Overheard outside a single-seater gas station bathroom in Springfield, Mass

"You got to let me in! This broad out here (she's referring to yours truly, gentle readers) doesn't know I'm with you."

"I can't! Veronica's taking a sh*t, and I'm turtling!"

I'm waiting for my car to be serviced. I handed the keys to the mechanic with a look that said, "I will not be judged. I keep a litter box in my car. And dill pickle-flavored sunflower seeds. These things are not for me, but they could be, and I refuse to suffer your reproach." In forty-five minutes I will write him a larger check than I would like and then turn on my heel, regally. I will appear taller than my 5'2''.

I wish I had so much more than my little monies to send to Haiti. I wish I had magical powers. I wish people weren't such fragile things.

off to an impressive start

It's a bad sign when I'd rather illustrate my state of mind with pictures of my cat than expend energy on analyzing my malaise. But here we are.

I've been feeling like this:

Or maybe like this:


I blame the 3700 or so miles we drove over the holidays. I went a little funny somewhere in Ohio. But I miss you. And I'll be back.

Fine, then. Happy jolly.

When nobody thinks it's a good idea to get a Christmas tree, you may have to get the damn thing yourself. Which I did. I picked it out, flirted with the cute tree guy while he tied it ineptly to my tiny car with ten thousand feet of string, and then drove veeeery slowly home. I hauled it off the car, into the elevator, down the hall and through the apartment. I got Snorri out of it, put it in the stand, took off the netting, got Snorri out of it, wrapped it in lights, covered it in ornaments and got Snorri out of it. I may have broken a sweat but was well pleased with my efforts. Then n.o.c. came home and said, "Wow! That's wonderful! I'm so glad we got a tree!"

We? I don't know what you're smoking, but I seem to be the one covered in sap. And you're damn right it's wonderful, fool. I don't truck with less. Merry Christmas.

The tree:

Cosmo from P-town:

From Edgecomb Potters:

From Vermont (and a tribute to n.o.c.'s perfect cribbage score):

And one Pete painted while he was in Iraq, dreaming of snow:

And the Snorracle, worn slap out from attacking the tree:

ambitious

Tonight I begin a baking extravaganza. I'm making these and these and these and these and these. Oh, and this. Lest you think my list a bit too too, rest assured that I'm also pulling out the Bisquick to make sausage cheese balls. Oh, don't even play. You know sausage cheese balls are good shit.

mewwsick

I'm covering for an art class. The students are making sock monkeys, most bizarrely. The teacher, who is apparently far more kind than I, lets the students to listen to the radio. So here I am, critiquing the size of sock monkey hat pom-poms and listening to sh*tbeatsforfourteenyearolds fm. I can't even f*cking tell which voices are digitally altered - can anyone be that nasal? How do they breathe?

All the students are whining along, heads bouncing to the mind-numbingly repetitive beat.

Yes, dear, those button eyes are just the thing for your sock monkey. Look how expressive!

What am I doing?

When life hands you unidentifiable citrus

If the phrase "time out of mind" applies to the contents of your refrigerator, perhaps it's a good occasion to examine your life.

OR, maybe it's time to cut this baby open and see how fermented lime(?) tastes in your holiday cocktail! Cheers!

In similar spirit, The Snorracle perseveres, despite our interfering.