my five-year-old nephew.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (bunny ears!): My version of the Cambrian world resembles Peyton Place more than the Burgess Shale.

##FOOTNOTE (pounding a dead horse): To Brother: "I get saint points for today, right?"

"I think you get saint points if you actually come back from the dead on Easter."

"Did you *see* me Friday night?"

†††FOOTNOTE (Oh, Golgotha): That would be the room where the dinosaur bones are, rather than the room where dinosaurs go to bone. Though that would be interesting too.

‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (wires are crossed): You get an appointment and they say, "Some time between ten am and five pm and you go out real quick to drop the mail off and you come back to a tag flapping on your front door that says, "Sorry we missed you"...

§§§FOOTNOTE (giddy with laughter): I crack me up.

¶¶¶FOOTNOTE (bunny hops!): Which is a little like pulling the pin from a grenade.

###FOOTNOTE (pounding the pastry): Danish puff is something that Mom used to make almost every Easter. It has almost no sugar, about a pound of butter and enough almond extract to disguise a gallon of cyanide. It's the one thing Brother requested for Easter dinner.

Lent: Day 42

Father has cancelled our weekly dinner so we can watch basketball tonight. I have thoughts on this:

1. We have dinner at 5:00. We're done by 6:30 at the latest. Tip-off is at 7:20. Why couldn't we have dinner and watch the game afterward, separately or together?
2. Dad Dinners represent the one day a week I get to ignore my Lenten embargo on dessert. I feel betrayed and hopeless and the gelato level in my blood is getting low.
3. I will not find out if the chicken-footed garden implement resides in the Trowels, etc. drawer. I will also not find the answer to my auxiliary question as to which kind of trowels are in that drawer: masonry trowels or gardening trowels? Or both? And if it's masonry trowels, would their be a chicken-footed gardening implement anyway? And we won't find the answer to brother's question about whether Dad has a name for the chicken-footed garden implement.
4. I didn't realise until just now that Lent goes for 40+ days because the bloody Catholics don't count Sundays.

I have covered Lent, trowels and communism today. I have no further thoughts and don't anticipate any throughout the afternoon. Consternation and ennui abide.

Geek Chic 1977

There we were, Dad and I, sitting in his office† chatting.

The conversation got to, "Do you remember that old Atari I got for you guys?"‡

"Oh, yeah. I talk about it often. It's pure geek gold."

He chuckled and said, "Really?"

"Sure. It was the first. I was in on the ground floor of video gaming. It didn't help me any when Pac Man came along,§ but I do have some bragging rights."

He puffed his pipe the way he does and said, "Pong."

"And that tank game with the giant pixels for tanks."

"And Space Invaders."

"Space Invaders was much later. That first Atari was Pong and variations of Pong -- like the four-paddle Pong -- and the tank game, which also had the planes. Which were also giant pixels, only they flew."

"Oh, geez, yeah. Remember how you could corner someone in a tank and just shoot them over and over and they'd spin around and couldn't do a thing about it?"

I giggled. "How on earth did you even hear about Atari?"¶

"I don't know. I remember going to Denver# and looking everywhere for that thing. You may remember our TV got very poor reception..."††

"Oh, yes I do."

"...and it was cold and snowy a lot of the time. I thought you guys should have some kind of entertainment..."

He trailed off and puffed the pipe again.

"You remember standing in line in the snow to see..."‡‡

"Star Wars!" we both said together, laughing.

"It was the last night it was playing," I said.

"The line went all the way around the building," he said.

"And you and I had to sit one place and Bill and Mom had to sit somewhere else because the theatre was packed and we couldn't get four seats together."

"That's right."

"And you bought me Milk Duds§§ and I took one out of the box about the time we established a galaxy far, far away and at the end of the movie I had a Milk Dud in my hand that was about a foot across and *that* thick. The Milk Dud box was full. I was so enthralled I squashed that one Milk Dud into a pancake."

"I'll never forget standing out there in that line in the snow."

We both stared at the ceiling for a moment, grinning.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): As we are wont to do of a Monday evening.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): The 2600. It looked like this:



And had games like this:




§FOOTNOTE (swerved): I was *terrible* at video games. We'd go to the bowling alley after school (how Americana) and everybody else would hit Pac Man, Tron, Centipede... I'd trot over to the pinball machines with a sneer, purporting to find the modern arcade distasteful. Of course, pinball was both easier and more private so I didn't have to broadcast my ineptitude to my friends. Come to think of it, I still do that. With pinball, I mean. I'm mostly OK with trumpeting my dorkitude to anybody who will listen.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Google hadn't been invented yet.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): We left Houston the summer before to move back to Colorado so my dad could have his mid-life crisis with heavy equipment. He bought a partnership in a friend's floundering excavation business in Tabernash. Going to Denver was a regular event because it was the only place to buy clothes and reasonably-priced food. And Christmas presents. For the record, that was the Christmas I learned to knit.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): The Broncos went to the Super Bowl that year and we rented a motel room so we could watch the game. Without static. With colour.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Now that I know my dad better, this doesn't seem quite as unlikely, but for years I thought it was odd he wanted to take us to see Star Wars.

§§FOOTNOTE (Ah, the dance of memories): That has to be the brokest our family ever was. Milk Duds seem like an astonishing extravagance when I think about it now.

White House, Black Bunny

There we were, Dad and I, sitting in his office† chatting.

The conversation got to, "Peach‡ asked me what I do when I'm in here by myself."

A thousand dirty quips bubbled up in my filthy little mind. I finally settled on, "Tell her you pick your nose, surf for porn, trim your ear hair..."

He chuckled, then said, "Do you know she actually asked me that?"

"The nose-picking thing?"§

"No. She asked if I searched for porn on the Internet. I told her, 'of course not,' and she said, 'Really? I thought all men did that,' but I said, 'I don't.'"¶

I chuckled, then said, "Sometimes you get porn even when you're not searching for it. I went to white house dot com once. Porn site."

Horrified look. "Really!?"

"Yep. The actual White House is white house dot gov, as it's a governmental site. White house dot com is porn. Also?"

"Yeah?"

"Black bunny dot com is a porn site. I am a consumer of Black Bunny Fibres and I typed in black bunny dot com one day and it's a porn site. I was at work. I had to clean out my history so they wouldn't think I was surfing for porn at lunch."#

Then he told me how boring porn is, I agreed and added strip clubs to that list.

He told me about going to a topless Mexican restaurant in Oklahoma City for a business lunch when he first started in the oil business.

I told him about the time I accidentally tipped a stripper a twenty instead of a one.

We both stared at the ceiling a moment.

"Strange topic of conversation," Dad said.

I said,†† "'What'd you do last night, Marin?' 'Oh, I had soup and salad with Dad, then we went for ice cream and talked about porn.'"

Just a little window on my life.‡‡

*************

Seraphim - Ormonde Jayne (parfum? extrait?)

Marin says: The bit from Perfume Shrine (below) went on to make it about the luxury industry -- among other things -- and didn't touch so much on the fragrance itself. Which actually makes sense. I don't know if there's a better one-word description for Seraphim than "elusive."

The bergamot is a bright, lemony thing, but not overpowering and, unlike many citrus notes, doesn't flash and disappear. The rose adds a sort of aldehyde to the mix, but a restrained aldehyde that dances with the whole rather than clobbering it into sharp, powdery submission.

And the ylang ylang.

I always thought I hated ylang ylang because I've purchased a couple of bath products with ylang ylang% and it has an oily, dirty smell -- it reminds me of the Rabbit Path§§ we used to walk to school in the late summer when some sort of grass was drying and acrid. This I recognise for it's sort of petroleum tang, but that's barely there. As in any good fragrance composition, the notes support each other and sing together like a symphony. The ylang ylang complements the bergamot and makes the rose behave.

Then a dry-sweet woody thing creeps in... then musk -- not soapy and overwhelming -- and vanilla, very light, a touch of round and warm... and slightly dusty sweet coumarin... but I make it seem too linear. It is the most incredible tangle and flow of notes, all sweet and warm and bright like the perfume's namesake.

There are moments it's lemony kerosene¶¶ and others where it's rosey hay. Still others bring sweet, sun-warmed wood. As long as this review is already, I've barely begun to capture the ins and outs of Seraphim. Some perfumes I love for their education and for the fact that they unfold. Some I love just because they smell good to me. This I love for both.

Unfortunately, this was an extremely limited collectible edition## created for 20ltd by Linda Pilkington, the general genius behind Ormonde Jayne.

Fortunately, I have friends in high places, one high enough to have gained a bottle of this gorgeous stuff and bestow a wee vial on me.

Perfume Shrine says: ...surely such an elusive fragrance should have something important to say instead of putting question-marks all over the place.†††

Head notes‡‡‡: (Fresh flowery notes) Bergamot, Rosewood, Ylang Ylang
Heart notes:(Powdery) Rose, Violets, Iris
Soul notes: (Sensual) Musk, Amber, Madagascan Vanilla, Coumarin

Hans says: It smells a lot like something I've already smelled. But I'm having a bad nose day.@ Lemon. I get lemon scent. Lemon tone. A lemon finish. And that thing that's in a lot of perfumes... formaldehyde?§§§ Oh, yeah... aldehyde. Lemon finish. I get lemon lime vodka slurpee.¶¶¶

†FOOTNOTE (crossed): His office is the only room used on the third floor of his fiancée's enormous house.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Said fiancée. Her actual name is Patricia, same as Mom's, so we don't call her that. You understand.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Because I think I'm funny.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): He really doesn't. Dad is genuinely puzzled by the whole fad.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): We both agreed if such a thing ever happened, it would be easy to blame it on my boss because he's good friends with the Senior VP here at my client's office and said VP would completely believe me if I told him I was only clicking through a link my boss sent me.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): I did different voices for me and Hypothetical Co-Worker.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): You're welcome.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Because they're always labeled as "sensual" or "passionate" or some other version of "you're going to get laid tonight." I may be gullible, but even in the tub I'm doing my part in bringing sexy back.

§§FOOTNOTE (the waft): Doesn't that sound all Little House on the Prairie? The path is still there, but the field is mostly office buildings now.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (the notes): Not that I'm suggesting angels smell like kerosene. Any good saint-in-training knows angels smell like chocolate chip cookies.

##FOOTNOTE (the pounding of my heart): This is my way of saying, "You can't have none. Nyah-nyah-nyah."

†††FOOTNOTE (oh, hey -- that's Lent appropriate): Rabbit hole! I got it! It's like the olfactory equivalent of Alice following the rabbit down the hole! I almost didn't catch that elusive allusion.

‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (and that's train tracks): I was looking right at the notes as I wrote this, so I can't take credit for knowing what I'm talking about.

@FOOTNOTE (atted): Hans has a cold. Also, the most remarkable hat hair I've ever seen.

§§§FOOTNOTE (this is Hans's brain on NyQuil): I'm giving him credit for getting that close.

¶¶¶FOOTNOTE (march of the Seraphim): He's kind of joking. I was telling him about my one drinking adventure in high school. Not that I only drank once in high school, but this was actually IN high school. In the building. A friend got me a lime Slurpee with a slug of vodka which I drank during lunch. I didn't finish it -- it was a big Slurpee -- so I took it to Latin with me. I was incredibly fluent in Latin that day.

Sunday in the Oven with George

I baked.

A cake.

From scratch.

Part of me wants to continue this as some sort of slam poetry thing.†

But we should get to the business at hand, because I baked this from scratch.‡




I used a recipe from Fine Cooking.§ Their very pragmatic name is Buttermilk Cake with Spiced Vanilla Frosting. They don't mention *anywhere* in the name that it has 2 1/4 cups of grated butternut squash. If it were mine to name, I would definitely have mentioned the butternut squash.

Anyway, it was my contribution to the notable return to family dinner% and I wanted to show off.

It was wonderful, if I do say so myself.¶

[SUMMARY: In which I toot my own horn.]

But the real star of this blogpost is the pictorial answer to the question, "How many Untiedts# does it take to..."




That would be three.

Wait!

Three-and-a-half.††





When Dr. Doom saw all the fix-it activity, he shouted, "Maybe you need a glue stick!"‡‡ and ran off to the desk to find one. He had the most earnest look on his face when he came back.

He took the cap off the glue stick, handed it to Brother and watched anxiously to see if it worked.

Brother dutifully dabbed the errant screw with the glue stick, then thanked Dr. Doom and went back to using the screwdriver. Dr. Doom waited around for a moment to be sure more glue stick wasn't needed before he put it back where he found it.§§

[SUMMARY: In which Dr. Doom saves the day I count to nearly four.]

Despite all the blurry action photography, isn't that just the cutest thing you've ever seen? Heard? Read?

C'mon... humour me. Say, "Awwwww."

*************

Miel de Bois (edp) - Serge Lutens+

Marin says: This is a notoriously reviled scent in many perfume circles.¶¶ Apparently, the element that is the scent of honey is the same as the element that is the scent of urine.

I know.

Consequently, a lot of people HATE this perfume.

I tried it in the privacy of my own living room## a couple of weeks ago and really liked it, which brought up the question, "Am I anosmic to urine^ or does my body chemistry like honey?" Like any good scientist, I added a control group to ascertain the validity of my conclusion.

I believe you all know Hans, my perpetual control group.

Hans agrees: It just so happens that on me, Miel de Bois smells like warm, floral honey that melds into a honeyed wood that calls up a picture of the polished pews of an old Catholic church on a Thursday afternoon, the ghost of incense lingering from Wednesday mass††† and freshly-lit beeswax candles.

I will admit that, like the Etat Libre d'Orange Jasmin et Cigarette,‡‡‡ I can see the relation to the repugnant scent and its more socially acceptable counterpart. I believe I used this analogy before, but it's like switching between the woman and the skull.§§§

The Perfumed Court@ says: A sensuous woody$ Oriental scent with notes of ebony, oak, gaiac, aquilaria aguillocha (used to make incense sticks)$ and honey all resting on base notes of beeswax,$ iris$ and hawthorn.¶¶¶

Hans says: Once again, I'm getting baby powder.$ Or maybe flowers. Is it... lavender? Roses? [I explained the urine connection] I totally did not get pee.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Another part wants to haiku:

orange flecks of squash
sunshine on a winter night
spiced to my own taste

If you look at it sideways, it's kind of provocative.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Once I got the pictures off the camera, it was clear I should've taken at least a couple of pictures from some sort of angle. For the record, that is, in fact, from a rose bundt cake pan. It is *not* an asshole cake, despite all appearances. Hey, the image got stuck in my head and I am not one to keep my misery to myself.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): My favourite magazine. Favouriter even than Interweave Knits.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Probably most notable because Father has moved in with the fiancée, Brother and eBeth have separated and Brother is living at Father's former home. Yeah, as Brother says, that's not awkward at all. The fiancée didn't attend, which may be for the best, but I think a sprinkling of evil step-sisters would have really made the occasion come alive.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): And I do. I do say so myself. I figure I earn the right to take some credit. You know how some people can't leave a knit pattern in its natural state and they have to use a different stitch here or shorten that or do a picot bind-off? I screw with every single recipe I make. And I almost never measure spices, so it's always my own unique creation. I believe I shall call this one Haiku Cake.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): I keep telling you, my last name is ten kinds of weird.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): And one to put pictures on the Internet.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): I wish you could've been there. Dad and Brother were making manly noises about what didn't seem to line up and threading on the screws and washer viscosity (I know, I know) and Dr. Doom was shouting as he ran, so they didn't really hear him and I was sitting in the kitchen doorway, bouncing up and down and going, "Did you hear that? Ohmigosh! Did you...? The camera!"

§§FOOTNOTE (is that another asshole cake?): So *earnest*. So happy to help. So very very adorable.

*ahem*

I'm doing it again, aren't I? Eh... it was written in the stars. When eBeth was pregnant with Tallest, Hairiest Nephew, I got to go with them when they registered at Babies-backwards-R-Us. Brother, in charge of the laser pistol (because that's what you do when you take men to register -- put them in charge of the gun) and thinking he was funny, first scanned eBeth, looked at the display and said, "Fat chick." Then he scanned me, looked at the display and said, "Psycho Aunt." I continue to live up to my potential in that arena.

+FOOTNOTE (plussed): Perhaps you thought I'd forgotten all about perfume.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (two does not a circle make): Of *course* there are perfume circles.

##FOOTNOTE (tictic tactac toetoe): It seemed the polite thing to do.

^FOOTNOTE (carated): Or would it be, "Is urine anosmic to me?"

†††FOOTNOTE (three steps closer to sainthood): Wednesday is a big mass day for the truly devout, right?

‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (cancer sticks): I know I haven't exactly reviewed it yet, but I've mentioned it.

§§§FOOTNOTE (skull? woman? cigarette? jasmine? honey? urine?): Thus:




@FOOTNOTE (atted): Normally, I try to link and quote the perfumier rather than another reviewer or vendor, but in this case, Serge Lutens' unnavigable website pissed me off so he gets no say in the matter.

$FOOTNOTE (on the money!): Honey and wood, just like I said. I'm also giving Hans credit for the powder thing because iris is classically described as a powdery note. Question: isn't ebony a super-hard hardwood? Would it have enough smell to list in a perfume?

¶¶¶FOOTNOTE (the international symbol for hawthorn): Hawthorn is listed as a note in quite a few perfumes. Wikipedia doesn't list anything about its use in perfumes. I don't even know if it's the wood or the flowers. What I do know is that the flowers are hermaphroditic, so I'm guessing hawthorn is a good unisex scent.