Month: December 2006 (Page 2 of 2)

Driving in to work today reminded me of a Halloween graveyard scene – misty and overcast, stark leafless trees silhouetted against the gray sky. I brought in a bunch of Carrot Cookies, with a few held back for the Wo, and they were pretty well devoured. The switch from an orange glaze to an orange cream cheese frosting was a smart move.

I’m going to upload the photos tonight, but suffice it to say, dog-sitting Miss Gracie was a fun adventure. Polly could not believe her luck, to have a like-minded playmate who wanted to party and play with toys, every waking minute. Three dogs are funny, because you watch the whole pack behavior take over, and fortunately for all of us, Miss G is not particularly interested in being the Alpha, or even really anything but the Omega, so Suzy maintained her role as Top Dog, and then Polly spent a lot of time knocking Gracie onto her back in the yard. In the house, they played with Dirty Rotten Kitty and with each other, lots of paw action, and they would get pretty rambunctious. Quite possibly the funniest moment of the entire weekend was when Suzy had enough of their antics, and she stood up from her pillow, took two steps towards them and bellowed a disapproving “WOOF!” They chilled for a minute or two, then went back to carousing, and she did it again. I could barely see, I was laughing so hard. Like she was grouchy yelling, COME ON, you young ‘uns, I’m tryin’ to sleep.

To give myself some peace, our dogs went out to their kennel for parts of the days, and that’s when Miss Gracie was her calm self, and quite possibly the sweetest dog I’ve ever met. I dubbed her “She Who Will Be Stepped On”, because she’s always right at your feet, usually behind you. She just wants petting, some love, to nap, and then to watch TV. I’ve never seen a dog watch TV like Gracie. We watched a lot of Law & Order, and I figured it was good to teach her about Justice. We also watched Million Dollar Baby, which was so good, but so sad. I think Polly & Gracie were only interested in the boxing techniques….

As a thank-you, Miss Kristin gave me a gorgeous skein of yarn – I’ll get a pic of that as well. Lots to do tonight – tune in tomorrow for photos!

Between the icy chill in our offices, and the fact I need to make 72 cookies tonight, and the Large Project I’ve been working on having the due date extended, I pretty much am set to GO! NUTS! NOW! No snarky remarks about verbs and do I really need to go, aren’t I already there? Now is not a time to trivialize the crazy.

It’s two weeks until we celebrate Christmas with the Wo’s side of the family. Two teenagers to buy for, and everyone says, “OH just get them a gift card” and when I hear that, it makes me want to get out the recipe for decorative inedible bread and whip them up a French loaf, each, because while I love gift cards, they have their place, and I’m sorry, but being a teenager and allllll you-know, distraught about being downtrodden and misunderstood, well, that just goes hand-in-glove with getting weird shit from your crazy aunt & uncle, or whatever we are to them, I think they’re technically JWo’s cousins, but the age difference allows me to elevate our status.

You know what? There’s just not enough good pictures of inedible, decorative bread on the internet. A dearth, as it were. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, well, imagine if you will taking the time to make something that LOOKS like homemade bread, but you shellac it and it’s decorative! My mother made a whole big bunch when I was um, 6 or 7, and even then, I thought, Huh. This is rather stupid, because WE CAN’T EAT IT. But, then again, it was 1975. I did learn, however, in my internet searching (via the Google, is there any other way?) that Iowa, which does not have a sales tax on food, DOES tax inedible decorative gourds.

I think we’re giving the girl various foo-foo girly products, and the boy? I think he’s getting a large can of cashews. Because one year, the first year I started to really feel some footing in this family, at Christmas, said boy was rooting through a large can of Chex Mix, and PICKING OUT ALL THE CASHEWS, and it was like my father was right there inside me, and sparks flew out my eyes and my hair stood on end, and I actually ordered him to STOP IT RIGHT NOW. (The super exciting part of that story was the fact he actually listened to me and stopped it.) So maybe a big ol’ can of cashews would be kind of funny. At least I know he’ll eat them. Perhaps if I had more time, I could hone my skills on inedible lifelike cashew replicas….. hah!

See what I mean? Crazy. It came. It stayed. It may not leave until January….

I have always been completely captivated by Helen Mirren. From the first time I saw her as Jane Tennison in “Prime Suspect” on PBS, I’ve always held this part in me that wants to just emulate the hell out of her. My friend Shelley has the same rapture for Dame Judy Densch; maybe it’s something about regal British actresses that resonates.

She’s edgy, uncompromising, incredibly talented, and flies in the face of traditional, conservative views on women, especially those who are older than 25. I’ve always been drawn to those women as my mentors – I used to tell people I wanted to be Madeleine Kahn when I grew up, but then she died, and it didn’t feel quite as aspirational. So I’ve switched to Catherine O’Hara, because everything she’s done with Christopher Guest has left me helpless with laughter & admiration. But I think, if I could be British and a little less funny, I’d be Helen Mirren in a heartbeat.

The recent (and last) Prime Suspect just aired on our local PBS station, and in my desire to record it on our DVR, I didn’t realize we have like, three different PBS stations on the high digital cable, and one of them only broadcasts between 6a and 6p. But it still shows up with available programming, so I basically recorded two hours of an informational screen telling me when they ARE on-air. Lovely. And that was it – the repeats were the same night, in the overnights, and I completely missed the second half, with explanations and conclusions and of course, loads of Helen Mirren. Pissed is an understatement, except for the tempering factor that it’s TELEVISION. You know me. I don’t just flop down, I emailed our local PBS station and told them I wanted to see it, explained my error, and when was it going to run? Well, they were nice & wrote back, but with bad news, that they weren’t going to be re-running it, but I could maybe buy the DVD from the national store. HaRRUMPH. Jane Tennison wouldn’t bother with that. She’d smoke some fags, drink some vodka, heat up a frozen meal and tell them to piss off & go shag themselves. So I just set it aside in my head, and figured it would show up eventually on Netflix.

Today, I got another email from the lady at PBS, telling me they were going to be re-airing the whole thing in February, complete with dates & times! It’s great news, but it’s even nicer that she emailed me again, given that I probably sounded a bit wonky in the first place. And she’d be right. But she’d best say it in a lovely British accent.

1. I have never been so cold at work in my life. I used to keep my office temperature on par with a meatlocker at the old job? But I enjoyed it. Reveled in it. For some reason, this winter at the office has become the Winter of No Heat, and my toes are cold (somewhat normal) – but my fingers were icicles. By the time I got home Monday night, the only way I could get warm was to wrap myself up in the oversized Einstein, and crawl under two hand-knit blankets while wearing hand-knit wool socks. This worked so well I woke up with sweat in my ears. Lovely.

2. I am enraptured with this tea. It’s a special holiday blend, and it’s so yummy – cloves and cinnamon and fruit. Kristin gets the catalog & they sent her a sample – she gave it to me & I was hooked!

3. I have spikes of anxiety & paranoia that, in a nutshell, are not charming. I can’t wait until I wear my pajamas to the grocery store and wear a bird’s nest for a hat.

4. There’s been some recent insider-biz news & gossip about a certain key executive at a major retailer and it’s just been SALACIOUS! And delicious. And amusing. And probably really enraging for a former employer, because she was instrumental in the business leaving their company. Karma! It can be so lovely!

5. I have tried to give “The Office” another go. Everyone at work watches it & raves, and are always suprised to hear I don’t watch it. So I taped last week, and I will say, the scene where Michael stands up and becomes “Prison Mike” and starts berating all the employees and telling them how good they have it, and how much better the office is than prison? I turned to Wo and said “It’s actually not that dissimilar to speeches we got from (Boss Name) at (Last Job).”

6. Polly’s going to host a slumber party this weekend with a certain golden retriever puppy, and I’m sure they’re going to run up the phone bill, braid each other’s hair, and give each other tips on how to perform end-runs around their parents. I’m also sure they will wear each other out, or maybe that’s just me hoping.

7. We have a mouse living under the basement stairs, and I don’t care how Harry Potter that is, he’s gotta go.

Well, there you go. It’s a start. 7,999,993 orts to go.

I have noticed, in the few flashbulb “pop” moments when I actually take the time to observe myself, that I tend to shy away from being alone in public. Not so much with the shopping, that I tend to do like a pro, and it’s much easier (and less embarassing) to run with an arm outstretched, knocking down lollygaggers at CostCo, by myself. However, I took myself to lunch today, along with my book, and I’m always surprised by how much – and how rarely – I go out to eat by myself. Maybe twice in the past year. I tend to do take-out, and sit at my desk, or on the couch at home, with my friends Internet or Telebision keeping me company & entertained.

It got me to thinking today, just how much more I went out by myself when I was in my 20’s. Probably part of it was hoping that if I went to Muddy’s coffeehouse frequently enough, perhaps Tommy Lee Jones would wander in and find himself inextricably drawn to the bookish, yet undeniably captivating, chubby girl in the corner. I also look back on the things I did alone and marvel that I didn’t get snapped up by a serial killer – though fat people are seriously MUCH harder to kidnap and drag into cars. I think my alone-ness un-doing happened when I lived in St. Louis, because most of that time I spent there was alone, ALL THE TIME. I went out with people from work, yeah, and had parties, but when I think about my life when I lived there, I think of how alone, and lonely, I was. Part of it was being depressed, but part of it was a function of that city, and it’s social structure – they’re big on being from there, and what high school you attended, and it’s really got a lot to offer as a city? Including like, a totally wacked out murder rate now, but that aside, it’s got wonderful food and museums and the zoo, and yes, even the people can be nice, but they don’t want to EMBRACE you, the way we do here in Kansas City. People here want to bear hug you like your drunken uncle at Christmas.

All of that aside, sometimes it’s dangerous to leave me alone. For instance, last night, I began to believe that the house was going to blow up, from the gas line. Now, there wasn’t any evidence there was a gas leak or anything, but we did have some strange noises and rumbles and whumping, and really, in the end, all I could conclude was: Gas Line. Polly didn’t help by looking all alert and worried. And then there was the time my parents went out to dinner, and I was bored, so I gave myself a perm. Yep! (That was awful. Really bad results. I do not ever recommend home perming, and without another pair of hands to roll those curlers on the back of your head, I can guarantee you: Dreadful.) But I think I do like going to a restaurant, taking a book and sitting down & having people fill my water glass & bring me food. You become kind of invisible, as I could hear the murmurs and conversations around me. But it’s a comfortable kind of invisible, not the kind I lived in St. Louis. I could have sat there all afternoon…..

I’m in the coziest pajamas I own – light blue polar fleece – and it’s noon. Yeah. That’s what Saturdays were meant to be. I have a big pot of turkey ‘n’ noodles simmering on the stove, knitting in the big chair, and I put a holiday wreath on the door this morning. I’m going to do the tree tomorrow, during the Chiefs game. This means most of the ornaments are going to end up on the side of the tree that allows me to see the tv…. and then there will be the ones that are flung when I yell.
I’m heading out to do some of my shopping early in the morning – the idea of going out right now makes me want to go lie down – and then we should be pretty well set for the family get-together we’re hosting for James’ family in two weeks.

I wasn’t going to decorate (again) this year. For whatever reason, it sort of wears me out, the idea of spending all that time to create something pretty & then tear it down three weeks later. I suppose I could leave everything up through May, that might make it feel more worthwhile.. heh…. Usually by the second week of January, it Must! Come! Down! if not sooner than that. But, since we’re hosting, we need to make it festive, and, it’s probably going to be a little therapeutic, because doing nothing at all would have felt a little – mournful. Like I was avoiding the whole thing. People have said things to me, out of concern, worried that the holidays will be hard, tough, unbearable, whatever. The highlighting of the “holidays” always catches me by surprise. Every day is tough. Every day is hard. Except now, and just now, as in yesterday, I had a day where it seemed like I’d forgotten to put on my grieving cloak. And of course I felt a wave of residual guilt, because our grief is such a handy measure, a universal ruler by which we illustrate to ourselves and the rest of the world “This Is How Much I Loved Him.” But in that minute, which began when my mind started and realized I’d just been Plain Happy and not thought about him, or felt the now-so-familiar sadness that wraps around me, I realized that this is how it’s supposed to go. This is not a clear, plowed, paved road. The grieving cloak never leaves us, but we eventually don’t wear it 24 hours a day. This is a herky-jerky ever-changing path, that sometimes feels like you’re racing down a mountain in the dark, tripping and branches hitting you in the face, and then suddenly you’re in a clearing, bright light & birds, and then you’re not again. And I suppose that seeing families gather, and exchanging cards and gifts, and the absence of that happening with my dad, that does create a formula that is visible to everyone, a logic problem that at the end says, this will be hard. It’s just hard to explain to those who mean so well, that far too often, it’s a random trigger, and some days are easier and some days are hard and some days are dreadful and now, some mornings, are more like they used to be, before he died. The hospice nurse said, the night he died, that I would always have this point in my life, when he was alive, and when he was dead. I see that point, a linear continuum with that horrible black dot and I measure my feelings and actions against either side of that point.

He loved logic so, and I aced the logic classes I took in college, because they were lovely puzzles. We never talked about the fact I took those classes to please him. To show him I was his daughter. I was terribly proud of how well I did, because I knew it made him proud. If A then B. If B then C. Tildes, arrows, supersets. Their lines and relationships diagrammed one conclusion, or even multiple conclusions, but always with a universal truth, a clear line of reasoning. Validation. If A then B. Grief is the most anti-logical thing I have encountered in my life. It is not a subject to be aced. But at night, I feel my brain trying to diagram it. If A. If B. Where is C? There is no C. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. There were no maybes in the logic I studied. Only universal truths. Mine is how much I loved him.

I have been ornery since lunch yesterday. I don’t mean cranky, or petulant, or nothin’ like that, just good plain Eddie Haskell ornery, which translates into mostly entertaining with a pinch of kinda scary.

Four of us went to lunch yesterday, utilizing some trade dollars that had been given to a co-worker. Two guys, two girls. Three of us ordered fancy-schmancy entrees, because we had $100 to spend. For instance, I got the Walleye Pike with Yellow Coconut Curry sauce. $14. I inquired as to what it came with, and was told “a side of vegetables.” Let’s talk about how small this Walleye was. It must have been just released from the hatchery when it was caught. The piece of meat was no bigger than the palm of my hand. And flat as a pancake, because if someone gave me say, a shark or tuna steak the size of my palm, I’d be in heaven, since those are normally a couple inches thick. The side of vegetables was three stalks of aspargus, artfully arranged to fill in some of the voluminous blank space that was my plate. WTF? The guys had ordered crabcakes and scallops. Correction. CrabCAKE. As in the singular. Also with three stalks of asparagus. The scallops? Three. Three Wee Scallops. Balanced, of course, by three stalks of asparagus. I could not stop laughing. The other person had gotten a sandwich, and it was the size of a loaf of bread. With a scoop of fries on the side. Enormous. The contrast was hilarious, especially because our meals all cost between $14-$17, and her sandwich was $8. In an effort to spend all the dollars, we then ordered desserts, and they were dreadful. The spiced creme brulee? Consistency of paste. I kept uttering the word, “Glutinous!” between my fits of laughter. The cranberry cheesecake? Uh, hi, cranberries require at least a modicum of SUGAR added to them. Our first bites had all of us recoiling with fish faces and squinted eyes, because the tartness was unbelievable. And after all that, we still didn’t go to Wendy’s. I was totally jonesing for some chili and a baked potato. Instead, I had stomach cramps all afternoon, and was relieved to get home to that big pile of turkey.

So we got some snow. About 10″ by our house, and I’ve been living an Ode to Mimi the Murano the past two days – AWD? I love it. Holy Toledo. Though I stated quite loudly last night that I’m not one of those asshole SUV drivers, because I still creep slowly along and keep loads of distance between myself & the drivers around me. And anyway. The insurance classifies her as a WAGON. But I have felt infinitely safer in this sloppy weather, so thank you Mimi.

Then this morning, I walk into the lobby of our building, and there are about 10 men in winter clothing sitting around, apparently waiting to move furniture in upstairs. They all look at me. It could be my natural beauty, or it could be the black Russian-styled rabbit-fur hat I was wearing. Kristin said perhaps they thought I was a Russian Princess. All I know is that they started talking (English) and saying something, and laughing kind of suggestively, and I have NO IDEA what they were saying. So I just smiled and swept past them with all the presence of a princess. To be greeted by the statement, “You need to control your department, they’re trying to burn the place down.”

Apparently, a certain someone named Kristin was sending me an email. And her power strip started sparking & attempting to die via self-immolation. The stench was horrific. You might think, oh, it was a really old power strip? So it was just time? But I have a different theory. She was sending me an email, saying that I should look for this under my Christmas tree this year:

Jesus, send me some salvation. This is courtesy of our friends over at Berroco, and I’m not linking to them because if you are going to create a pattern THIS HIDEOUS that requires not only time spent knitting, but knitting a lot, because this ugly mo-fo’s FELTED, then you don’t deserve linkage. Hi, and let’s talk about how this taps right in to everything I was warned about as a child. Don’t walk with your hands in your pockets. Don’t run with scissors. Don’t PUT YOUR FEET INTO A CONJOINED COMPARTMENT because what if there’s a fire? Or the phone rings? Or the house alarm is set off at 5:30 in the morning? You instinctively would leap to your feet, and KABLAM! Down like a sack of potatoes, felled by your own handiwork. You might even break your nose.

I have a feeling the orneryness is going to continue. Y’all have been warned. Read at your own risk.