White Christmas

On Christmas day, 2005, Mom said the only thing she'd tasted in months that tasted good was the roasted pearl onions in sherry and cream I made to go with Christmas dinner. We ate, we talked, and one by one the others left.

I was the last to leave. I hugged her and said, "I love you."

The next morning Dad called to say she screamed and had terrible seizures and he had to call an ambulance and they cut her new Christmas robe and pajamas off her to tend to her and she was in a coma in the hospital at which she'd worked for the last 30 years.

We spent four days constantly rotating through, telling stories, reading the newspaper, chattering at her under the idea that coma patients can hear and understand and might be inspired to return to consciousness.

The joke was on us. The strokes that had put her out of reach had rendered her deaf.

She did come back, but only long enough to give us hope before she lost her mind and her body and everything that made her my mother.

A week in the hospital, a week in a nursing home, some time in a hospital bed at home, an endless fog of time that ended on February 22 when she died, very early in the morning, having regained consciousness for the first time in a month - just for a second, just long enough to shed a tear.

So now every Christmas evening, freed from the tyranny of forced cheer and truly saintly tolerance for the woman who thinks she's an Untiedt, who thinks she can announce Christmas traditions and make them happen, I cry like a child and long for the days when Christmas meant sharing my best friend's favourite day with her, giggling like loons, eating well, loving well and making memories.

I don't feel any new memories being made. Only this endless parade of keeping up appearances.

I speak this in the hushed tones of white on white, of snow falling on snowy ground. Keeping up appearances is very important, and so is a white Christmas.

Knitting Excitement!

Of course,† not for what I'm knitting right now, today, which is a baby blanket that isn't really tripping my trigger.‡ Miles and miles§ of superwash garter stitch... great for the Olympics, not so tantalising for my cashmere-cloaked, circus-knitting soul.

And I have marvelous yarn from Carol Jean¶ - 50/50 wool/alpaca, light green subtly dappled with grey-blue. And a wonderful natural Araucania wool alpaca grey twist. But I don't know what to make with either, so I fondle them nightly and continue kniting miles of garter stitch.

I finished the infamous# Later Gator Sweater,†† but, y'know... camera... upload... we'll get there.

I also knitted lumps of coal for the Family Christmas Party, but I took no pictures, so I don't even have the "too lazy to upload" excuse.

[SUMMARY: Why bother talking about knitting?]

Despite all this waffling, there is some upcoming knitting about which I'm very excited.

Excited to the point of frantic.‡‡

I will be knitting - *whisper* - for myself.

[SUMMARY: That's why.§§]

Sweater.

Then possibly sweaters.

[SUMMARY: I'm not committing to any long-term contract here.]

I plan to knit this sweater%:


Basic Black Cardigan by Glenna C.

Using these needles¶¶:


Kollage Square Circular

In at *least* the green## of this yarn:


Colourmart 2/6NM dk wt 5/95 cashmere/merino bulky wool in pistacho,††† fuscia and azul mel

Finishing with these buttons@ on the respective colours‡‡‡.


from As Cute as a Button

[SUMMARY: A plan! I have a *plan*!]

The yarn should arrive any day. Until then, I sit at my post box§§§...

*open open open*


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): "Of course," because the alpaca is always fluffier on the other side of the fence.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Though I have dubbed it the Gay Pride Baby Blanket, so at least it has that going for it.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): And even less thrilled now that I've left my state of denial and realised what I've knit so far is the right width for a bookmark and, at this rate, the blanket will be 16" x 12".

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Yes, we are on a first-name basis. When she's not looking.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Possibly only among the immediate family. Mostly with Dr. Doom, who has been dying for the sweater since he didn't get it on Christmas.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): So named because it was a very, very late Christmas present. And because it is in the shape of an alligator.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Because it has to come through my post office.

§§FOOTNOTE (here's where I turn on you): So there.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): My decision to knit this sweater has NOTHING to do with the fact that Glenna and I have roughly the same hair.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (let me beat this into you): OMG OMG OMG! I *love* these needles! They're comfy and pretty and the cable is OMG soft as chiffon and it doesn't kink or coil and they warm in your hands like wood and they're just a little grippy without being sticky and OMG did I mention copper and size printed right on the needle and OMG!

##FOOTNOTE (#Cassandra #Juno): A hard-won green, found at last by Cassandra who, while she didn't push me to buy three colours of yarn, did point me to the blue and thoroughly enjoyed shopping with my money.

†††FOOTNOTE (knitting cross - coming soon to an Olympic competition near you): [sic] Apparently, that's how you say "pistachio" and "fuschia" in Spanish.

@FOOTNOTE (atted): It won't surprise you to know I did a search for skull buttons in specific. I looked at every single button on the ACAAB website and kept stopping at this cord lock because it looks so much like a friendly, Hello Kitty-esque skull:




‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (sew buttons): OK, maybe I'll switch the skulls and the pink glass. It's better to be wishy-washy in the footnotes and sound like you know what you're talking about in the blogpost proper. You might also notice I switched from "at least this one colour" to "I have buttons for all the colours." I'm sneaky that way.

§§§FOOTNOTE (boo*hisss*): Which mocks me with its tardy, black, yarnless emptiness.

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.

BRILLIANT!

So I was checking out the list of vendors participating in the second annual free shipping day,† and one in particular lept out at me.‡

I could so be their spokesblogger.§


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Now that the holiday season goes Kay Jewelers Holiday Ad Kick-Off Day (Oct 15), Store Decoration Day (Oct 30), Chiropractor's Card Mailing Day (Nov 15), Black Thursday (formerly known as Thanksgiving), Black Friday, Cyber Monday, Free Shipping in Time for Christmas Day (Dec 17)... our advent calendars are going to have to be displayed in installments.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Practically grabbed me around the throat. Does anybody else get abnormally tickled to see their name? Or is it just us weird name folks?

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): At *least* their patron saint.

I Love My Broncos

And my Broncos love me right back.

The Neiman Marcus Chistmas Book is Out

And I quote:

Four Lollipops and Handle Set: We've got a plan for our pops —an ingeniously delicious plan. Take our 6.25"L crystal-encrusted handle with signature logo butterfly charm (it's the must-have accessory), attach a delicious (edible) lollipop head, then enjoy! In between licks, the protective bubble cover keeps the lint off your lolly. Our exclusive set includes metal handle, clear cover, and four edible pops to charm kids 10 years and older. Flavors include Blue Raspberry, Watermelon, Green Apple, and Cream Orange. Made in the USA.

NM Exclusive
Four Lollipops and Handle Set
Price: $50.00

[SUMMARY: Money, sense and the vague relationship† between the two.]


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Do you suppose it's telling I originally typed "relationshop"?

The Marin Dream Post

Or: A Tale of Two Barbies.

I now own two Barbies. There is, of course (Jaxon, avert your eyes) this Christmas present I got for myself:






You didn't really think I was going to leave a Barbie with *ravens*† on the shelf, did you?

[SUMMARY: This sister is doing it for herself.]

But If I had asked you a month ago if Marin owned any Barbies,‡ you may have said, "No."

Surprise!

I've had this Barbie for several years.






Brother§ got her for me, oh, seven? eight? years ago. She's my own custom Barbie and my evil twin.¶

It seems the Customise Your Own Barbie website had some limitations on how salacious Evil Marin Barbie could actually be, so her profile is a little tame.#

[SUMMARY: I don't have a husband or City Shopper accessories.]




I'm Barbie's *special* friend.††


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Marin trivia: I memorised Poe's "The Raven" in the seventh grade. I can still recite most of it -- all of it with a little promting. It is my second favourite Poe poem.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): And if you'd guessed I'd be talking about myself in third-person by January 11, I'd have laughed in your face.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): You may note that my calling him Brother isn't just an Innernets affectation to keep from dragging him through my personal brand of mud -- it's what I actually call him much of the time. And I really call the nephews Tallest, Hairiest Nephew and Dr. Doom too. Imagine.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): If I had green eyes, a 12-inch waist, a 48-inch inseam and if the bitch would loan me that marvelous acid green outfit just once.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Gymnastics... is that what the kids are calling it these days?

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): It was college. We were really drunk. You know how kids experiment these days...

A Mare, Egrets, Moose†

Just a few more days and I should be just about caught up.

Small. Subdued. Except, as always,‡ for the Subdude.§

So I have small¶ pictures.#





Pictures of kids are necessary, since Christmas is muchly about the kids.

Pictures of cats are necessary, since if you purport to maintain a knitblog, you must occasionally post a picture of a cat.††

Pictures of Brother are necessary when he is sporting the very festive Batman pajamas.‡‡

Pictures of AntiM and her various adult relatives are NOT necessary§§ when they are adequately represented¶¶ by the Brother picture.

[SUMMARY: Rules were meant to be made up.]

I got skulls in my stocking, and I'm delighted.





Finally, wine charms I can get behind.

[SUMMARY: Wine charms that say "poison" could be very useful.]

I don't want to run down all the loot,## but I did get one very, very blogworthy gift from Jeff's mom:†††




Mrs. Berry% writes entertaining mysteries set in a small southern town. I thought I owned most of them, but it turns out there are a couple I was missing.

Turns out there's one that's NOT EVEN OUT YET that I'm "missing."‡‡‡

Excuse me... WAS missing.§§§

My elitist little heart just goes pitter-pat.

Check out the inscription:




The temptation to take a red pen to it and return it is fierce, but I do have some sense of propriety.¶¶¶

[SUMMARY: Don't look a gift book in the inscription.]

Tomorrow, more exclusive, inside news.###


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): You know... like the Sandra Boynton card. For the record, if you Google "wee fish ewe a mare egrets moose," there are 694 entries. 691 of them are blogheadings. I am an inadvertent sheep.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Except that first week he was off afternoon naps. We looked up in the middle of family dinner and said, "Where's Dr. Doom?" He had taken himself to bed. At 6:30. *That's* subdued.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): If Tallest, Hairiest Nephew is the Dude, it follows that his little brother is the Subdude.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Size doesn't count.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Which you can click for big if you just can't get enough of the Batman pajamas.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Rule 112 (c). For cat. Also? The cat is sitting with the Appalachian birdhouse the nephews got me for Christmas.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): I said, "Oh, Dr. Doom, what a great present! I think your dad should go put it on RIGHT NOW, don't you?" That may explain the look on Brother's face.

§§FOOTNOTE (speaking of redundant): And, in fact, would be redundant.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (puts on his pajamas one leg at a time): Probably outdressed.

##FOOTNOTE (oounding home the point): Even my white fig diffuser and my George Hamilton autobiography. No, I'm not making that up... it's the adjunct to my very own copy of Zorro, the Gay Blade.

†††FOOTNOTE (three crosses to bear): Who has played bridge AND Scrabble with me and still clings to the belief that I can read. Bless her heart.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): She will *always* be Mrs. Berry.

‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (how do you diagram that?): I realise the usage is untenable, but I will give up all semblance of grammatical decency to get to the punchline.

§§§FOOTNOTE (§§§ubtle): That's me trying to be subtle.

¶¶¶FOOTNOTE (très, très, très... c'mon -- it's a multilingual pun. I don't have to finish it, do I?): I have no sense of propriety. I'm just trying to ensure I still have a place in Mrs. Berry's heart and a shot at sainthood.

###FOOTNOTE (pounding the celebrity beat): Me and Paris Hilton.

B, B, B... What Begins with B?

Only seven shopping days left.

Girl Noises

OK, so it's a time of year when there's a lot of sappy to be had. And it's a time of year when I find I want little sap with my morning coffee.

So I got this email...

[SUMMARY: Don't judge.]

...and it's predictable. And sappy. And manipulative and trite and... I teared up a little.†

So I'm posting it here for you. I am NOT getting soft.‡ I'm not preaching.§ It's just there's snow on the ground and lots of Christmas lights and the cat spends his evenings staring into the fire and... I can't not spread the sap.

[SUMMARY: Disclaimers R Us.]

Anyway...

I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandma. I was just a kid. I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her on the day my big sister dropped the bomb: "There is no Santa Claus," she jeered. "Even dummies know that!"

My Grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been.¶ I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her "world-famous" cinnamon buns. I knew they were world-famous, because Grandma said so. It had to be true.

Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me. "No Santa Claus?" she snorted.... "Ridiculous! Don't believe it. That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad!! Now, put on your coat, and let's go."

"Go? Go where, Grandma?" I asked. I hadn't even finished my Second World-famous cinnamon bun. "Where" turned out to be Kerby's General Store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything.

As we walked through its doors, Grandma handed me ten dollars. That was a bundle in those days.

"Take this money," she said, "and buy something for someone who needs it. I'll wait for you in the car." Then she turned and walked out of Kerby's.

I was only eight years old. I'd often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself. The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping. For a few moments I just stood there, confused, clutching that ten-dollar bill, wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for. I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbors, the kids at school, the people who went to my church. I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobby Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs. Pollock's grade-two class.

Bobby Decker didn't have a coat. I knew that because he never went out to recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all we kids knew that Bobby Decker didn't have a cough; he didn't have a good coat. I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobby Decker a coat! I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that.

"Is this a Christmas present for someone?" the lady behind the counter asked kindly, as I laid my ten dollars down. "Yes, ma'am," I replied shyly. "It's for Bobby." The nice lady smiled at me, as I told her about how Bobby really needed a good winter coat. I didn't get any change, but she put the coat in a bag, smiled again, and wished me a Merry Christmas.

That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in her Bible) in Christmas paper and ribbons and wrote, "To Bobby, From Santa Claus" on it. Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy. Then she drove me over to Bobby Decker's house, explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially, one of Santa's helpers.

Grandma parked down the street from Bobby's house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk. Then Grandma gave me a nudge. "All right, Santa Claus," she whispered, "get going."

I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his door and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma. Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally it did, and there stood Bobby.

Fifty years haven't dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my Grandma, in Bobby Decker's bushes. That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were, ridiculous. Santa was alive and well, and we were on his team.

I still have the Bible, with the coat tag tucked inside: $19.95.

Shut up. It's just an eyelash or something. No, I don't need a Kleenex.@

Ah, hell. Let's face it... Christmas is a little better if you can melt by the fire and count your blessings and maybe help a brother out.

[SUMMARY: Bah humbug and happy holidays.]

Here... go play with this and pretend I never got all marshmallowy over a dopey Christmas coat.

Just tell yourself I'm still trying to earn enough saint points for the 2008 campaign.#

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

Greenbriar 1968†† - CB I Hate Perfume

Marin says: Outdoors. It smells like a fresh spring day in a bucolic location. Cold, wet grass and a touch of mud, leaves and bark, wood, pine.

Something a tiny bit sweet, but not floral -- carmel? Brown sugar? Maple? Too elusive to pin down. Maybe just a sweet wood?

There's also something salty or petroleum -- the sort of thing that usually turns out to be leather, though it may just be the pine, which frequently reads petroleum‡‡ to me.

In any case, I kinda love this. It's so lucidly evocative it's like remembering a dream or a distant memory. I can see the dirt road and the meadow and the woods and the old fence and the lush, lush green of an icy April. Fantastically unisex, too.

CB says: This scent is a memory of my Grandfather, the sawmill that he owned and the stone house where he lived.

It is blended with Sawdust,$ Fresh Cut Hay,$ Worn Leather Work Gloves,$ Pipe Tobacco$ and a healthy amount of Dirt.$ There is also a faint whiff of cotton overalls§§ covered in Axel Grease...¶¶

Hans says: A tree. Like outside. Like a leaf. Grassy! I'm still getting some... basically, if you were to mow the lawn. And mow over a really small pine tree.## Grass and pine mowed together. I really like it.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): I *said* don't judge.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): When I was 16, Ken La Pear (not quite his real name, but it was what we called him), who was a bombastic windbag that would make Rush Limbaugh look introspective, told me I was sentimental. Whether it was my personal feeling that sentimentality is weak or whether it was just because Ken said so, it pissed me off mightily. Then my best friend Jeff signed my yearbook to, "...one of the smartest, funniest, most creative, but -- above all -- sentimental people I know..." and I seethed a little quieter. It still rubs me the wrong way, though.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): For a wannabe saint, I'm remarkably unpreachy.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Vis-à-vis the sentimentality question, I like to think Grandma and I have a LOT in common.

@FOOTNOTE (atted): Besides, if you could see the effort it took me to NOT remove a bunch of exclamation points and rearrange some of the grammar and punctuation... you'd realise I haven't lost my edge at all. I'm the same do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do obsessive compulsive weirdo you've always known me to be. No sentiment here. Nuh-uh.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): It's really all very self-serving. Kim? Softball for you?

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): I figure if Nathan is nice enough to enable my perfume problem, I should be nice enough to tell him which perfume I'm actually smelling. See: yesterday's mystery perfume review.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Just around the edges. If you're skeptical now, just wait until I tell you how similar jasmine and bowling alley ashtray are.

$FOOTNOTE (on the money!): Using the magic Marin system of claiming sawdust and pipe tobacco could be mistaken for wood and conveniently ignoring the fact that I only got a tiny bit of dirt and there appear to be no pine trees involved at all... I nailed it!

§§FOOTNOTE (little ribbons of cotton): Did not get that at all. You know I'm going to be up half the night trying to smell cotton now.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (pistons in axel grease): Unfortunately, axel grease is a different smell-creature than petroleum, so I don't think I can claim that.

##FOOTNOTE (not just pounded... downright smashed): Watching this, I wished for the hundredth time you guys could see the hand motions and the little dances that accompany Hans's search for the truth.

Tickle Me Simba

TTHFCIF

One would think there would be a certain freedom to having one's tubes tied.

Not necessarily, as some ungracious pastors pointed out, the freedom from condoms, but the freedom from certain tensions surrounding the sex act.† And future freedoms of financial and social varieties.

Freedom from 4:00 ayem feedings.

Freedom from second-party barf.‡

Freedom from babysitting bills.

Freedom from paying for band uniforms.

Freedom from teenaged-boy car insurance bills.

Freedom from college funds.

[SUMMARY: I'm pretty sure that's in the Constitution.]

Apparently, being a doting aunt, it does NOT include freedom from whatever the latest toy craze may be.

The conversation goes something like this:

"What is Dr. Doom into? Animals is all I know for sure. Does he have any new fetishes or hobbies that would at least give me a theme for this Christmas?"

"eBeth is SO glad you asked. The only thing he wants this year is this animatronic stuffed lion cub. We don't know where he saw it or where you get it,§ but nobody is getting him one. It's got a name like 'fur real' or something. It's a commitment -- like a $50 stuffed animal..."

"Fifty dollars is nothing to Superaunt."

"Well, it's the only thing he wants and it could be The Lion that Ruined Christmas."¶

"That's pretty much my goal."

[SUMMARY: I just want the Christmas shopping to be over.]

So I blithely Googled "animatronic stuffed lion" this morning and found a whole bunch of WowWee...




...and a sprinkling of FurReal.#




Seriously, all other things being equal, which would you choose?††

[SUMMARY: All lions are created equal, but some are more equal than others.]

Right.

So I set off to find a WowWee Alive Lion Cub in Tan,‡‡ only to discover I was seeking this year's Holy Grail of necessary toys. The Cabbage Patch doll, the Tickle Me Elmo, the fucking Furbee of 2008.

I have never been so stressed about Christmas in my life.

The MSRP is $49.99. Any retail store that lists them for anything *resembling* $49.99 is sold out.% Amazon has them for $190. A company called ANTOnline was charging $888 for one.§§

Since I started looking this morning, ANTOnline sold out.

Take a moment to goggle at that.

[SUMMARY: Lotta crazy in the world.]

I also learned that Canada will not ship to me. I don't know what I ever did to Canada, other than have a weird, inexplicable love^ for the country and its people, but Canadian Sears and Canadian ToysRUs won't ship to US addresses.

Thank goodness for eBay. For $90, including shipping, I am the proud winner of a genuine, NRFB,¶¶ WowWee Alive Lion Cub.

I shall live ten less years because of this ordeal, but Christmas is saved.##

[SUMMARY: Drawing the lion at ruining Christmas.@]

The gods bless us, everyone, but particularly eBay.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): i.e. -- condoms breaking.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Well, not second-party barf for which one is personally responsible.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Yeah, right. As a parent, aren't you plugged right in to the must-have toy market? I now realised I have been goodly duped by parents who don't wish to park at the loading dock of Wal*Mart at 3:30 in the ayem to fight women in polyester pants and pink curlers over the last of the WowWee Alive Lion Cubs (in Tan) and think the single and devoted aunt probably has the time, but definitely has the inclination.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Which would be Dr. Doom's own personalised version of The Helicopter That Ruined Christmas. When Tallest, Hairiest Nephew was about a year-and-a-half, he had a thing for helicopters like Amy Winehouse has a thing for drugs. The very first present he opened that year was a helicopter that had lights and a motor and made noises and winched and the doors opened and everything. He had no interest in other presents. He had all he needed. He got cranky when other presents were thrust upon him. Ever since, we speak in hushed tones of The Helicopter That Ruined Christmas.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): The FurReal name was right, but it's only $13. The other price was right, but the name was wrong.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): I did try to call Brother to see if the concept was important or the brand, and if the brand was important, exactly which brand did he think I was looking for, and if I wanted the WowWee Alive line, would, say a tiger be sufficient or was lion important... only he wasn't answering the phone. Don't tell me he didn't know why I was calling.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): For that is its full name.

§§FOOTNOTE (it do spin one's head, don't it?): I can only assume the price includes an ounce of pharmaceutical grade coke.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): There are three other WowWee Alive cubs to be had (tiger, polar bear, panda) and not one of them is sold out anywhere. Every kid wants the lion because it looks like Simba from The Lion King. Damn Disney. And for the Jonas Brothers, too, so long as I'm making my infernal wish list.

^FOOTNOTE (careted): Particularly inexplicable now that Canada has shunned me.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (like meerkats on the plains): Never Removed From Box. That's another thing I learned today -- eBayspeak. Sure, you couldn't just dump me on an eBay street corner and expect me to survive, but now I can at least ask where the bathroom is.

##FOOTNOTE (if that lion is two pounds, I'll eat a spider): And simultaneously ruined. See: helicopter.

@FOOTNOTE (atted): I think I'm funny. More important, I think puns are funny.

Not Awesome

I feel I owe an apology to all of you% who rushed out† to get me my very own LCD skull mp3 belt buckle.‡

Hans got his notification in the email, and I assume you have yours by now:

Dear Hans,

Good day! Many thanks for your order 2XXXX9 in our website http://www.chinavasion.com/.

I am very sorry to let you know that the item CVSDU-10008 (MP3 Player / LED Light Belt Buckle - Punk Skull Design) you ordered, which we thought would be available, is now not being supplied by the factory.

We can not offer the item in this case. Hope you can understand our situation.

We can help you to cancel this order and refund the payment back to you. Please confirm whether you wants us to do that. Thanks a lot.

We are waiting for your confirmation very urgently.

Thank you for your patience.


If you're looking for a replacement gift, might I suggest something hand-made? I found directions right here for something excellent enough to bring us back to awesome.§

It would go nicely with my latest schmooze from my friends at Nintendo.¶

Only 14 shopping days...


%FOOTNOTE (percented): BWAHAHAHAHAHA! I crack me up.

†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Unless you rushed in time to get one before those gates slammed shut. In that case, thank you!

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Which I feel would go with either a brown belt or a black, making it a versatile and ultimately thrifty accessory.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Especially with plenty of wasabi.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I still don't know what I'm doing with that little pink ham ball (that's what she said), but isn't it fun when we're all self-referential like this?

Muppet Whatnot

I could re-create this in my living room if only I had the tools.

Thirty-three (33) shopping days 'til Christmas.

Holy Eye Sockets, Batman!

And here we are, only 35 shopping days until Christmas.

Want

If anybody can track one of these down... well, only 36 shopping days 'til Christmas.

Just Like Christmas

I got my Secret Pal package! Saturday!@

Because I'm really nice,† I'm going to share.‡

My spoiler was Helen from Alabama. And I was right. She *does* sing.%

First, an overview -- there's some Addi lace needles and... huh... you can't see the bath salts, but they're there, they probably ended up behind something, there's a copy of the Knitter's Almanac and a nice bookmark.§




Oh, but that's not all. Some things require a close-up:





Brown Sheep Wildfoote sock yarn in Rhapsody and Mountain Colors Mountain Goat in Wild Raspberry.




Skull tattoos... dozens and dozens of 'em.




A knit bag¶ with a lovely lining.




I tried hard not to tear the Alice in Wonderland paper, but there was *tape*.




Lookie! I got a scarf! It's, like, nine or ten feet long, which puts it in Dr. Who territory.^




And a toilet brush!

It's really a toss-up as to which of the scarf and the toilet brush is my favourite. Nobody but my mom ever knit me anything, and the hat and scarf she knit for me are long gone. It's just really cool to have something hand-knit of my own.

On the other hand, how cool is a skull-encrusted toilet brush set? And it comes with a funny story: The handle of the brush screws into the brush part. When I opened the box and started pulling stuff out,# I pulled out a tissue-wrapped bundle that contained... a toilet brush.

And I looked at it.

And I wondered.

And I decided Secret Pal Helen certainly deserved the benefit of the doubt, but still secretly wondered if she had accidentally wrapped a replacement toilet brush up and was even now wondering how she was going to get her toilet clean with a needle gauge or a box of tea or some such.

I pulled out a skull-laden candle holder,†† but it wasn't until I came across the skull-topped magic wand†† that the lightbulb went off.

Almost as good as Nintendo, I tell you, putting the pieces of that puzzle together.

Thanks, Helen! And thank you for all your comments too -- it's been great getting to know you.
*************

I'm doing Week 3 of the pushups over again. I had some lame moments, both literally and figuratively, in the last round. I'll let you know how that goes when I actually START Week 3, part 2.

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

Sublime Balkiss - The Different Company

Marin says: A shriek of grapefruit over a solid base of a warm-but-not-sweet wood. The wood smells like teak looks. And the shriek fades away quickly to a kind of bitter, herbal, green smell.
In the spirit of a hell of a roll-out, a warm, powdery ambery scent - very light - wraps around it.

Then the oddest WTF blurt of plastic and sour citrus. It's one of those I keep sniffing every few minutes because it develops so intriguingly. I'm not sure if, ultimately, it's all that wearable for me.

I'll definitely give it a fresh shot on another day.

TPC says: Sublime Balkiss is named for the Queen of Sheba. The Different Company describes it as a modern chypre fragrance without oakmoss (real or synthetic) or animal-derived raw materials.

Created by Celine Ellena, it has notes of the traditional patchouli, a modified modern patchouli which emphasizes the cocoa powder notes, bergamot,$ violet,$ black and purple berries,? blueberry, blackberry, blackcurrant, lily of the valley, rose and lilac.

Hans says: That smells like swimming pool. [Second sniff] Earthy. Like vegetable-y... like roots, not dirt. [Much later] Elephant.

‡‡§§¶¶##
@FOOTNOTE (atted): 'Cause, you know, didn't check the mail 'til Monday, had to take pictures, small delay, all is well. *ahem*

†FOOTNOTE (crossed): I feel you snickering, Brother. I know where you live.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Well, I mean I'm going to show-and-tell share. I'd guess I won't be distributing any goodies anytime soon. I'm not *that* nice.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): More than just for my birthday, that is.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): With a mermaid.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I really love the gold yarn on the bag, Helen. What is it?

^FOOTNOTE (careted): The old Dr. Who. I haven't so much noticed David Tennat wearing a long, stripey scarf.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Not at all like a kid at Christmas.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Or so it seemed.

$FOOTNOTE (on the money): Ha! Sort of got one! OK, bergamot is a bitter orange, so it could read grapefruit and violet always has a sort of plastic/petroleum product air to it. So I'm giving myself some credit. Shut up.

?FOOTNOTE (WTF?): I so did not get any kind of berries.

Ho.

Hum.

And Happy Tuesday.

Other than the fact that I cast on yet another project this weekend, I don't have a lot of knitting news. I knat a lot this weekend, and I guess I could inundate you with WIP pictures, but that's mostly boring. At least the new scarf isn't blue.

About a month ago, I bought a portable evaporative cooler to replace one that stopped working. It worked so well, a week ago I bought a second one for my bedroom. The week-old cooler broke down Sunday mid-day and now I have to wedge "return defective cooler to Home Depot" into my busy schedule. 'Cause it's finally getting hot in Denverish.

My grandmother (Mom's mom) died Sunday night. Dad and I are going to Wisconsin Sunday for the funeral on Monday.

In a fit of madness, I signed up with Match.com. Men from all over Louisiana are contacting me and I can't figure out why.

My birthday is Friday. I feel way, way older this year than last. I think it's the damned dance club episode.

Rush. I'm seeing Rush at Red Rocks tomorrow night. I'm kinda excited, but getting six or eight people to agree on a carpooling schedule is like trying to get six kids to agree on pizza toppings.

I inadvertently finished most of my Christmas shopping.

I'm hostessing (sort of) a Nintendo party Saturday night. But that's a story for tomorrow or the next day. That way there's at least one blogpost this week that doesn't feature an ass-bearing quiz or a bunch of mumbling.

While we did get a new billboard Friday, there has been frighteningly little to entertain Hans and me out the office window. Still no crane; still no arms on the 1999.

I can't even tell you my current favourite joke because it has to be heard to be funny.

See? This is what happens when football, hockey and basketball end. The long, dark days of summer are upon us.

Can you feel the ennui in the air?

Frickin' Stock Show

OK, the sheep is a sheep and we all think that's pretty cool, but "pretty cool" is the tip of the iceberg† in describing the blistering cold that comes with the National Western Stock Show & Rodeo.

Every year. Every SINGLE year. It's like some weird childhood myth all bulked up on reality 'roids.

You know how you remember every afternoon that year you got a swimming pool it rained -- not just rained, but thundered and lightninged^ -- but if you actually talk to your parents or check the National Weather Service charts, it only rained once every two weeks in that rainy, rainy year, and was, in fact, considered one of the worst drought years in the history of your history? 'Cause all you can remember is the days you couldn't swim because of the thunderstorms? Even though there were only apparently two all summer?

This is like this, only everything you remember is true. You can have a fairly balmy November, a downright mild December and *BAM!* The second the Stock Show comes to town, the mercury plummets.

And by "you," I mean, "I."

[SUMMARY: Global warming, my ass.‡]

Those of you who live in the midwest or eastern seaboard know cold. And it's that moist, creepy cold that worms its way in through the very stitches in your clothing. It's a cold propelled by winds off the lake.@

But that's a relatively warm cold. If there is water in the air, it's warm enough that it hasn't all gone to ice. Not necessarily warm, but warmer than.

Here in the high desert, it gets bitter. Not the good bitter, like 70% cacao chocolate, but the nasty, biting bitter of a 40-year-old with no sex life, no romantic prospect and nothing but a spoiled cat to keep her company in these, her twilight years.§

Dry cold will hurt you.

Dry cold sands your eyes and turns your lungs to styrofoam when you try to breath. It frosts your nose hairs and aches your ears. Your face shrinks instantly like like time lapse photography of mud after a summer cloudburst in the desert. You go, "Waaauuuggghhhh!!!" when you exit your car.¶

[SUMMARY: Take that, dead horse!]

It gets too cold to snow.

So many people think I'm makin' shit up again when I say that, but it's absolutely true. A simplified version, but true. The colder the air temp, the less the capability of the atmosphere to hold water. Now, you can have snow at very low temperatures, but uplift factors and upper atmosphere issues come in.

In Colorado, we have no upper atmosphere. We have precious little atmosphere, period. So it gets really cold and the water that already wasn't there isn't capable of hanging around and it doesn't snow.#

Or it spits these minute, stinging ice pellets.††

Damned unpleasant, that's what it is.

[SUMMARY: Someone got up on the cold side of the bed this morning.]

I did wake up to a newsletter from The Brown Palace in my email today:


A Bull in a China Cabinet at The Brown Palace,
Friday, Jan. 25

Well, not really a bull, or a china cabinet, but this is as close as it gets. The National Western Stock Show's 2008 Grand Champion Steer will walk down a red carpet to be put on display during Afternoon Tea in the hotel's lobby. From 11 a.m. - 1 p.m., catch a close-up of the steer and have complimentary photos taken with him.


[SUMMARY: Every fucking bitter cold winter cloud has a silver lining.]

In even brighter news, I did go to the mailbox this morning% and send many thanks to Cheryl, for rewarding me -- simply for having the most tasteless neighbours$ -- with a shiny copy of "Drunk, Divorced and Covered in Cat Hair."

And to Annie B, my new best friend at Interweave, for gifting me a book of my own choosing from the Interweave library for all my hard work‡‡ on Sticks 'n' Stitches. The "Knitted Tams" book bears closer scrutiny at a slightly later date, but let me tell you I'm excited about the principles it illustrates.§§

Speaking of principles, I also got Barbara Walker's "Knitting from the Top," and I'd like to thank Taos Books for not thinking just because other people are charging upwards of $100 for the book, they have to jump off that building too.¶¶

You'll also be pleased to know I brought my camera AND yarns and knitting books to the office to photograph them in daylight. You know what this means: I can knock off a thousand words for every photo I post.##

[SUMMARY: Tomorrow may be a better day.]

Besides, knitting pictures always make it all better.



†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Dude, I should write for Parade or one of those low-quality anti-journalistic fluff additions to the Sunday paper. Did you see that stilted opening? The tortured segueway? The bad, bad pun? Of course, I meant it all *ironically*...

^FOOTNOTE (careted): Yes, I'm pretty sure that's a word.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Well, not so much an ass as a sheep.

@FOOTNOTE (atted): There's always a lake.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Maybe I'm projecting.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Which I did. And scared the nice, normal guy waiting to cross at the light next to me.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): It has to be really, really cold to actually be "too cold to snow," according to my research, but I've also been in 40-below cold. See: Gunnison (my home town and college stomping grounds). Also? "Uplift" might not be a technical weather term. I think I got it from a Victoria's Secret catalog.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): No-see-ums for the ice age.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Yea, me!

$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): I'd like to thank the Academy and god and my parents and the Kislings...

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

§§FOOTNOTE (twister! ): And the pretty pictures.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (gophers): As in, "If all the other bookstores jumped off a building, would you jump off a building too?" For the record, it was a very reasonable $18.50, deemed to be in "very good" condition and is actually in brand new condition.

##FOOTNOTE (pounding like a Stock Show wind): I said, "can," not "will."

Lookie!

I won! I won!

Courtesy of Anna-Liza

Marin said you were the kind of person who loves holiday sweaters. Really loves them. Like you would wear a fuzzy felt reindeer on your chest in July with a pair of khaki shorts and sun visor. Get your holiday sweater fix, create your own and see what Marin knitted up here.

I think the sense of circle and symmetry in this sweater truly speaks to the rounding out of the holiday season.

And I love that the website is "we love holiday sweaters.we hate sheep."

Happy New Year!