I'm Only A Grinch Till I Get Stuff

Remember how it was when you went back to school the day after Christmas Break? The only topic of conversation was what everybody got. You were originally pretty happy with the loot you found under your tree, but then some rich bratty kid would piss everybody off because they got a pony that pooped cotton candy, or a solid gold hovercraft.

Tom and I only got each other token gifts this year. You know - a DVD, a hoodie, small but useful things. The vehicles have broken down a few times, and we decided we really want to try to take a few-day-long trip as soon as we can after the first of the year, so spending money on stuff for each other wasn't a priority. He got some gift cards for his family, and we got some things for our son and daughter-in-law... both useful (winter tires) and fun (gift cards).

Honestly, the most shopping I did was for their dogs, my grand-dogs, Odin and Darwin (or LittleDarwin, or Darwin2, however you want to keep them straight because of my Darwin that lives here in BroZarkWinVille). They got a bag full of toys and treats, as well as lots of hugs and skritches from their Grammy.

At any rate, it was pretty clear that I wasn't going to have much to share with the gang when I go back to school work tomorrow. The giant box of Zapp's potato chips from my sister came a couple of weeks ago, and have been mostly consumed. Check from my mother-in-law was deposited and used toward my December credit card payment.

Then yesterday we went to see the son and daughter-in-law. This year has been pretty chaotic for them. They got married, but this is also her first Christmas without her mother, so it was far from a typical holiday season. It turns out they decided what would make things a bit more fun was to keep the festivities to a real minimum, but to be super-extravagant on gifts for the few people they'd see. Like us.

There are parents who would be bothered by their kids spending so much. I am not one of them. I remember an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond in which Ray buys Frank an aquarium for his 65th birthday, and Frank flips out when he finds out that one of the fish cost $60. He says it makes a parent look bad if their kid is buying them stuff like that. Ray says no, it means you raised your kid, and he's doing well, so he can afford to spend the money. (Not like you didn't spend an assload of money, even when you didn't have any, raising them.)

So I totally agree with Ray. The kids are doing great, and I'm happy about that. Probably the best gift of all is knowing that I don't have to worry about them having a nice place to live, reliable vehicles, all the things they need, and the toys and travel they want. That sort of knowledge is a huge load off a parent's mind!

They recently bought a big flat-screen TV and a Wii. Tom has been playing Wii at Wal-Mart for months. Now he can play on his own big TV, because that's what the kids gave him.

On the way home, he said, "Wow, I just played sports with my kid. Kind of. And he beat me!"

To appreciate the humor of this remark, you must remember that The Boy is my kid when it comes to sports. While Tom never met a sport he didn't like, we would prefer to avoid activities that involve any combination of being outdoors, sweating, or being in contact with other people.

Yet, because it is high-tech, The Boy has always enjoyed video games. I've never played them. Not since Circus Circus on the old Atari system, around 1981. I always suspected that this was all leading somewhere unpleasant, and I was right. With Wii, you're expected to... move.

If I'm going to play any video games, they should be ones that Stephen Hawking could play. Like, I could control them with my mind, or - at the most - movements of my eyeballs. Because I can already break a sweat just using a keyboard, and I'm not interested in anything more strenuous than that.

So Tom was as happy as a kid at Christmas. Exactly like that.

I sort of feel like I hit the jackpot though. First, our daughter-in-law made me a really nice, snuggly fleece throw. It's purple and green and pink. Very girly. With skulls and crossbones. Because that takes it from nice and practical and a totally sweet thought, to... awesome.

Now, do you remember these Dressy Bessy dolls?


This is how generations of little girls learned to button buttons, zip zippers, buckle buckles, and cut the ponytails off things with hair.

How does a gift-giver translate the useful and endearing qualities of Dressy Bessy to suit my personality and (warped) sense of humor? Simple. I need a Dismember-Me Plush Zombie.


Instead of learning to tie shoelaces, I can practice my decapitation and disembowelment skills. I'm also pretty sure that if I write the name of an enemy on it, it will double as a voodoo doll. Fun, functional, and versatile!

Then... a gift certificate to Amazon that put a Kindle within my reach. I'd thought I wanted one, but wasn't sure. Then I met her Kindle, and it was love at first sight. What better for "Immediate Gratification Girl" than the ability to discover a book and be reading it on my Kindle in one minute? The Kindle was ordered before I went to bed last night. And as of this morning, my wish list on Amazon for books to download was up to 43.

If you think about it, this gift is going to cost me a fortune. But I don't mind.

I'm not sure who is happier. The kids for giving us this cool stuff, or one of us. I was pretty sure it was me, but Tom just summoned me down to the family room. He has figured out how to play Wii and watch football at the same time on our big-screen TV using the split screen.

I might not see him until after the Superbowl. Or the Wiicathalon, if there is such a thing. Normally this would upset me, but in a few days I'll have a Kindle to play with, so it's probably fortunate that he has something to keep him amused.

In the meantime, I'll get back to work on my wish list. I do have a birthday coming up in 10 days...!

Another One In The Books

Brody shares my holiday sentiments. We might have to acknowledge it, but we don't have to be enthusiastic. Another one down, and let's get on with 2010. Hope your holiday was whatever you wanted it to be... or something. And best wishes for the coming year. It's going to be a big one for us.

The Less You Expect, The Happier You Are

I was just looking out the sliding glass doors at the freshly-snowed yard. We've gotten about 4" so far from this storm, and are expecting a total of 12-14".

Me: It looks really Christmassy out there.
Tom: Yeah. You should go out and string some colored lights on the fence. (Joking, of course.)
Me: Ha. It's a Saturnalia Miracle that I did what I did. (Got tiny tree out, obtained James Garfield holiday card from The Bloggess, put up several historic family decorations.)
Tom: You did good, Grasshopper.
Me: Oh, yeah, it was real hard.
Tom: Hey, you got all that stuff out and set it up.
Me: It took about five minutes, and you told me where the box was.
Tom: Well, it took energy to get off the Sofur and do it.
Me: (shaking head) Wow. I've set your expectations for me really low, haven't I?
Tom: Yeah. You did a good job.

My work here is done. I'll be on the Sofur.

Just Hit Me In The Mouth With A Hammer

(Warning: FFFan1 and other dentalphobes might want to skip this one. Unless you're only weird about your own teeth, and actually find joy in the discomfort suffered by others. Then, by all means, read on...)

I went to the dentist again on Tuesday, this time for a couple of fillings. I'm not usually bothered by dental visits, but for some reason I was a little anxious this time.

I mentioned to the technician and the dentist that the tooth that had been crowned at my last visit was very cold-sensitive. The dentist told me that this should get better before long. I was reassured until I realized what this meant.

Apparently we are waiting for what's left of that tooth to die. Now there's a festively morbid thought. Guess I hope it dies soon, because anything a single degree below body temperature is a whole new adventure in pain. If it's not better by the time I go back in a couple of weeks for the prep for my next crown, I'm going to demand he kill it. I'm pretty sure that's still legal in Minnesota.

As on previous visits, he asked me if I'd like some nitrous before he began drilling on the dental-victims du jour. The last few times I said "no," because I figured I had to drive home (two blocks) and did not want to look around and realize I'd somehow ended up in Iowa and wasn't wearing any pants. And was driving someone else's car.

Yesterday, though, I was feeling rebellious. We had the following conversation, most of which is true.*

*Except for the parts I made up.**

**Or can't entirely remember.

Me: I don't know about the nitrous. How long would it last?
Dentist: Oh, not long at all. Toward the end we switch over to oxygen, and you'll be fine by the time you leave.
Me: Okay, then, I'll give it a shot. I'm feeling a little anxious today.

(What I'm sure was a very attractive clown-nose device was applied to my facial region, and I was instructed to breathe through my nose. However, the technician decided to start talking to me about dogs, so I was obligated to talk back. I don't know how to not talk about dogs. A few minutes pass.)

Dentist: How are you feeling?
Me: (Consider a moment, think about the big Q-Tip with numbing gel wedged in my jaw, the thing on my nose, and whether or not my anxiety is at all decreased. Nope.) I don't think I'm feeling it yet.
Dentist: (Fiddles with some device I can't see because it's behind me.) You're not feeling tingly or floaty?
Me: (Wiggle my fingers, checking for tingles or floaty-feelings. Nope.) Not yet. (Thought occurs to me.) I drink kind of a lot, so maybe I have a really high intoxication threshold. (This is probably true. Plus my lungs are currently recovering from smoking for six-plus years, so maybe they're not sucking up the nitrous very well. Stupid lungs.)
Dentist: Have you had nitrous before? (As if a lack of previous experience with it is my problem.)
Me: Yes, when I had my wisdom teeth out. (I did not mention that this was in 19-a-long-time-ago, and back then it might've been called Ye Olde Nitrousse Oxyde.) (Then I felt compelled to offer more information.) That time I was so relaxed that I wanted a mirror so I could watch them pull the teeth. They wouldn't give me one.
Dentist: (Silence, then he summons another technician in to check the machine.)
Tech: Seems to be working fine. The bag is expanding and deflating the way it's supposed to.
Me: (In my own head) Want more nitrous. You promised me tingling and floating, and it's not happening.
Dentist: How do you feel now?
Me: (No longer talking to the first tech about dogs because I'm concentrating on keeping my mouth shut - around the numby Q-Tip - and sucking as much alleged nitrous through my nose as possible) I'd say less than one Jack and Coke.
First Tech: Need to break out the tequila?
Me: A couple of shooters would be just about right.

(More nitrous is inhaled)

Me: I figure I'll know it's working when I stop caring. Right now I still care a little. And the thing over my nose is more annoying than helpful at this point. I think a two Jack and Coke level would be about right.

The thing over my nose is not removed, so I just breathe some more.

Eventually, they decided I was relaxed enough, though I had to wonder, and the stabbing of Novocaine into my gums commenced, followed by the numbifying of the entire left side of my head. The thing is never removed from my nose, but after a while I realized I really didn't care anymore, because all the drilling and grinding and digging and chiseling and prying that was taking place inside my mouth should have been much more alarming than it was.

But none of it hurt, so that's good.

Then I came home and was hungry. I really wanted to eat some of the seafood fettuccine I got out of the freezer, but was afraid I'd accidentally chew off my own tongue. Then I decided I was more hungry than worried, so I ate some fettuccine. I kept putting food into my mouth, chewing carefully on the side that I could feel. Then I'd realize I had put much more food into my mouth than I seemed to be swallowing, and I'd poke around, only to discover it hiding on the numb side. I would reach in and poke around till I moved it over to where I could feel/chew it.

When Tom got home I kept trying to talk to him, but it was freaking him out. He said with one side of my mouth not quite mobile and/or functional it kind of looked like I'd had a stroke, and it was creepy. I think he was having unpleasant flash-forwards to what he imagines his future with me will hold. In order to maximize his discomfort, I used words with lots of "p" and "b" sounds, like "puppy," "bubble," and "problembly," which I kind of stole from the Bloggess, but I added an extra "b" for effect. Because these moments of precognitive health humor horror don't come along often, and you have to make the most of them. Hey, if we can't laugh at our own future medical infirmities, what can we laugh at? (I refuse to say "at what can we laugh," because even though that's technically better grammar it sounds ridiculous.) And really, once it happens it won't be funny at all, so we'd better laugh now, right?

(Taking a time-out to remove a wad of dog hair stuck to keyboard with dried canine perma-drool. Why am I just noticing this now?)

(And we're back.)

It was all going along fine until the numbness wore off. Then all the fun was over and the ouchiness began. And today that crowned tooth on the other side is very achy, so I'm formulating plans to hasten its demise. None of these plans involve pliers and a hand mirror because I don't know where to buy nitrous, and I'm not entirely convinced that it would buzz me into zero-anxiety-land anyway.

Dentist three days before Christmas. And the next appointment is the day before my birthday. Whose brilliant idea was that??? One of these days I'm going to hire an assistant to handle these details for me.

I have no idea how to wrap up this post, so I'm just going to lie and tell you I have to go get a paper towel for emergency dog-drool-removal from my precious laptop.

Nothing Says "Festive" Like a Giant, Balding Boar's Head

Before what I'm about to share will make any sense, you have to be familiar with The Bloggess (Jenny Lawson) and the day she met - and was denied - James Garfield. Because Victor (Mr. Bloggess) hates patriotism and giant, alopecic, were-bear-boar heads. And then you have to read the post in which Victor has a change of heart - or is perhaps just worn into submission - and brings James Garfield to his rightful home.

I understand the concept of seeing something and just knowing you have to have it. It happens to me from time to time, and there's no fighting it. Don't even bother. When I decorate my Writing Lair, it will be full of all kinds of things like that. I'm currently obsessed with the butcher knife chandelier I saw last year at the Hell's Kitchen in Duluth.

(There are no words to accurately describe the magnitude of the fantabulousness, or how happy this stab-tastic decorative accent makes me.)

Since I'm sure they aren't willing to part with it, I'm going to have to make my own. In the near future, I'm going to start scavenging through antique stores for a suitable chandelier and a whole bunch of old, well-worn, scary-stabby-looking knives. Bonus points if they have unidentifiable stains.

When I discovered that The Bloggess was offering to send holiday cards featuring James Garfield to a limited number of faithful readers, I didn't even hesitate. "Hi Jenny, it's me. Here's my address. Please send James Garfield card immediately if not sooner. Love, Lori." Or something like that.

I got my card this week. It is the only holiday card I'm putting up, so if you were thinking of sending me one, save yourself a stamp. My Grinch is holding James Garfield, and he's so huge in his awesomeness that there's not room for any more cards.

(James Garfield, with his metaphorical halls most creatively bedecked.)


(And... this is exactly the kind of card The Bloggess would create. Exactly.)


(Do not try to burgle my card. Grinch is guarding it, and he will mess you up. This is the pre-heart-growing-in-size Grinch. You know, when he was still all Grinchy and cool.)

No, I did not send cards this year. Again. Tom sent some to his people, but until I have my butcher knife chandelier, which I can decorate with tinsel and broken ornaments and make my own James-Garfield-worthy card, I don't see much point.

Don't Tell Me This Is Impossible. Really.

Must. Formulate. Plan.

This needs to be a brilliant, effective, possibly miraculous plan. It must be stunning in its simplicity, and produce quick and impressive results. It should also require little to no effort for reasons that will soon become clear, if you haven't figured it out already.

(Hint: I am incredibly lazy.*)

(*Oops. Guess that's not exactly a hint. More like the answer. You're welcome.)

I need to figure out how to lose twenty pounds without A) any sort of physical activity at all, and B) having to give up any of the foods that make my life worth living (which is most of them).

"A" should be obvious. There are very few reasons worthy of working up a sweat. I can only think of one. Well, maybe two, if you count running from zombies. Assuming I would run. But zombies kind of shamble, so if I did run I wouldn't have to run very fast and probably wouldn't even perspire.

"B" should also be obvious, if you know me even slightly. I am not at all good at sacrifice, willpower, or self-deprivation. I'm more like "Immediate Gratification Girl." If I can either lose a few pounds over the next couple of weeks or eat the sandwich right now, I'm totally eating the sandwich now. Followed by a cookie. And then possibly another sandwich.

I had gastric bypass surgery eight years ago, and haven't had to worry about my weight in all that time. But over the past year or so, the number on the scale has crept a bit above my ideal range... and since I stopped smoking a month ago, it's crept up even more. My surgically reduced tummy-pouch's capacity is probably more than it should be.

But I love what I love. I love carbs.

I've never met a bread I didn't like. (Pausing to consider if I've ever tasted a bread that was icky... Nope. All delicious.)

I love potatoes and pastas. I love salty, greasy and crunchy. I love Hostess Cupcakes and Tim Tam cookies.

I do love vegetables, too, which you would think would be healthy... but they'll probably be smothered in butter or salad dressing. And not the fat-free kind. The blue cheese dressing I have in the refrigerator is something like 160 calories per serving, and 150 of those are fat calories. Because fat calories taste a million times better than non-fat calories.

I'm not willing to give up any of these things. But I really would like to lose twenty pounds.

Now, I could start smoking again. All that coughing probably counted for some abdominal crunches or something. And emphysema and cancer are sort of vague, theoretical, sometime-in-the-future threats, right? But fat/thin, I can see that right now.

However, everybody seems pretty happy and supportive, offering strong endorsements and positive reinforcement for the whole "no-smoking" thing. Plus, I'm not actively poisoning Tom and the dogs anymore. So there's that.

Which means I can't go back to smoking. I suspect that would not be a popular decision.

Maybe it would help if people gave me tangible forms of positive reinforcement to keep me in the ranks of the non-smokers. (i.e. "gifts") (or "rewards") (or "bribes") (Call them whatever you want, as long as they are plentiful.) That would fulfill my immediate gratification needs and not require smoking. Cash is good. Or clean my house. Just a suggestion.

Thinking should burn more calories. I'm always busy in the ol' noggin. My brain is in really, really good shape. It's like the Brain Triathlon up there. But the size of your jeans is not determined by the activity in your brain, but by the magnitude of your ass.

Which is a stupid way to run a universe.

I'm still perplexed. How am I going to lose twenty pounds without exertion or sacrifice? I suppose I should go get another cup of coffee and a Tim Tam and think about it some more.

I'm sure if I think hard enough, I'll burn off the calories in the cookie.

A Dear Minnesota Letter

Dear Minnesota,

We've been together 13 years now, and there have been some good times. But after much soul-searching, I've been forced to admit that it's just not working out. I'm afraid I'm going to have to end it.

I'd like to say "It's not you, it's me," but truthfully... it's mostly you.

I started with the best intentions. We were going to share so much, I was sure I'd love every marvelous inch of you, and I was going to spend the rest of my life with you. But it turned out that you weren't at all what I thought you would be. As hard as I've tried to make it work, I deserve to be happy. And it's unrealistic to expect you to change.

You have a lot of great qualities, truly. You have scenic rivers and zillions of square miles of unspoiled wilderness. You have wolves and bears and moose and eagles. I've actually only seen the eagles, but that's not totally your fault. I haven't been able to invest the time required to fully experience all you have to offer. Tom and I thought, when we moved here in 1996, that we'd spend several weeks and numerous long weekends every year exploring the natural wonders and plentiful wildlife. But we found ourselves working (and working and working...) and unable to find the time.

Your public relations campaign is also a bit misleading. People who haven't lived here think you're cold and snowy, sure... but that's only partly right. There's really not all that much snow. Not that I'm a huge snow fan, but I do enjoy my seasons. But I'd rather have more snow if you could give up the "not rising above freezing from November to March" thing. And it's not just "below freezing." Lots of that time is "below zero." And really, I don't see why we even measure temperatures below zero. Let's just call it what it is. "Too freakin' cold to go outside without a parka worthy of an Everest expedition." For, like, half the year.

I can't do it anymore.

You have made many significant contributions to my life, and I don't want to fail to recognize that. Since getting to know you, I discovered golden retriever rescue and Great Pyrenees rescue. If not for you, I'd never have had Sprocket, Sassafras, Gulliver, Seko, Ruxpin, Darwin, Brody, or Ozark. I never would have met T, Jess, Sam, Steph, and many other wonderful people.

Tom and I never would have had the incredible vacations up north of Ely on Big Lake, with Ripley and Sprocket running and swimming and rolling in the pine needles. We never would have had those precious times on the island in Gunn Lake with our Sprocket in the last year of his life. Sprocket sure loved it up there.

And how I love the North Shore of Lake Superior! Tom and I had the perfect 25th anniversary last year at the cabin at the Grand Superior Lodge, with our re-commitment ceremony by a shaman, and dancing by the campfire on the rocky beach.

Ryan would never have met Rachel, either, and we're all extremely happy that he did. He also might not have followed the course of study he did, and have the excellent job that he's found. They wouldn't have Odin and their Darwin, either, and they're such great dog-parents, and I'm so glad these two little puppers have them.

But I can't do this any more. I can't have numb feet from October to May. I can't look at my beautiful pool hidden under a black tarp for 3/4 of the year. I can't think of all the scenic natural wonders that are a short drive away, knowing I can't get away from my day-to-day life enough to enjoy them.

So I have to leave you. It's going to take a while for me to get all my shit together and get out. There's some financial stuff we have to take care of, and then we'll have to sell the house, but I wanted to let you know so you can get used to the idea. I know you'll be fine without me, eventually. I believe Ohio will make me happier in the long run. I'll still have seasons, but winter won't be eight months long. I'll have sassafras trees again, and lightning bugs. I could have a peach tree if I wanted, and I can grow roses that will actually survive from one summer to the next. I'll have to pull out the Zero Xposure parka a few times a year, instead of living in it from December to March.

I'll be able to live in the little slice of paradise that I find, rather than knowing it's here, but just out of my reach. I can't live waiting for "vacation time," I need to surround myself with what makes me happy every day. I'm getting too old to keep talking about "someday." I need to make someday now, every day, for as long as I can.

I hope you understand, and can move on. You will always, always have a very special place in my heart. I hope we can be friends, because I might want to visit from time to time, but my future lies elsewhere.

Fondly,
Lori

It Took Forever To Get One Decent Picture But Here It Is

I'm lacking the time, motivation, and material to write an actual post, but Darwin did get groomed today... Brody got groomed last week, and Ozark is lookin' pretty darned good, so I figured I'd better get a picture while it lasts. Because it will not last.

So, pictured above, are Darwin, Brody and Ozark, out of the more convenient BroZarkWin (tm) order. I tried to get them to line up appropriately, but honestly I was lucky to get them all in the same room, sitting, and in one frame, without worrying about positioning them in any particular predetermined formation. I'd park them, someone would move. I'd re-park them, and Brody would decide to sniff Darwin. (He just got back from the groomer's, so he smells funny. Apparently.) I'd get them all sitting again, and Darwin would rush the camera. Because the photographer (me) had treats. Hence their rapt expressions. Then while I was trying to get Brody to stop sniffing Darwin, Ozark would get bored and wander off.

I'm exhausted.

The Strangeness Continues

As I reported in Sunday's edition of Fermented Fur, something strange is going on. Recently, I have mysteriously found myself cleaning closets, and I ventured into Wal-Mart twice in one day, despite not having been there twice in the previous four to six months. Plus, I quit smoking 19 days ago, and I am eating everything in sight. I've developed a disturbingly intense relationship with Hostess Cupcakes. (Not those perverted Little Debbie's Creme-Filled Chocolate Cupcakes. That would be disgusting!)

I was getting nervous. But now... I'm outright terrified.

I was off work today, a fact that might be nearly irrelevant given the time I spent talking to the owner and two of our technicians... one of whom quit today. Oh, and let's not forget the "credit card terminal is broken and it's going to cost a ridiculous amount to take care of this" part of the program. Woo. Hoo. I had planned to sit on the Sofur (Don't act like you're surprised. We all know you're not.), crochet, read a bit, and maybe - maybe - pull everything off my bookcases, dust, and return the books in proper alphabetical and/or Dewey Decimal order. They've gotten a bit jumbled in recent months, and the library nerd in me is finding this to be a source of constant low-grade anxiety.

Instead, I decided I needed to make chili. As you know, I do not cook, yet I somehow have the savant-like ability to throw together an incredible pot of soup or chili. The catch is that no matter how much or little I try to make, it always ends up exactly filling my giant 9-quart stock pot. That's a lot of soup for two people.

So. On my day off, I got dressed, put on makeup (and a bra), and drove to SuperTarget... which I am aware costs marginally more than Wal-Mart, but it's closer, and makes me slightly less homicidal. I got tomato juice, tomato paste, Ro-Tel tomatoes, Hunt's diced tomatoes with chili seasoning, Bush's mild chili beans, a can of organic chili beans which also included black beans, chili seasoning, ground beef, ground buffalo, onion... I think that's it. Oh, wait, I also got some of these:

(How is it possible that I was unaware of these cookies until today? It says "Australia's Favorite Cookie." Aussie readers... is this true? And if so, why did you not inform me, given my recent lust for all things chocolate? I'm deeply disappointed.)

I also got pickles. But that was the end of the semi-normal part of this out-of-character trip to the store on my day off to buy ingredients to make something more or less from scratch. (Wow, when you look at it that way, there's nothing even semi-normal about any of that. Yet it gets worse. Much, much worse.)

I strolled back to the book section. Because... well, if you can't figure that out on your own, there's really no hope. I thought maybe I'd grab the John Sandford book that Tom has been wanting, and for which my name has not yet come up on the library's reserve list. Oddly, Target - which is a Minnesota-based corporation - does not have bestselling author John Sandford's books... and he lives in freakin' St. Paul. I smell some sort of publisher-vs-retail outlet feud, but the point is that I could not get the book.

But this all led me past the holiday department.

And they had these cute clear plastic star-shaped boxes of sparkly little ornaments. Ooooh... glitter.

I bought them. Along with ornament hooks and some sparkly-star garland.

(It's the multi-colored set. Some were shiny glass, some matte-frosted glass... and one half of the box was alllllll glittery ones.)

I honestly have no idea what came over me.

I came home and got the chili cookin', as well as fielding a couple more work-disaster-related calls... and then I ventured down to the Closet Under The Stairs where my 18" pre-lit fake Christmas tree lives. And I carried it upstairs.

Instead of just plopping it on top of the book case (It can't go in the bay window... not since Brody and Darwin moved in.), I actually took every old ornament off, along with the crystal-icicle garland. And I re-decorated it. From scratch. Using not only all but a couple of my old ornaments, but every one of the new SuperTarget ones. I did end up using my crystal icicle garland, because the little sparkly-silver-star one was kind of crappy.

I vow not to even bother with the stupid little tree every year. Then about a week before Christmas I cave, and spend all of four minutes getting it out and plugging it in. Here it is, a full 22 days till Christmas... and I have a tree up. Yes, it's 18" high. Yes, it's fake. Yes, it's still accompanied by my (much-beloved) Grinch and Max figures. But it's there.

(Ho-Ho-What-The-Hell???)

(Kind of lame picture of my favorite ornament. Drunk mousey on a Christmas-tree-shaped wine rack. That is so many kinds of awesome.)

There is something very, very wrong here, boys and girls. After my post on Sunday, Merely Me suggested this might all be a cleverly nefarious plot instigated by my husband. He gets clean closets, home-cooked meals, and some semblance of holiday cheer. Since the odds of this occurring naturally are essentially zero, he must be up to something. He's putting something in my relaxing adult beverages, perhaps. He's spiking my Hostess Cupcakes. I have to figure out how he's managing this, and put a stop to it immediately.

Unless, of course, today's slip into holiday-land had something to do with Target. They might (or might not) be piping some sort of holiday hallucinogens through the ventilation system. There could be subliminal messages in the store's sound system. "You feel overwhelmed with the holiday spirit... you will buy many, many presents... you will buy festive decorations with which to adorn your home... oh, and you need some of those Pepperidge Farm Tim Tams. They are Australia's Favorite Cookie."

Either way, this is not occurring naturally. I'm sure of that. I need to get to the bottom of this - and soon - or I'm going to start buying tinfoil-lined hats.

Oh, and I forgot to mention. I'm also "baking." Sort of. Technically I have frozen bread dough (two kinds) rising in a warm oven. I couldn't figure out why the loaf wasn't rising, concluded it could be because it's probably been in my freezer for a couple of years, and got a package of Texas roll dough out. I'm currently waiting to see if either of them will rise enough to bake before Tom goes home.

So, I'm going to go check on that... and eat some more chili.

Dogapalooza

Sometimes I get ideas of topics for blog posts, but by the time I sit down to write, I can't remember what they were. Lately, I've been busy trying to resist the urges to smoke (not so hard) or to clean closets. You'd think it would be easy to not clean closets... but in some Bizarro-World, it's been harder than I would have guessed. Yet I'm persevering. However, I think tomorrow might be "pull all the books off my four bookcases, dust everything, sort and reorganize books, return to shelves in proper alphabetical and/or Dewey Decimal order" day. Because my life is just that exciting, and I am that big a book nerd. I might actually have a difficult time sleeping tonight.

I've been a bit lax in keeping up with stories about BroZarkWin (tm). You'll have to wait a week or so for significant updates on Darwin, because at the moment he remains an enormous mess, pretty dirty, undercoat all clumped, and varying amounts of yard debris tangled in his tail and undercarriage. His day is coming, though... he has an appointment at Little Suzie's next Thursday. If we don't somehow (miraculously) manage to bath, brush, de-mat, and de-undercoat him this weekend, I'll go pawn a kidney or something and let the pro handle it. They do such an awesome job with my large, unruly, ridiculously-thick-coated dogs.

Today, we'll focus on the "Bro" and "Zark" portions of BroZarkWin (tm). First, some photos of Brody taken yesterday, the minute I got him home from Little Suzie's. Thus far, he has been kept in the pool area when he goes outside. I know that when he does go out in the yard, all the leaves and twigs will be drawn instantly to his beautiful, clean, fluffy tail, and I simply can't bear the thought. Behold the Beautifulness that is Brody!

(See my many, many rear dew claws? I have a total of 22 toes, with 23.5 toenails. It's complicated. But awesome.)

Ozark has been busy, too. He goes to work with me at least twice a week. Besides keeping me company, he has become Chief Puppy-Sitter. At 114 pounds and 10 years old, Ozark is extremely patient, gentle, and indulgent with puppies. When they get a bit bigger, he starts to get nervous about them. But when they're small, like little 11-pound, 5 month old Murphy, a mini Australian Shepherd owned by Dr. White, he loves them.

(Happy much?)

And, for the Grand Finale... a couple of video clips I shot today! Try not to smile... I dare you!