jennsylvania

Knowledge Is Power(?)

While reading last night, I ran across the word "merlon" and I didn't know what it meant, so I looked it up.

According to the Kindle dictionary, a "merlon" is "the solid part of an embattled parapet between two embrasures."

Well... thanks very much for the clarification.

(In my head I've decided it's the red wine that wizards drink.)

So This Is How I Spent My Thursday Afternoon

 

Camera would have been more steady if I hadn't been laughing so hard.  Sorry about that.

Afterward, Fletch and I paid $10 to get our picture taken with the second-place monkey on our lap.  I'd show it to you now, but I'm pretty sure it's going to be our Christmas card.

R.I.P.(ossum)

Let me begin by saying this is pretty much Fletch's fault.

When we made the decision for him to quit his job back in April, it wasn't because he was working a job he hated for a soul-sucking corporation that was drawing every bit of joy out of his life, nor was it because the business end of writing had grown too tricky for me to manage myself. 

Mainly, I needed him around in case a possum were to die in the yard.

And yet today when this very circumstance arose, he was in a classroom learning how to work QuickBooks.

Which is why I can't be blamed for what happened next. 

I mean, he CHOSE to leave me home alone.  He made the conscious decisions to put on his khakis, grease up his head with a liberal supply of hair product, and leave this morning with absolutely zero regard to whether or not I might need to bury a marsupial rodent marsupial.  (Is it both?  I'm not sure because the person I'd ask wasn't here today.)

The story begins last week during lunch.  Fletch and I were having the sandwiches that he brought home from Jimmy John's because a major component of his job is to make sure I don't eat nothing but Froot Loops and then have a sugar crash in the afternoon. 

Anyway, all of a sudden, Libby leapt to attention and began to glower at something beyond the sliding glass door.  Unusual, because there's absolutely no one/nothing Libby doesn't like, including the entire banana plus peel plus a portion of an overripe pear she swiped and digested today. 

We followed her gaze all the way to the back of the yard where a possum was having a little lunch of his own.  Specifically, he was enjoying a fresh pile of - brace yourself - dog waste.

"They eat poop?" I asked, incredulous and appalled at the same time.

"Yes," Fletch replied.  Whether he knew this because he's a walking Wikipedia or because he was simply stating what he was seeing, I can't be sure.

"So do we still need to hire the doody removal service?" I asked.  Recently we had a few warm days when all the snow in the yard melted and all the dog crap magically reappeared.  The guys who take care of our lawn are supposed to remove it but A) it's winter and they aren't around and B) their usual preferred method of "removing it" entails driving a riding mower over it, chopping it up in a thousand shards, and then nodding enthusiastically when I'd inquire if it were gone.  The whole thing turned into a bit of a Mexican standoff (in the figurative sense, not in the non-politically correct sense) and we needed a better long-term solution.

"We'd probably need to bring in more than one possum for that to be effective." 

Do you see?  Even when Fletch is talking out of his ass, he comes across as authoritative and a source you can trust, hence his continued employment. 

(Also, if I were to fire him, I'd have to pay him unemployment.) 

(I checked.)

I took a photo of the possum and posted it on my Facebook fan page.  Some people told me that if we're seeing a possum in the day, he's likely ill.  I relayed this information to Fletch who then said, "How do you know they're sick?  They're in their bathrobes?"

We had a few more spottings over the rest of the week and then once it snowed again, we didn't see the little guy, so I sort of forgot about him.

Last night I went to let the dogs out right before going to bed.  They'd already done their final out for the evening but then Libby got everyone to wrestle and they all inhaled a gallon of water after their battle.

Did I mention what a little troublemaker Libby is?  She's sweet and adorable and so much fun but she totally instigates every bit of naughtiness in the house because she simply doesn't know better yet.  We can't take our eyes off her for a minute or she'll do something like climb onto the kitchen table and raid the fruit bowl. 

As Libby's yet to master the command "come," we keep her on a very short leash.  In fact, the few times during the day that we don't walk her, we clip her on a long lead within the backyard so she's always in our sight when she takes care of business.  (There's one tiny hole in the fence by the pool mechanicals and we have it blocked off, but this dog has a vertical leap like you've never seen.) 

In terms of being smart, Libby is very, very pretty.  She's sweet and trainable, but she's not really much of a "critical thinker."  This is evidenced each time she clotheslines herself on the long lead, which is every time she goes outdoors.  She's yet to figure out where her personal forcefield ends and her wipeouts are both spectacular and frequent.  No matter how many times we slowly and deliberately demonstrate her reach, nothing seems to stick.

As for the other dogs, Loki's a pain in the ass at night because there's too much good stuff happening in the woods behind our house and although he's well acquainted with the "come" command (and royally treated when obeyed) he chooses to ignore us and I end up traipsing through the snow in my bathrobe in slippers to retrieve him.  Last night I decided to clip Loki to the long lead and simply let Libby do her business to save myself the aggravation.  Libby's always sucking up to him and I figured she wouldn't leave his side.

I figured wrong.

So I, of course, found myself dashing through the snow in a robe and a pair of Crocs as Libby made a bee-line to the one open spot of the fence, while Loki barked his damn head off while standing frozen on the patio, not doing his business as he was afraid to make any sort of movement while clipped to the forty feet of lead line.

Libby and I then spent a good deal of time playing hide and seek in the artic air, culmintaing in us reaching the hole in the fence at the exact same time.  However, between the of the two of us, she had the good sense not to trip over the small grayish object right in front of it.

Apparently the possum had returned at some point earlier in the day.

To die. 

As I brushed snow off my knees and scrambled for the puppy, I had the choice to avoid hypothermia by keeping my robe tied shut, or I could remove the belt, arrange it into an ad hoc leash, and drag the frisky puppy away from a serendipitous snack.

I picked the option that didn't include a midnight run to the emergency vet.

Mind you, none of this would have happened if Fletch hadn't gone to bed early in anticipation of rising early for his class in the morning.

When I came inside - and after I defrosted - I woke Fletch up to tell him I'd found the possum and that he'd need to bury him.  He mumbled something about property taxes and Animal Control and promptly went back to sleep.

I spent all morning taking all three dogs in and out on leash because I didn't want them near the dead possum.  When I finally got a hold of someone at Animal Control, they told me they don't pick up dead animals in people's yards and I should simply double-bag him as though he were a sack of groceries and toss him in the trash.

Bet that's a bitch when a deer croaks in your yard. 

Anyway, not only did that feel unspeakably sad, but I didn't want to piss off the kid who picks up our trash in his little golf cart, so I decided a proper burial was in order. 

I emailed the following to Fletch:

Which is your good buryin' shovel?

To which I got no response.

So I found the pointiest one in the garage, donned my warmest (and most somber) coat and set to my task.

I thought the possum would be happiest being laid to rest in the woods.  Funny thing about the ground in Illinois in January, though - it's rock solid.  I think that's why Chicago's gangsters are always dropping bodies in the river - so much less difficult.

As I scouted the landscape from my spot in the woods, I spied all the places where Libby has been digging on the side of the house.  I figured the ground must be warmer there as she's able to displace a good deal of dirt in a fraction of a second, so I found a lovely spot directly beneath the window on Fletch's side of the bed.  I dug down some and figured that amount would be sufficient.

Then I steeled myself for the worst part of the task - moving the possum.  I walked over to where he was, and gently attempted to lift his body on the the business end of my shovel.

The little bastard was frozen solid to the ground. 

For two horrifying minutes I attempted to pry him loose from his final resting spot until I finally freed him.  I wanted to be gentle and respectful but mostly I didn't want to break off any bits because I was pretty sure Fletch didn't want me showing up at his class shrieking about possum parts.

Then I brought him over to his hole and placed him in the ground, quickly tossing shovels of dirt on and all around him.

I said a few words over him and tried to sing Sunrise, Sunset but realized I didn't actually know most of the words and was pretty sure I had the "where is the little girl I married?" line wrong.  Then I stepped back to admire my handiwork and just as I was congratulating myself on a job well done, I had the split second thought that maybe he wasn't actually dead and was just "playing possum."  Then a flock of geese few over, squawked, and I jumped out of my skin.

I took some twigs and fashioned a little cross to adorn the mound of dirt, which, frankly looked a lot easier when Pa Ingalls did it on Little House on the Prairie.

When I got inside, I emailed Fletch again:

Possum is buried.  Shovel is still outside because you might want to rinse it first.

Then I began to wonder if I'd dug his grave deep enough, so I did a quick google search.

Yeah, way off of on that one.

For future reference, should you ever find yourself in the position to be burying a marsupial rodent marsupial, I suggest you do the google search first.

Fletch finally had a break in his stupid class and sent me a note where he used the word "bio-hazard" no less than three times.

Again, if YOU don't want me accidentally creating bio-hazards, then perhaps you should stay home.

For lack of any kind of appropriate response, I ran errands.

As I was checking out at the grocery store, the clerk asked how my day was going.

Listen, if you're not prepared to hear the response, "Not bad, but I buried a possum," then perhaps you shouldn't ask such leading questions.

Anyway, I don't really have a definitive ending to this story, due to the nature of shallow graves and Libby's propensity for digging. 

So perhaps one day we'll see the possum again. 

Until then, let's all have a moment of silence for the marsupial rodent marsupial I called Chewie.

 
Godspeed, my friend.  Godspeed.

P.S. I'm home alone again tomorrow.

P.P.S.  But I'll probably just go see a movie.

I, For One, Don't Get It

It's dark at 4:00 PM.

But it's fifty-something degrees outside.

Yet the neighbors are already decorated for Christmas.

And Starbucks has brought out the red holiday cups.

But my roses are still blooming.

 

Now what? 

Do I deck the bushes with Christmas lights? 

This is all so confusing.

Some Things Can't Be Explained In 140 Characters

How to give me a heart attack in four simple steps:

1)  Be a distant temp job acquaintance of mine and mention your love of chick lit (five years ago.)

2)  Wholeheartedly agree when I ask if you'd like to borrow some books (five years ago.)

3)  Read and return said books (five years ago.)

4)  Accidentally leave NAKED PICTURES OF YOU AND YOUR FRIENDS IN SAID BOOKS, WHICH I FINALLY FIND NOW THAT I'M UNPACKING FIVE YEARS LATER.

Splat. 

Am dead now.

On the up side, I'm a lot less embarrassed about all the pet costumes I've been unpacking.

All We Ever Wanted Was Everything*

*title shamelessly swiped from an awesome book by Janelle Brown

For those who don't follow along on Twitter, I should mention we took possession of our house today.  I'm kind of shocked at how quick and easy the closing process was, especially after all the horror stories I'd heard.  Although since the seven months of house hunting preceding it (and twenty years of renting) were, um, a bit rocky, maybe it was finally time?

Anyway, judging from some of the correspondence I've received lately, I'd say the million dollar question is...

Does the house come with a gun cabinet in the kitchen?

Why, yes.  Yes it does. 

Surprisingly the custom gun cabinet was not nearly as much of a selling point as the place we looked at in February with the cement-walled panic room.  But still, we're never ones to look a gift-arsenal-storage-facility in the mouth, so there are no immediate plans to convert it to a china hutch.

Perhaps our reticence to change it is because there's been a bit of a "crime spree" in the brand new 'hood of late.  And by that I mean that our realtor told us how someone called the police on her because her doggie door closed too loudly.  Then our banker told us how the police showed up at his house recently asking him if a "Mister Tiger" lived there.  As it turns out, Tiger is his cat and one of the neighbors complained about it peeing on their lawn, thus the police were dispatched to administer a stern warning. 

I found these stories sort of ironic, when you consider the Chicago police never came when people used to pee on our lawn.  Or had knife fights on it.  But I guess in suburbia, folks take their lawns and their quiet seriously and I can't help but get behind that. 

Anyway, I'm going to be pretty swamped for the next week so don't expect much going on here, save perhaps for some swimming pit bull videos.

So let me simply end with this - a shot of Fletch and me on the greatest day of our lives.

For those of you kind enough to read my books about our life together, thank you for making our dreams come true.
 

Happy Belated Birthday, America

Yesterday I became one of those people who VOLUNTARILY wear a holiday themed t-shirt for the Fourth of July.

I just took the first step toward the donning of the Dreaded Christmas Sweater, didn't I?

Shit.

Team Edward, Team Jacob, Or Team Take Your Pants Off?

For those of you who wonder if I'll cover Eclipse, the answer is yes.

For those of you who wonder what that means, I'll refer you to the New Moon post. 

For those of you who've seen that post and still wonder why I'm doing this, well... let's just say it beats working for a living. 

So, without further delay, I give you Eclipse: The Jennsylvania Edition.

* * *

Bella and Edward:  Yay!  We're reunited!

Bella:  "Edward!  I totally love you in a non-platonic sense!  Let's celebrate our romance in an, ahem, traditional way, if you know what I mean."

Edward:  "Yes!  I'm absolutely on the same page!  Marriage it is!"

Bella:  "Argh.  Then can you please at least compliment me on my rack?"

Edward:  "Certainly.  Your rack is fantastic.  Are those two kinds of oregano I spy?"

Bella:  "Sigh.  In unrelated news, what up with the big pile of dead folk in Seattle, homie?"

Edward:  "I know, right?  Totes creepy."

Bella:  "My dad says it's the work of a..."

Bella:  "... cereal killer."

Alice, Edward, and Bella:  "Seriously?  We're just plastic action figures and even we can manage to look disgusted with your stupid pun, Jen."

Me:  "I'm sorry.  I had three Mai-tais at lunch today and it seemed funny to me."

Bella:  "Shouldn't we be getting back to my tortured love life?  We need to move this along if I'm ever getting the pants off that foppish Brit."

Me:  "I'm on it.  By the way, a bunch of brand new vampires killed all those guys."

Bella:  "Oh, I'm sorry - are YOU now Stephenie Meyer?  'Cause your checking account doesn't seem to think so.  Piss off."

Me:  "Okay, okay.  I'm going."

Edward:  "No!  I won't let you associate with the wolf-boy!"

Bella:  "Please?"

Edward:  "Nope."

Bella:  "Pretty please?"

Edward:  "No freaking way."

Bella:  "Pretty please with hemoglobin on top?"

Edward:  "My resolve is as immobile as my pants."

Me:  "So, Bella, he not only breaks into your room and watches you sleep but also wants to dictate who your friends are?  Oh, honey... run." 

Bella:  "Why are you still here?"

Me:  "Because the man's over a hundred years old and you're a minor!  It's not only unnatural, but it's also a crime.  Oh, and speaking of statutory rape, can you possibly suggest that Jacob take off his shirt?  Not for me.  For America."

Bella:  "ANYWAY..."

Bella:  "I feel naughty sneaking away and riding motorcycles in the woods with you Jake!  Perhaps this will make Edward so mad he'll try to, ahem, spank me."

Jacob:  "FYI, I'm totally still a werewolf.  My Dirty Dancing jean shorts automatically come off when I phase."

Bella:  "Noted.  But keep your pants on, dude, I only like you as a friend.  I think."

Jacob: "Yet millions of cougars around the world would disagree."

Jacob:  "Team Jacob!"

Edward:  "Team Edward!"

Bella:  "Team I-Would-Be-the-Meat-in-this-Sandwich-If-It-Weren't-for-the-Damn-PG-13-Rating!  Oh, wait, was that out loud?"

Alice:  "Um, hello?  Do you horndogs need me to Mapquest your way back to the plot of this thing?"

Me:  "I can help."

Alice:  "What are you, the Greek chorus?"

Me:  "No, but I don't need to be Euripides to see Victoria's behind everything.  Also, since apparently it's not important to keep main characters consistent throughout the movie franchise, please note that the actress who was playing Victoria has been replaced..."

Me:  "... by Betty Draper."

Victoria:  "My husband Don Draper would first nail Bella, then he'd smoke, then he'd pay her five thousand dollars to go away."  

Me:  "Wrong show, sweetie."

Victoria:  "Oh, right.  My bad.  I guess I'll just raise an unholy army and off the bitch myself."

 
Bella:  "She's going to kill me before I ever get your pants off."

Edward:  "Not to worry, I'll fix everything."

Bella:  "Ooh, did you get us a room?"

Edward:  "Better - I enlisted the whole wolf pack to help us."

Bella:  "Aces."

Bella:  "If I get Lyme disease out here, you're in big trouble, mister."

Edward:  "We'll mask your scent with the wolf-boy's stink.  Victoria will never find you."

Jacob:  "Stink?  The makers of Axe Body Spray for Men beg to differ."

Edward:  "Whatevs.  Now go take Bella to a cold, cold mountaintop.  And try to keep your shirt on.  You're not stealing this movie from me, too."

Jacob:  "I promise nothing."

Jacob:  "I'll keep you warm, baby."

Bella:  "Well, since we're practically in Canada, it really wouldn't count, so..."

Edward:  "Hey!  Don't mind me!  I'll just freaking risk my afterlife while you may or may not make out with a dog!"

Victoria:  "Hey!  Edward!  Checkity-check it!  It's your reflection!  And I think I saw some hair gel behind that rooster cookie jar!"

Edward:  "The only thing I love more than gazing at my tousled locks is Bella.  Say good night, Betty.  I mean, Victoria.  Damn it, you're right, Jen - it IS confusing."

Me:  "I told you so."

Edward:  "Um, hi?  Kind of busy here."

Me:  "Right.  Have at it.  Sweep the leg, Johnny!" 

Edward:  "Victory!  And now, decapitation!"

Me:  "I paid seventy-four dollars for that doll.  Let's just say we beheaded her, alrighty?"

Edward:  "You, ma'am, are no Stephenie Meyer."

Me:  "Yeah, and yet I could write you into some really shitty fan fiction, so if you want to keep your virtue pal, you'll STFU."

Edward:  "Fine.  Are we done yet?"

Me:  "Almost."

 
Edward:  "Now there's nothing standing in the way of our wedding!!"

Bella:  "Yay."

Edward:  "You realize that means I'll take my pants off."

Bella:  "YAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1!!!!!!!!OMG!!!1!!PONIES!!!ELEVENTY!!!1!!1WOOOOOOO!!!!  But wait... I wonder how Jake will feel about this?"

Edward:  "He's run away, so perhaps we'll never know..."

THE END

 

Bonus Friday Post!

Just saw these links on Pub Rants... oh, you guys.  I'm not going to explain The Awesome.  Just watch them for yourselves.

And

And

And if you now spend the weekend calling everyone a stupid bitch?  You're welcome.

Today's Dose Of Shame Is Brought To You By Fox

Dear Self,

The reason that news story made no sense to you is because Haeley Vaughn and Haley Barbour are two entirely different people. 

One is the cute little girl who got kicked off of American Idol during the semi-final round and one is the Governor of Mississippi.  That explains why you were so surprised when you heard about the young singer - previously only seen hot-gluing silk flowers to headbands - questioning the constitutionality of the heath care bill.

Perhaps you should invest in one of those "I'm with Stupid" t-shirts, only you'll need to find one with the arrow pointing up.

Best,

Jen

P.S.  This is why I don't let you talk about politics on your website.

P.P.S.  You realize Haley Barbour isn't even a chick, yes?

You Realize I'm Not Actually Going To Live Outside, Yes?

Okay first, I have links to a couple of interviews I just did...

Here's the article on Suite 101

and here's the link for Pajamas and Coffee 

In other old business, your emails to Living editors are working and the response to the Humor Hotel columns has been great!  (I suspect emails from subscribers hold more weight than non-subscribers, just FYI.)  My first column comes out on March 23 and if you think I won't mention that a million more times between now and then, well, you'd be wrong.

In keeping with old business, we do net yet have a purchase or a rental home secured.  Ha, ha!  No panic here!  But it's getting warm out and Fletch and talked about finding a place with more outdoor living space.  And what has more outdoor living space that the actual outdoors?

In new business, it would appear that I've given myself pink eye.  Double barrel.  Because apparently I am both twelve years old and dirty.  My eyes started to get irritated a few weeks ago due to a combination of house stress and allergies.  Because I couldn't keep my filthy fingers out of them, hello conjunctivitis!

I made a relatively mortifying call to my physician to get eye drops.  My doctor sounded distressed, employing a shotgun line of questioning on exactly what had been going on with me lately.  I thought her concern was odd and a bit intrusive until I remembered the reason for my last visit. 

Earlier this winter, one of the kittens horked up a small worm.  If you recall when we rescued the guys this summer, they were about a day away from dying due to massive dehydration and infestation.  (Luckily, their problems were nothing three surgeries, seven thousand dollars, and a canceled Hawaiian vacation couldn't fix.)  My vet told me that no matter how thoroughly the kittens were treated, there's always the possibility of a straggler.  Also, if one kitten has worms, they all have worms.  And if the kittens have worms, the dogs probably have worms, so I took them to the vet, too.  After treatment, my dogs' vet mentioned if my pets have worms, then there's the slightest possibility I might have worms.

Awesome.

So I went to see my doctor.  In order for her to diagnose me, she needed a sample.  I sat there in my drafty paper gown, waiting for her to get out a needle and draw my blood.  Instead, she came back with what looked like an enormous white plastic top hat and instructed me to place it on my toilet seat and "go to town."  Then she gave me some little spatulas so that I could divide up said sample for various tests.

When I got home, I stared long and hard at my white plastic top hat and spatula collection.

And I decided I'd rather have worms.

And then I spent two weeks dodging my doctor's follow up calls.

So it makes sense that when I've presented twice with symptoms more commonly seen in the homeless, it stands to reason that she was worried.  I assured her that all was well, she didn't need to call Adult Protective Services, and that I wasn't living outside.

Yet.

The Evolution Of A Bad Idea

10:15 PM - Hmm, getting late.  I should get ready for bed.

10:30 PM - Hmm, getting even later.  I should get ready for bed.

10:45 PM - Someone on the internet is mistaken and I must express my displeasure with many upper-case letters and exclamation points.

11:00 PM - It's really not getting any earlier, is it?

11:10 PM - Nightly skin inspection in bathroom mirror.  Not perfect, but not bad for my age/lifestyle/aversion to sunscreen.

11:11 PM - Hey, what would happen if I used a magnifying mirror during my inspection?

11:12 PM - SWEET JESUS, MAKE IT STOP!

11:13 PM - Re-inspect by light of bedside lamp.  Ah, all better.

11:14 PM - But what if I put in a brighter bulb?

11:15 PM - IS FURRY BEAST!  KILL IT!  KIIIIIIIIL IT!

11:16 PM - "What do you think I'm doing?  I'm looking at my skin in this mirror.  And I've either got to wax this mustache or start giving rides on it, ha ha!"

11:16 PM - "What do you mean, 'I don't think that expression means what you think it means'?"

11:17 PM -  Oh.  Then that man at Target with the "Free Mustache Rides" logo was wearing a very dirty shirt.

11:18 PM - "Then I would like to amend my previous statement.  I need to wax this mustache or learn to twirl it, ha ha!"

11:19 PM - I should tweeze this thing.

11:20 PM - I should find my tweezers.

11:21 PM - Ow.  Ow.  Ow.  Ow.  Ow.

11:22 PM - Screw this.  I need a professional waxing.  Must make an appointment.

11:25 PM - Can't.  Stop.  Fondling.  Mustache.

11:30  PM - Fine, I'll do the goddamned thing myself.

11:40 PM - Can't find new tub of wax I purchased for just this very occasion, so locate old container.  Is very old.  Is possibly the exact same tub that Moses's wife used to remove her unwanted facial hair.  (Desert light is unforgiving.)

11:41 PM - But it's wax.  It's not like it could go bad, right?

11:42 PM - "I'm not 'banging around and keeping you awake.'  I'm doing something important."

11:43 PM - Microwaving.

11:44 PM - Microwaving.

11:45 PM - Microwaving.

11:46 PM - Microwaving.

11:47 PM - I think my microwave may be broken.

11:48 PM - Ah, there we go.

11:49 PM - I don't have a stick, so I'll just use my finger to stir this hot, molten lava.

11:50 PM - "Well, what do you expect?  I just seared off my own fingerprint!"

11:51 PM - Blow and cool.  Use damaged digit to spread wax liberally on my Tom Selleck.

11:52 PM - Wait for wax to harden so can pull off unsightly hairs in one (briefly painful) fell swoop.

11:53 PM - Is not hardening.

11:54 PM - Is not hardening.

11:55 PM - Is not hardening.  Is sitting on upper lip in a big, sticky blob.

11:56 PM - Begin to tentatively peel off wax millimeter by millimeter.  (Hate metric system.)

11:57 PM - Is like removing chewing gum from underneath cafeteria table, only ouchy.

11:57 PM - Hurty.

11:58 PM - Hurty.

11:59 PM - So very hurty.

12:00 AM - Use sticky bits of already-peeled wax to slowly pry off other gummy bits. 

12:01 AM - Oh, yeah, this is WAY better than waiting nine hours to pay a professional ten dollars to handle this in five seconds.

12:02 AM - The good news is the hair is coming off. 

12:03 AM -  The bad news is, so is my skin.

12:04 AM -  How mad will he be if I wake him up to help me?

12:05 AM -  On second thought, he'd be mad for a second, but the mocking would last a lifetime.  Must cowboy-up and finish job myself.

12:06 AM - ...And it's finally off! 

12:07 AM - Except for those small, tacky bits with the Kleenex stuck to them.

12:08 AM - I know, I'll use baby oil.  That gets rid of sticky stuff.

12:09 AM - Hmm, I don't have a baby oil.  Instead opt for canola oil.  (Is hearty-healthy.)

12:10 AM - Wax is off, now to remove oil.  Need toner.

12:11 AM - But tossed out toner after that whole "who thought it was a good idea to make this stuff the exact same shade of blue as the nail polish remover?" incident.

12:12 AM - Will use Fletch's toner.  Quietly.

12:13 AM -  !!!

12:14 AM - "WELL MAYBE THEY SHOULD HAVE WRITTEN 'GLYCOLIC ACID' IN BIGGER PRINT ON THE BOTTLE!"

12:15 AM - Probably should plan to make an "I'm sorry I got shouty after midnight mousse" tomorrow.

12:16 AM - Inspect skin in magnifying mirror by light of new bulb.  Hair is gone, but lip is swollen in manner of Simpson's character.

12:17 AM - So this is what I'd look like if I had the capability of growing a big, red fu-manchu mustache.  Noted.

12:18 AM - In retrospect, perhaps "learn to twirl it" wasn't such a bad idea.

12:19 AM - Is really late.  Must get ready for bed.

12:20 AM - I wonder if anyone else on the internet is wrong?

Leftovers

The polls are now closed. 

Thanks for your 3,234 tour city suggestions!!  I love that you guys are excited!  (However, I'm a tad less excited about counting and tabulating said results.  I suddenly wish I hadn't been too lazy to fill out the DePaul University paperwork last spring, as this is a job with UNPAID INTERN RECEIVING CLASS CREDIT written all over it.)

Anyway, this time of year is normally what I like to call The Holiday Drinking Season.  Generally I'm done with all my new-book work by Thanksgiving and I have until January to do a whole lot of nothing.  But for some reason this year I'm still busy writing and editing.  I have two more projects to complete before I can exhale, relax, and post a proper blog; I'm hoping to be done before Christmas.  Until then, I'll make due with another holiday staple - leftovers. 

Following you'll find a whole bunch of unrelated topics that I haven't had time to develop.  There's no theme to tie them together.  Plus, I don't have any kind of big finale, so chances are high I'll just end the post abruptly.  

Point? 

I'm going to stick all these thoughts in a big stuffing, mashed potato, and green bean casserole sandwich and call it lunch. 

Maybe it's not a real meal, but if you're hungry, it'll do.

* * *

A LOT OF SAP

We have a couple of big windows in the front of the house in a bumped-out section of the living room.  This spot's pretty much the perfect place to put a Christmas tree.  We didn't set it up there last year because I couldn't figure out how (read: was too lazy) to rearrange the furniture to accommodate one.  Plus, after spending so many years in apartments where trees wouldn't fit, we erred on the side of caution and bought one too small to properly fill out that space.  We ended up putting it next to the stairs, which was fine.

Little did I know that Fletch spent the entire year imagining how magnificent a larger tree would look in that spot.  So, when we went to Home Depot on Saturday, he pulled an "I insist" and dragged me over to where they kept The Big Trees.  (The "I insist" card is an immediate and irrevocable debate-ender and can only be played by either party once per quarter.)  (This is my gift to you this holiday season.  When employed judiciously, the "I insist" will increase your marital happiness ten-fold.) 

After slicing open a dozen webbed behemoths and deeming them too sparse or too dry or too lopsided, Fletch spotted a quiet giant standing outside of the fray.  Fletch snapped closed his jack-knife, regarded the looming Frasier fir, and stated, "I have a good feeling about this one." 

We paid for our purchase and overtipped a couple of kids in Carhart jackets to help Fletch hurl and secure it onto the roof of the car.  That's when we got our first real clue as to the tree's true size.  "This thing must weight 150 pounds," Fletch said.

When we got home, we (read: Fletch) somehow managed to take it off the roof and wrestle it up the front stairs.  The second Fletch got to the living room, he dropped the beast onto the rug, thus causing the entire house to shake.  This was our second clue as to what might be looming beneath the festive green webbing. 

Then it was up to me to figure out new furniture placement.  (Turns out to have been easier than anticipated.)  After everything was moved, Fletch fought the tree into the stand and then slashed open the thin threads holding in all the branches.

Remember when you were a kid and they had those little dinosaur sponges that would instantaneously swell up ten times their original size when you got them wet? 

Yes? 

Then you've got an accurate picture of what happened once the tree was released from its plastic prison.  With a resounding WHOOMP, branches flew out in all directions and I suddenly found myself in the middle of a Chevy Chase movie.  Sticky green limbs boinged into the ceiling, knocked the spring-bar-loaded sheers out of the window frames, and smashed into the glass. 

Fortunately, whomever designed this house understood the Christmas Vacation vibe the bump-out would inspire and installed in reinforced panes. 

However, I'm not taking Pella off speed-dial because of the assholes also known as my kittens.  Do you have any idea how goddamned exciting it is for a pack of feral cats to suddenly find an eleven foot tree in the middle of their habitat? 

I could practically hear the thoughts rattling around their tiny brains as they assessed Treezilla. 

Chuck:  "DIS BELONGS TO CHUCK NORRIS!" 

Odin:  "IS OUTDOORS INDOORS NAO!  MUST MAKE PEES!" 

Angus:  "OH, NOES IS MONSTER, ATTACK, ATTACK, ATTACK!"

They've now spent the last five days hanging out under the tree, climbing the tree, doing their best to knock the tree through what I imagine are very expensive windows, and generally beating the stuffing out of the lower branches.  I've yet to decorate it because I fear exactly how batshit-crazy they'll go once it's covered in shiny round objects.

Also, did I mention how each of the kittens is coated in a healthy dose of sap? 

The only upside is each time the kittens walk across my computer desk, they smell like gin and tonic.  From an olfactory perspective, it's almost like I'm participating in The Holiday Drinking Season.  Which is nice.

* * *

CARDED

For yet another year in a row, I'm too disorganized to send out Christmas cards.  My intentions are always good and ideas rock-solid (everyone wants a photo of a pit bull in a Santa hat and beard, yes?) but it's been a perpetual FAIL in terms of execution.

However, with all the press the Copenhagen summit has received, I'm explaining my lack of holiday greetings as an attempt to be "green."

Am kind of a hero, really. 

(Unless you count driving a 14 MPG car against me?)

* * *

COLORIZED, INDEED

I've been working my way through a list of classic, must-see films.  This weekend, Fletch and I were feeling particularly festive after buying Treezilla, so we bought the colorized DVD of Holiday Inn.  If you're unfamiliar, it's a classic film starring Bing Crosby and Fred Astaire and it's full of famous Irving Berlin music.

We'd never seen it before, thus were completely shocked at how casually racist a few scenes were.  I mean, maybe those were different times and that kind of stuff was common back then, but sweet baby Jesus, was it ever culturally appropriate to perform an ode to Abraham Lincoln in blackface?  Fletch was all, "Is it just me, or is this incredibly offensive?"

No, honey, it's not just you.  

And by the way,"White Christmas" has an entirely new meaning for me after seeing that movie. 

Thanks a lot, Irving Berlin.

* * *

Hey, wait, this whole thing had kind of a theme afterall. 

But I can still end abruptly.

A Quick Essay Having To Do With Nothing

Here's a little sample of a project I've been busy with lately.  Ultimately, this piece wasn't successful but I still think it's decent enough to share.

I’m not normally one for conspiracy theories.  I mean, I don’t doubt the Apollo mission was real.  When Neil Armstrong took one giant leap for mankind, I’m convinced he did so on the moon and not a soundstage in West Hollywood.  

I believe Elvis is neither alive, well, nor patronizing a Burger King in Michigan.  I’m pretty sure most UFO sightings stem from the Heene family’s desire to be on television.  I feel like barcodes are nothing but inventory management keys and I’m willing to wager the biggest secret the Freemasons are keeping is where the keg’s hidden. 

Point?  My closet’s full of hats but none of them are made of aluminum foil.  Yet despite my firm belief most events can be explained by Occam’s Razor, I’m fairly certain people in my life are conspiring to kill me.

I suspected my cleaning women had it out for me when they waxed the pedals on my elliptical machine, turning grippy rubber pads into tiny skating rinks.  (Fortunately, the machine is largely decorative.)  My misgivings were confirmed when I noticed the stairs had been glazed into glass with a hundred coats of Pledge, while my shower floor’s been untouched for so long it should be mowed, not scrubbed.

I have a hunch Jordan, my ancient gray tabby, is in on the plot.  For the past seventeen years, she’s been content to huddle motionless on a heating duct like a small, furry homeless person.  But ever since I had her decayed teeth removed, she’s taken to darting out in front of me a la Hogan’s Alley.  (Can she still chew, you ask?  Judging from the filet she swiped and inhaled last week, the answer is yes.) 

Hey, guess what, Jordie?  I’m not Leona Helmsley and you’re not in the will.  Also, after paying the equivalent of college tuition for your surgery, my only asset is a handful of plus-sized Madras plaid pants.  This brings me to the next likely conspirator - Martha Stewart.

Unless you’ve been living under a rock - or in a gym – you’ve noticed the cupcake revolution.  Once the bastion of school birthday parties, cupcakes are now sold in boutiques, not bakeries.  (Coincidentally, a dozen costs exactly as much as the original Apollo mission.)

Happily, gourmet cupcakes can be replicated at home using Martha Stewart’s recipes.  The woman calls for using a pound and a half of butter in a vanilla-cream frosting that’s so addictive the cake becomes nothing more than a lipid-delivery-vehicle.  I consider every insidiously delicious bite another step on my path to an angioplasty.

The fourth horseman in my coming apocalypse is the guy up the street with what I call the JFK assassination-mobile.  Said Lincoln Continental came complete with its original 1961 muffler, which stopped muffling around the time LBJ slapped a pair of longhorns on its hood.  The extent of my neighbor’s mechanical prowess entails revving the engine for hours on end, which serves the dual purpose of (a) causing the blood vessels in my brain to rupture and (b) nothing.

Last night, I’d just fallen asleep when the pictures on my wall began to rattle.  For 911 purposes, I needed to verify it was my neighbor’s car and not some other jerk with a forty-eight year old muffler.  So I dashed to the stairs where my socks hit the friction-free zone and caused me to take flight.  I banked off the wall and bumped down twelve of the slickest risers ever.  Miraculously, I landed on my feet only to stumble over the cat and into the leg of the couch.  The subsequent snapping in my left foot prompted shouting so loud I feared I’d burst a buttery artery.

As I clutched my chest and my foot, I finally realized the highly coordinated plot against me and I vowed to buy aluminum foil first thing in the morning.  You see, I have a hat to make.

Taylor, Show Me On The Doll Where The Bad Cougar Touched You

(Caveat: Yes, this is another Twilight post, and no, I'm not going to bust out the action figures.)

(Should you have already tired of my obsession, you might want to stop reading here.) 

(Also, I've gotten a lot of shit from people about digging the series, but come on!  Worldwide, Stephenie Meyer has sold EIGHTY-FIVE MILLION BOOKS.  As an author, how do I not get behind that enterprise?)

I'm finally finished with my edits, so I celebrated by seeing a New Moon matinee.  I'm fairly pressed for time the rest of the week, so I was delighted to have the opportunity to go yesterday.  Otherwise, I'd have had to wait until next week, which is fine, although there's something vaguely exciting about catching a movie at the beginning of its run. 

I got to the theater early and had plenty of time to collect my trashcan of popcorn and bucket of Cherry Coke before choosing a good seat.  (I never finish more than a third of either, yet having ample qualities of both is key.) 

As I settled into my chair, I began looking around at the rest of the crowd.  Normally weekday matinee audiences encompass all ages and sexes - there are the retirees who stop in to see a show after hitting the bookstore, college students killing time between classes, high school kids skipping class, Bally's members who just worked out so hard they're too rubber-legged to make it to the parking garage, the unemployed, and the underemployed. 

But yesterday I noticed the only people in the theater were women in their thirties and forties.

"Wow," I thought.  "Welcome to Cougar Town."

(I interrupt this New Moon post to say I just received seven pies via FedEx.  SEVEN PIES.  My friend works for FoodsAcrossAmerica.com and she's coming for Thanksgiving, so she said she'd take care of dessert... apparently for the rest of our lives.  She wasn't sure what everyone would like, so she sent one of everything.  Which is SEVEN.  Seven pies should go fairly nicely with the THIRTY-SIX pounds of wine I'm having delivered tomorrow.  Turkey?  Screw turkey, there's no room in the fridge for a bird.  Pie and wine for dinner it is!) 

(Would not be the first time.)

Ahem, ANYWAY, the second the movie started, the theater went quiet.  No, scratch that - dead silent.  I've never been in such a crowded place with so little noise.  People weren't even shifting around in their seats.  No one was pulling out cell phones to text message, nor was anyone whispering amongst themselves.  I'm talking utter, rapt, undivided attention.

Which made it all the more obvious when the entire audience gasped as Taylor Lautner removed his shirt. 

Which then made the entire audience laugh in embarrassment, and suddenly every Cougar for Cullen in that room started doing the kind of math that does not lead to any answer other than shame and possible jail time.  The great irony is when Robert Pattinson went shirtless later in the film, the audience didn't let out a peep.  You, with the pasty English belly - out of the way for the werewolf! 

I'm not writing this as a review, because despite how much I enjoyed the film, parts of it were just silly.  I mean, the CGI werewolves were supposed to be terrifying, not hilarious.  And regardless of accuracy, Jacob removing his shirt to staunch Bella's blood is only going to spur on gratuitous head wounds every time this poor kid walks in a room. 

I guess my point is if I were Pattinson, I'd be on the phone with my agent, like NOW, demanding that I have more face time in the next movie because the kid completely stole the show.  What's funny is Taylor Lautner's chemistry with Kristen Stewart was so much more palpable than hers with Pattinson, and they were actually dating at the time. 

I'm going to put the prediction out there that if Lautner continues to choose roles as well as he has, he's going to end up the biggest star of this whole enterprise.

He's got that kind of charisma.

And pecs.

I wonder how he feels about pie and wine?

(P.S.  Team Jacob!)

(P.P.S.  Team Age of Consent?)

(P.P.P.S.  Team Shame.)