According to my husband, I got snarky in St.Louis. I think he was just jealous because I had (cue music!) MEM’RIES and there were landmarks and reminders and new things, too, and I didn’t shut up the entire time I was driving us towards, around and through Clayton, where I used to work.

Back up a second, though, because I almost skimmed right by the banquet, where I did NOT wear a duck-bill tiara, or anything hunting-related, but it was a night containing a mixture of regret and relief. For at every major banquet like this, there are auction items. Like carved & painted decoys, wildlife prints, all sorts of guided hunts, and – drum roll – a pedigreed BLACK LAB PUPPY who was 14 weeks old, male, the stockiest, beefiest, CUTEST DAMNED THING with HUGE FEET and the sunniest, sweetest disposition and granted, I had had a number of beers, but I told James we had to pick the dog if his ticket for “pick of the auction” was drawn. He agreed completely. And then we didn’t win pick of the auction, and some dude chose a wildlife print. (?????ookay….) But then the dog came up for bids. And nobody was bidding. And it dropped down to $100. And there we were, bidding ON THE DOG. At $500, I thought our lives were going to change forever, because the bidding had stopped, we were the high bidders & two roads hung in the balance, while that sing-song cadence of the auctioneer’s voice swirled around me and all I could think was “HOLY SHIT” in both a good and bad way, because puppyworld is as wonderful as it is hellatious, and there’s so much work and we hadn’t even been THINKING about getting another dog and then with a crack, the path of New Puppy Ownership broke and fell away as the bidding suddenly surged forward, and we had said “no higher” with big eyes to each other, and someone went home with a gorgeous dog ($675 was the winning bid, and the winner DID get a month’s worth of free training.) So. Maybe in a few years we’ll do it at one of these things. Technically, the dog was Polly’s half-brother, out of the same sire. I should point out as soon as James stopped bidding, the dog stopped and peed all over the floor, which was funny & a good reminder to us about allllll the cleanup puppies entail.

So, Sunday was a day for nostalgia as well as seeing all the new stuff that’s sprung up – we went to Trader Joe’s, where you can get wine for $3, and we also got snicky-snacks and then we went to PetSmart (ok, duh, we have those in Kansas City, but we were feeling sorry for the dogs kenneled up at home, imagining them talking to each other & saying how they were SURE we’d be out any minute to play and feed them s’more.) We had fun laughing with all the toys and picked out “Dirty Rotten Kitty” for Polly, and then two jumbo bones – which are being devoured right now. Then we were off to Crate & Barrel, where I waxed nostalgic about working at one in Minneapolis, and we left with three bags o’ fun purchases. THEN, no, it doesn’t stop, the fun keeps going! We went to Imo’s for pizza and salads and it was SO yummers, even though I accidentally got some of James’ anchovy on my last piece and I was kinda ooked out by it – I can eat anchovies by the truckload in caesar salad, but not so much on pizza. We drove home, and now another work week is going to begin, already!

I wrote a blog on Saturday afternoon about our road trip out (which was more fun than the drive home, you know how you just get tired & irritated & READY to get home.) – I’ll post that sometime later this week when I’m short on things to talk about! I have to get to reading all YOUR blogs and get caught up on everyone!

James just realized Michael Bolton was crooning, droning, whining about this time when a man loves a woman, and I’m grateful, because he changed the Music Choice channel and saved me from throwing the television out the window. Blessedly, he changed channels on Whitney Houston five minutes ago, but then was so engrossed in his computer he didn’t notice what was on and what was on was MICHAEL F’N BOLTON. I am reeeeally good at finding a “happy place” where I can tune stuff out for at least a few minutes when I’m on the computer, a skill honed when James would try to get my goat by tuning in to “The Man Show”. But much like the inexorable mosquito in your ear after you’ve zipped your tent up, even Michael Bolton can break through my tuned-out zone. And break through he does. I usually start recognizing my irritation by looking over at the television, in disbelief, much like one might look at a five-year-old standing up on a vinyl bench seat in a diner, banging a spoon on the window and screaming about Mister Pibbles and shrieking, hitting notes so high you marvel that your water glass is still intact. Usually this look is shifted into “amazed mode” and on to the parent, who has found their own Happy Place by ignoring everything but their soup and is seemingly unaware that the aforementioned child has sterilized all small mammals in a 50-yard radius with their keening, unfathomable scream while drumming out a GNR solo on the window. That astonishment and fear is contained in the second look at the television as my brain starts to comprehend that yes, indeed, we are sitting here listening to Michael Bolton. MY GOD WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO US!? And then James surfaces from his Tuned Out Place and goes, “Oh my GOD!” and flips channels. We have now landed on a Prince Sexology series and, as always, I am astonished at how many Prince songs my husband knows. It always makes for some entertaining road trip time, playing Prince in the car. JWo can hit the squeaks and squeals with amazing ease. Thank God he sings Prince and not Michael Bolton, we’d be in big trouble.

Speaking of road trips, we’re off to St.Louis tomorrow, where I will sit in honor as the First Lady of Waterfowl at the East Siders’ banquet tomorrow night. I’m guessing I will get to wear a tiara fashioned from duck bills and feathers? Who knows. (Hubby is the Board Chairman for the Missouri Waterfowlers’ Association. I’m royalty by marriage, I guess.) The big event part of this trip for me? Going to the new Crate & Barrel store in Brentwood. Yippee ki yay, mo-fo, I got my retail therapy ON, and I plan to come back Sunday cured of EVERYTHIN’ that ails me. See ya Sunday when I return with Packages of Happiness – and a duck bill tiara.

I saw on my Yahoo news that Lil’ Kim was convicted of lying about some lil’ ol’ thing like a shootout to something as inconsequential as a lil’ ol’ grand jury….. and that she could actually be sent to PRISON! I tell ya, I’m pretty sure that girl could get scrappy in a prison yard scuffle, and she might prove to be very inventive when it comes to fashioning her own stylish line of shanks, but I have YET to see a prison uniform that allows you to WEAR PASTIES. I’m thinking prison could give her the opportunity to wear the most amount of clothing she’s, like, ever worn in her LIFE.

And then, when she gets released, and she wears bright orange pasties & a g-string that one of the other inmates crocheted for her? Alllll of the knitting & yarn companies will scramble to make their own versions available to the public. Maybe she will even go on Martha’s new show and they can have a “prison segment” with knitting, gardening, and smuggling how-to tips. Lil’ Kim reportin’ from the Pokey, with Pasties in Prison and Shower Takedown Strategies.

Let’s see. James was still living in Clinton. I was living on the 8th floor. I still had ClancyMan the Cat, despite our allergies, and as one step to contain those allergies, Clancy did not sleep in my bedroom. (Clancy now lives with my best friend Shelley, where he is allowed to sleep on her HEAD.)

I got into bed, and had pulled the covers up. I hadn’t turned the light off yet, when I heard this soft “thump thump thump” at my bedroom door. Usually, that would mean Clancy was doing his Uber-Cute reach-under-the-door-with-a-paw thing. I rolled over to look at the door. Miliseconds later, all of a sudden a BAT was flopping around my bedroom. I did what any normal person might do in that situation, I shrieked & immediately got under the covers, completely. Peeking out, I could see the bat FLYING LOW, all around the bedroom. HOLY SHITBUCKET. The phone was right by the bed. I snatched it. Called James. Who was living an hour away.
(He was asleep, of course.)

“hullo?”
“JAMES! THERE’S A BAT IN THE APARTMENT!”
“wull….. what’s it doing?”
“IT’S FLYING AROUND AND AROUND AND IT’S DIVING AND SWOOPING! WHAT DO I DO?”
“open a window…..it will fly out. If it doesn’t, open your door and get it out of the bedroom, then stuff towels under the doors and that will keep it out.”
“I’M NOT DRESSED! WHAT DO I DO????”
(more repeating of the same directive.)

So we hang up. I slid out of bed and hit the floor like covert secret agent Sydney Bristow. I scrambled towards the bathroom and ultimately came around to the living room in my Bat Fighting Gear. Just use your inner eye to imagine this get-up. A royal blue cotton dress. A straw hat. A broom. And the piece de resistance, the scoop shovel my father gave me long ago in Minneapolis. (Remember, I’m in an apartment, all these things are readily available in my Fibber McGee closets.) I burst into the bedroom, poised to fight & using my scoop shovel as a giant HeadShield. I dash to the window, open it, and then look for the bat. It is happily perched up on the crown molding in the corner. Hesitantly, I get closer. I can not hit a bat with a broom, because I need to keep the scoop shovel in play as my defensive force field, and that impairs my vision, along with my giant straw hat. OH, I should also point out that before preparing for battle, I put Clancy Man into his crate in the bathroom, because I was convinced he would eat the bat if he caught it and then he could get rabies. Clancy was PISSED, because, after all, he had flushed the bat into the bedroom!
I am stymied and freaked out. I make another call. This time to an acquaintance, Shawn, who only lives 30 minutes away. “Hullo.”
“SHAWN! I HAVE A BAT IN MY APARTMENT! I’M TRYING TO GET IT TO GO OUT A WINDOW AND IT WON’T GO!”

We run through my arsenal. I can tell he’s amused. But he’s now my BatFightin’ Coach. “Jennifer. Just go in there, swat at the bat and get him flying. He’ll go out the window. Set the phone down and give it a try. You are a modern woman, just channel your inner fighter, you can do this.”

I set the phone down. Because I can’t hold the phone, my broom AND the defense squadron scoop shovel. I proceed to repeat my process and I’m barely poking this bat, and it’s annoyed, so it starts flying. Apparently, and because the phone is right there, I am (unaware that I am) yelling “FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK” the entire time I am ducking, poking, SHIELDING, and otherwise NOT getting the bat out of the room. The bat just does a few courtesy flights around the room, every time returning to the same corner, I’m sure he was panting right along with me.

Back to the phone. Shawn is dying, because all the laughter is not allowing any oxygen into his body.
“SHAWN! IT’S NOT GOING ANYWHERE! IT KEEPS FLYING AROUND AND LANDING IN THE CORNER!”
“Try it again.”

I did this three times. It’s now 11:30 p.m. The bat got tired, I got tired, because it’s an upper body workout, maneuvering a broom and scoop shovel. Finally, I said it. “Shawn. Will you please come over and help me?”
“Yes. I’ll be there soon.”
SO, thirty minutes later, Shawn calls up, comes up, within 15 seconds the bat has been thwacked down from the ceiling & tossed out the window. He said it was dead, my pollyanna self wanted to believe it just flopped off, stunned. Shawn declined the protective use of my scoop shovel through all of it. I think my outfit also made a statement, one that said, “This woman is CAH-RAY-ZAY. Back away, slowly.” So we went outside and I breathed in some air and we talked about him moving away, which he eventually did, and then I went back upstairs. WHUPS. Clancy man. In his crate. Crapped his cat pants in all the excitement and being confined. Mmmm! Poopy kitty in an enclosed space. So I got to finish off an awesomely exciting evening of FIGHTING A BAT with BATHING A CAT, the cat that fights the whole time and tries to climb the shower curtain to escape.

This really was the “Big Bat Story”. There were two more bats after this one, of course neither of those stories holds a candle to this one, but I’ll tell them all the same – when you’ve had time to rest & perhaps unburn the image of me & a scoop shovel shield……

In the spirit of continuing to tell people about my only-interesting-to-me dreams, despite my father’s admonishment otherwise, I will share with you last night’s dreama: I was in line at a very cool restaurant, that was a to-go sort of place. This restaurant does not exist in real life. But I placed an order, because I was going to bring food home for James & I, and the cashier rang it up. $26.58. Or something close on the cents, I know it was $26 dollars & change. I handed over my debit card. They ran it through and THEN?! and THEN?! The cashier wrote in on the tip line, $13.42! And handed it over to me to sign. I said, “What are you doing?” to which he casually replied, “We automatically calculated the tip for you!”
I was all “What the HELL? That is half the bill! I’m not signing that.” And, just like I would in real life, I got the manager.

The manager re-rings my order, and then takes my card, and when the printout comes up, WRITES IN THE EXACT SAME TIP AMOUNT, $13.42!!!! I was so angry, there was lots of blathering and spluttering on my part, and eventually, I left without signing anything or getting any food. On my way home, a second restaurant, just like the first, appeared, and I went in and told them what happened, because there were Great Wrongs taking place and I thought the NuPlace manager could perhaps call corporate or something – and it turns out? They knew there was a restaurant doing this scam, under the same name as them, and they told me the other place was totally shady and trying to rip people off and most people don’t catch it when they sign for their meal.

But not me, even in my sleep. I get all UP in the manager’s ass, and make a scene. Poor JWo. He would have moved to the guest bedroom if he’d had any idea the ruckus I was creating in dreamland – he always sidles away when I get my I-Demand-Customer-Service-NOW hat on……

Yesterday was a very tumultuous day, with ALL sorts of stuff going on – it wasn’t until 6:00 last night it finally clicked: The Ides of March! I think it explains a lot. I feel like the only thing missing from the day was a paper cut.
In that vein, I can only close with one line:
Et tu, Brute?

(and I went to about.com to make sure I was saying this right, in case my Latin Experts out there want to weigh in)

Ahhh, teenage years. I was on the phone yesterday with a friend of mine, yapping and laughing, & the words “what about me?” came out, instantly triggering the memory of that schmaltzy early 80’s song by Shannon Noll. I remember I used to sing this song ALL THE TIME into my curling iron, just my own little version of American Idol in my bedroom, as I poured out my angst and soul while wailing out the lyrics, backed by a homemade tape I’m sure was created while listening to Casey Kasem. I remember one particular evening I sang some song over, and over, and over, completely forgetting about my responsibility to keep an eye on dinner, and didn’t remember until I heard the front door open that there was, indeed, chili on the stove (burning), impervious to my melodrama and need to be a tragic star. As my own personal version of Survivor continues, I laughingly remember the words, and how goofy I was, and how even though I’m more grown up, sometimes the drama still fits. Let’s all sing, shall we?

Now I’m standing on the corner, all the world’s gone home,
Nobody’s changed, Nobody’s been saved,
And I’m feeling cold and alone
I guess I’m lucky, I smile a lot
But sometimes I wish for more than I’ve got
What about me,
It isn’t fair I’ve had enough, now I want my share,
Can’t you see, I wanna live
But you just take more
What about me, It isn’t fair
I’ve had enough, now I want my share,
Can’t you see, I wanna live
But you just take more
You just take more
You just take more than you give
What about me…
What about me…
What about me…

Today’s Self Indulgent Moment has been brought to you by? Diet Coke, Dove Chocolates and crunchy Cheetos. Tune in tomorrow when we sing “Cat’s in the Cradle” or perhaps a special song from Dan Fogelberg.

We were both wayyy lazy this morning, I think I hit the snooze at LEAST three times, and then neither of us lept up into action. James told me I did quite a bit of talking in my sleep, which always fascinates me. Apparently I had one full, complete sentence that was understandable, and that was, “I’m going to take myself out now.” Which struck me as odd, until I remembered Part One of what I was dreaming, and that was that we were visiting my mother, and she was being nice at first but then she went into her predictable I-hate-you-because-you-are-fat-so-I-will-weep-and-beg-you-to-have-your-stomach-stapled persona. Oh, yeah. She’s a peach! And while this seems rather dreadful to you, and don’t get me wrong, it is dreadful, but it’s more like a worn patch of rug to me anymore, it’s just part of the decor in House O Jen, I was just SO PLEASED. Because obviously, I was exercising GOOD JUDGEMENT and removing myself from a toxic situation, even in my dreams. Huzzah for moi!

Now, this is where it gets even wonkier, and slightly NC-17. Before I go there, let me just say that at about the age of ten, my father looked at me one morning whilst I was in an excited recount of my dreams from the night before, and said, “Jennifer. Nobody wants to hear your dreams. The only person who finds your dreams interesting is YOU.” Good lord, my daddy could be a harsh bastard man sometimes, but every time I think of him telling me that I LAUGH because it was one of those arenas where he never fully succeeded in stopping me. Ha! I don’t care! And now you’ve given me information on how to torture you!

So, back to my dream, I’m not sure why, but I know what the source was, it was that damned current issue of Martha Stewart Living that arrived yesterday. Martha’s out and already giving me unattainable home projects, and let me just tell you I would love nothing more than to make these cakes, but I don’t want to burn two weeks of vacation time to do it. OH bother I can’t find a picture. Anyway, if you see the April issue, grab it and flip through it – you’ll see a lamb cake, fashioned from using a lamb cake pan mold, and then covered completely with white chocolate curls. Making the chocolate curls alone would take three days. And then there’s a bunny, covered with mini-marshmallows, with chocolate-espresso-bean eyes and yellow licorice whiskers and cotton candy ears. And an amazing chicken you frost with skills that take a month at the Culinary Institute to learn, complete with little coconut-covered chicks. Every one of ’em’s adorable and would take at least 47 hours to make.

Resuming the dream, and cover the children’s eyes, because for some reason (perhaps my gay friend’s bachelor party I need to help organize?) I needed to make penis-shaped cakes. And I had to find a mold, but I couldn’t go to a cake store, I had to shop at this other store, where they had a wide variety of scuba diving and other water-stuff equipment. Most of which was stuff I didn’t recognize, but I was hell-bent on finding these molds for my dickcakes. And half of what I found was NOT GONNA WORK. It was basically a frustrating shopping experience, but I think I did find something to use, and I’ve tortured you long enough with reading about my dreams.

Who knows? Maybe I’ll be surprised next month, when I get the Merry May Issue of Martha Stewart Living, and they’ll have a whole how-to on Crafting the Perfect Penis-Shaped Cake For That Special Gay Man-Bride.

I’ve been in a really melancholy place the past few days. I realize some of the causes of it – for instance, another person’s probably going to quit and then the rest of us have more work to do, etc., but I think in general, I go through a few “mood dips” a year, despite all the cognitive work I do and the medicine that keeps the absolute crazies away. But despite that, the sadness seeps in here and there, and I resist crying over stupid little stuff, as much as I teeter on the edge of doing so. Like I just want to watch American Beauty and get in a good sob. (Not the horse movie, the one with the roses, and the beautiful plastic bag in the wind.) The good thing is, I see this and I feel it and it doesn’t overtake me. In the past the melancholy would wash over me like a huge wave, and I would get caught in the undertow. As I typed this, I realized that this happens to me pretty much every Spring – kinda weird, hm? You’d think Fall would be the more likely candidate for that effect. It’s the opposite – I love Fall, and the burrowing in to Winter. I must have been a bear in a previous life. :)

I think my dear hubby is one of the other reasons I don’t have so strong an undertow anymore. And, despite all the craziness in his family, their existence in my life has given me a whole new set of memories and laughter, along with some of the furrowed brow and irritation that only family (my side included!) can give you.

For instance, surely you noticed I misspelled “melancholy” in the title. That’s because almost all words ending in “ly” at our house are given a special treatment. During one of the first summers we spent down at his grandparent’s house at the lake, we were fishing on the dock. Specifically, in the enclosed section of the dock. While waiting, waiting, waiting, which is the key part of fishing if you’ve not done it, I was looking around. (I can be a bit ADD at times.) There was a big 50-gallon trash can, and it had a sign on it. It said “Can’s ONLEY”. Now, I let the apostrophe go, because that’s a pretty common goof. (forgivable? never. But common all the same.) But the spelling error/correction on “only” cracked me up. I kept saying, “Cans ownLEE! Cans ownLEE!”, cracking both of us up. With that, James and I rooted another inside joke that is still with us today, and so today I can say I’m melancholEE, and smile and get through all of this crap, because I’m not going into the undertow, and there are so many things more important than the things dragging on my ankles right now.

Well, if it’s a buttonhole bag, a la Mason-Dixon Knitting, then I guess I’ve got TWO! My knit friend Leslie made several of these, and they are so cute, I had to jump in and play.
If you decide you wanna play, too, then here’s the pattern.
The first one I made has a little more “character”, because I was teaching a continental knitting class while I was working on it, and I mad-hatter free-wheelin’ used my bag to illustrate various things. I then ripped it all out, but didn’t rip it quiiiite far back enough and so I got a protrusion on one side, with an indentation on the other. Must’ve been showing how to decrease or something. O well! I don’t really care, and if it does end up driving me crazy, I’ll cut the thing into coasters or potholders. :) I used Brown Sheep in a dark navy, light blue & orange. I had to incorporate the light blue, because I felt like just dark blue and orange would come out a little too “DA Bears”.

The second bag was knit much taller, as you can see in the pre-felting picture – and it came out a nice-sized handbag. Good for weekend play. My current focus is on Folly, and trying to get the sleeves done this weekend, so I can start seaming & doing the collar. I am starting to think I won’t get to wear the sweater before next Winter, but, I still feel the need to finish ‘er up before beginning anything else overly ambitious.

Because I can’t have just ONE thing going, though, I am working on Anouk, and while the Pima Tencel cotton is loverly and smooth and soft, it just reinforces my dislike of working with cotton. So hrmph on that, good thing it’s for a baby, right?

In other news, my husband has decided to grow Giant Pumpkins. Giant. Like he’ll be happy if he gets a 300-pounder, but the real competitors grow pumpkins in excess of a 1,000 pounds. You know, we all have our obsessions. This one’s funny and charming and makes me love him even more. I’m sure there will be pictures to come as that project progresses! :)