Friday, December 30, 2005

Needs hypnotism...will travel

Well, I just finished my morning run with Theresa, where we solved many dating problems (for her and our friends) and were convinced we had all the answers. Now I'm home again, where my relationship is hogging the bed and isn't making the coffee for the fifth time this week. Heh! That'll show me!

99% of the time, I look over at my giant bed lump and get all mooshy. But, he better get off his lumpus and help me find my goddamned earrings. Heh again.

At least I'm not as hysterical as last night, although I suppose it's always a good sign to actually recognize your hysteria. I am also aware that I probably should have told him, "If you don't help me look for them, I'm going to get even more upset." Because boy's are stupid. Throw rocks at them.

Late night insanity

I am losing my mind. And no this is not wedding trauma. In the past, let's say six months, I have lost my grandmother's diamond and platinum wedding band, which I have had for about ten years without so much as placing it in the wrong box. And apparently between Thursday night and today, I have also managed to lose my great great aunt's faceted onyx earrings. And I just don't DO that. I can be absentminded. I'm not arguing with anybody over that. But I don't LOSE jewelry. My family is going to murder me.

So I was tearing the apartment apart looking for the earrings...and the ring STILL, working myself into a froth of self-recrimination and convincing myself I was going insane, when A.S. comes home, begins eating MY cheese and totally ignores the panic I'm in. I realize he's been out with the boys and probably is beer sodden. I don't care about that. But if I came home and he was in a frenzy, I wouldn't just sit there chewing and staring like an IDIOT and not saying anything while he lifted the bed singlehandedly. He could have at least ACTED fucking concerned! BLINKING would have helped. GAH!

This is probably all a product of having had my space invaded, even by someone I love (please see the June post about my mother and the underpants) for a prolonged period of time. And keep in mind that my apartment is about 600 square feet and is suddenly harboring two people and the porch plants (in from the cold) and all of the Christmas loot. There isn't room to MOVE in here right now, and it's driving me crazy. The earrings could be covered in the rubble that has enveloped every stationary surface in my place. So I'm losing my earrings, my mind, my personal space. I'm about to fucking freak out!

I'm not breaking up with anyone. I'm just ranting on my blog to keep from crying and ripping my hair out. I need a little fucking understanding and I'm not getting it. Fucking men. Fucking bats. Fucking stuffy head. Fucking early onset Alzheimers. Where are those goddamned earrings!?!?

Thursday, December 29, 2005

One track mind

Wow, I have gotten NO WORK accomplished in THREE DAYS! How amazingly unproductive of me. But while typing out guest lists and potential first songs and bridesmaid lists and flower choices, I keep admiring the way my ring flashes in the fluorescent light. So pretty.

I am helpless but to obey the power of the One Ring.

Yesterday, in between searching for photographers online and vandalizing the leftover office Christmas treats, I had to go visit the allergist to see what the fuck is going inside with my head. Two months of sickness is making me wither. I could be Darth Vader’s stunt double and James Earl Jones would weep with jealousy.

At 1:30 the allergist and her team of sadists began the extensive interview process, reviewed my CT scans, tested all my vitals…then at 2:30, the stabbing began. STAB! STAB! STAB! And they had to do the stab tests sloooowwwly, lest I suddenly go into anaphylactic shock. That was super fun. I highly recommend it as a way to spend your ENTIRE AFTERNOON. And the nurse kept coming in and applying more needles, and she kept saying, “Hmmm…surprising.”

Not nice.

And then she’d say, “I’ll be back in 15 minutes, don’t scratch,” which even if you’re not itchy, makes you want to writhe around on the wool carpet, grunting like a dog in a dead squirrel (was that too descriptive?).

So the lesser stab tests shows…NOTHING! So they move on to shots under the skin. STAB! STAB! There were so many, she refused to tell me the total number. I look like something out of the Matrix, I have so many holes in regular rows all over my torso and arms. I’m HIDEOUS! At least my fiancé, A.S. (hee), was properly sympathetic when I got out of the shower this morning. And by sympathetic, I mean a look of sadness and empathy, rather than shrieking and covering his face in horror whilst waving me out of the room.

Anyway, those tests also came up blank.

The suffering! The woe! All in vain!

Apparently I’m allergic to something atypical (it’s the fucking bats, people.) and they can’t test me for it without doing some research. So I’m on massive steroids and sprays and pills and all kinds of fun things, which, hallelujah, have rendered my nose operable for the first time in 57 days.

Last night, I could smell my fiance’s minty fresh breath. Please realize that there has been no prolonged smooching for some time, since it has the same reaction as X-Men’s “Rogue” with her paramours.

(.2 seconds into smooth) Can’t…breathe…must…come…up…for…air…dyyyyying…

I lie around gaping like a fish after each bite of food even. It sucks.

Anyway, last night incurred lots of smooching. Lots and lots. And then this morning, I could SMELL! And TASTE! And I went for a run without collapsing in a ditch panting and begging for mercy, and when we ran past the waterfront park, I could actually smell bacon cooking. It was heavenly! Cheese tasted like CHEESE! Coffee tasted like COFFEE! The shnozberries tasted like SHNOZBERRIES!

Also, with the four hours spent being stabbed and abandoned, I got on the horn and booked the reception site, the church, the minister, the florist, the band…and I think that’s it. Today I booked a caterer. We’re having Spanish food and sangria (plus a regular bar) and lots and lots of CHEEEESE! Mahon, Manchego, Cabrales, Idiazabal, Iberico, Urgelia, Garrotxa, Valdeon…bring it all! God I love cheese.

So I guess maybe I haven't been totally unproductive. Just unproductive at work.

Monday, December 26, 2005

Sparkly: Short Version

Friday morning, A.S. and I decided to go for a walk in the woods at Dixie Plantation. It was a gorgeous day, warm and sunny, and my first time off since he's been in town. We tramped through the fallen leaves and watched as the dogs gamboled up the path ahead of us, frisking around merrily in the sunshine. While they went for a swim in an old rice field and bounced through the cypress knees, A.S. had his arms around me, resting his chin on top of my shoulder. And under that oak tree and sunlit sky, A.S. pulled out a red box with a diamond ring and asked me if I would marry him. And I said, "Yes."

Sparkly: Long Version

So Friday morning, A.S. asked me if I would like to go the beach. Imagining my neighbor's beastly cur dog, which I am sitting for while the Sexy Attorney is in Guatemala, streaking down the beach, disrupting a dozen family picnics and causing a violent upheaval amongst the villagers, who would attack with pitchforks and torches, I said, "Hmmm, no?"

So we took sweet Little Belle and Daisy the possum dog to Dixie Plantation instead, since it was simply gorgeous outside, and my first day off in FOREVER. Leaving town, we had an issue of potential karmic backlash involving a bag of doritoes and a gas station attendant undercharging us...we had to turn around and go check the receipt in case she would have had to pay for it out of her measly earnings. She hadn't, which made the extra stop somewhat irritating for A.S., and then, what with all the turning around, Daisy got carsick and puked in the back of A.S.'s Outback. Belle looked horrified and leapt into the front seat and gave me the Twist Mouth for forcing her to sit back there with a vomiting cur in the first place.

Then we got stuck in traffic and A.S. started foaming at the mouth, which is really unusual for him. I'm normally the one swearing hysterically at other drivers and vibrating the steering wheel. Meanwhile, I sat there in the passenger seat, knitting and talking about the time when we broke up and rattling on about nonsense and tralalala. After all, it wasn't my car that got hurled in.

When we got there, I helped A.S. by holding up the rubber matt for him to rinse off, and the nastiness came right off. Only A.S. didn't wait for me to hold the matt away from me before rinsing, so it all ran into the toes of my running shoes, which was very chilly...and gross. Still, I didn't much care about all that, although A.S. was properly apologetic. I must have been in an extraordinarily zen mood.

At last, we tramped through the fallen leaves and watched as the dogs gamboled up the path ahead of us, frisking around merrily in the sunshine. We strolled along the avenue of oaks and chatted about San Francisco and Christmas presents and happy things. While the two pooches went for a swim in an old rice field and bounced through the cypress knees, A.S. had his arms around me, resting his chin on top of my shoulder. And before I knew it, he pulled out a red box with a diamond ring (three round brilliants in platinum) and then gently turned me around and asked me if I would marry him. And I said, "Oh my God!"

And then I said, "Yes!"

And then the dogs went forgotten and shivered in their wet coats while we gazed in mesmerized fascination at the ring and the trees and each other and asked a million questions.

A.S. Did you suspect?

Jemima: Not at all! You're very sneaky! Did you ask my dad?

Of course!

WHEN? When did you ask Daddy?

Yesterday, when I helped him clean up after my party.

That was smart. Was he nice to you?


Were you nervous?

Not as much as just now.

You didn't seem nervous. Were you afraid I'd say no?

That's what my mom asked.

No way!

Yeah, but I told her I was pretty sure you'd say yes.

Why were you nervous?

I don't know. It was a big moment. I actually almost forgot to say anything.

You did?

Here, let me try again. Will you marry me?


Oh. Good.

Hey, guess what!


We're getting married!

Holy crap!

You're my fiance!

You're MY fiance.

Were you mad I didn't want to go the beach?

No, not mad. But I had this whole spot picked out.

I would have gone. I feel so guilty.

Don't feel bad. This is a perfect spot. Hey...nice ring.

And so on, ad nauseum...

Then we went and had champagne at my parents' house, my neighbors' houses, his parents' houses, a Christmas party, at a Spanish wine bar (three bottles) and then peach moonshine when we got home. And it's been like that ever since...DRUNK!

Man, we have been drunk since Friday at 3:00 without ceasing, stopping go or collecting $200. He just came in from the dove field and asked me if I'd like to go to a half dozen Christmas parties, and then we both started cackling like morons. We're staying in tonight and grilling. And not drinking. Much.

I also went and looked at churches today with my mom and sister. For like...two years. I had two country churches in mind, and they were at opposite ends of the earth, so we were in the car for about four hours and peed in the woods about six times. I liked to think that I was marking my territory. So we're getting married June 10th, and there may be cows at my reception. SO THERE!

Monday, December 19, 2005

X-Mas = Xanax

If you had stuck a fork in my eyeball on Saturday, it would have been the nicest thing that happened to me all day.

I had to go to the MALL (shudder), which was completely filled with short old people, with giant perms shellacked to withstand gale force winds. They surrounded me in the Belk’s men’s department, waving shirts at me and demanding Stafford oxfords, while I suffered a sinking spell and grasped a display of men’s tidy whities for support. “I DON’T WORK HERE!” I shrieked, flogging them with a display of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer ties and stampeding for the NE (or was it NW) exit. I was so befuddled that I accidentally purchased half poly boxers for A.S. Rather than return them for 100% cotton, he’s just going to have to chafe. Because. I’m. Not. Going. Back.

So, synthetic fiber aside, I am now officially finished with Christmas shopping. *ting*

We here at Rutledge Place have exchanged gifts, and I think mine were received okay. I brought all the boys mugs from The Jones Pottery in Ashville, where my friend Matt Jones has his studio in the barn next to his house. His ceramics are beautiful, with all of these natural glazes and local clay. For the girls I bought knitting lessons, so we’d all have an excuse to do something together. I’m bringing wine (white) and cheese (mmm, cheese) and have purchased gift cards for them for the lessons. I’m a little concerned that I should have bought everyone needles and a ball of yarn, but I didn’t know what color they’d want. Maybe I should ask Molly at Knit to include that as part of the gift and bill me afterwards. The envelopes with the gift cards were pretty cute—I tied them closed with this multi-colored yarn and made little yarn balls on one end and hot glue gunned colored toothpicks together to look like knitting needles for each gift. The only person I’m not sure liked it is my neighbor Wes’ girlfriend. She’s awfully nice, and I thought she might like to get away from the house (she just moved in with him from NY) and hang out with some girls. But knitting might not be her thing. Oh well, she feigned pleasure at least.

Speaking of knitting, A.S.’s scarf is so beautiful, I could barely stand to wrap it and put it under George, our Christmas tree. By the way, “George” is French and has an accent, so A.S. has been speaking to him in French, which cracks me up. Over breakfast yesterday, he kept talking (en Francais) about what a bright future George has, perhaps in a park, with flowers, children…maybe even cows. “COWS?!” I said, “Where the hell are planning to take George?”

George is about a foot tall with tiny lights and tiny ornaments. We are very fond of George. A cow pooping on him could kill him.

Anyway, A.S. is going to luuuurve his scarf. He is also getting slippers, since he covets my sock monkey slippers, and about 12 pairs of boxers. His underpants are all in tatters, which is so sorry. If we get in a car wreck, the paramedics will think I don’t love him.

Everyone has been asking me if I think A.S. will propose this Christmas, and frankly, I don’t want to think about it at all. It is extremely unlikely that he will do any of that until after he graduates, which is a pain in my ass planning-wise, but I refuse to be one of those nagging women begging for a ring. I do have my pride. But what really sucks is that I wasn’t thinking about it very much until three people brought it up in a single day, and now it’s on my mind and driving me crazy. I’ve done that before, and it just leads to disappointment and surliness. With that mindset, if he bought me a G5 and a trip to Venice, I’d still be pissed because I didn’t get a proposal, and that’s just silly.

His 30th party is nearly upon us, and I have started to get that queasy feeling that means I’m forgetting something or someone. I have to make chili and cakes for 40. My dad’s already bought firewood and has ordered the oysters and beer. Mom is making dip and cornbread. A.S.’s mother is bringing wine. I am picking up tombstones and vulture balloons. WHAT ELSE IS THERE? GAH!

I also spent HOURS last night making oreo truffles. The only ONLY good thing about them is that they make me hate oreos with a passion usually reserved for right wing political figures. And if anyone has seen me polish off an entire bag of oreos singlehandedly, they know that I must be really sick of making truffles. They are for work friends and people I don’t see very often, and also for those people who drop by unexpectedly with a present and make me feel awkward. So I have about 40 baggies of little truffles and the sight of them makes me stiffen and wretch. Bleh. Bleh. Bleh. The only reason I still make them is that everyone LOVES them and begs me to make them, and I figure that once a year, I probably deserve a little suffering.

Monday, December 12, 2005


Don't you just luuurve it when doctors actually show concern for your ailments? Rather than nodding, mumbling and writing you a potentially useless prescription, I like it when they raise eyebrows, ask questions and make appropriately sympathetic noises. Well, my doctor was VERY dismayed that I had been sick for 38 or so days and agreed I should see an allergist and also slapped me on Augmentin, which should kill every last bacteria in my entire body, say Amen, say Boomshakalaka. And I saw when she wrote out the allergist referral, she wrote "AND BAT GUANO" in all caps, just like I typed it. See, I'm not the only one concerned about the possibility of hystoplasmosis. I got nothing against bats, but their poop, I no like so much.

Anyway, they drew mass amounts of blood. Like vats of it. Gouts of it. It was like a colossal draining, a letting if you will. I don't miiiind it so much, and on someone else I could care less. But I can't really look at my own. The time before last when I donated blood, I was either low blood sugar or just went all goofy, but ultimately I passed out and had convulsions. Boy, people sure are nice to you after they've watched you bounce about on the floor with just the whites of your eyes showing. All the cookies you can handle. Then the last time I gave blood, the untrained volunteer forgot about me, and I sat there, with my little baggie swelling and swelling at a most alarming rate, and I finally picked it up and trotted around until I found someone who knew how the hell to cut the thing off. Fortunately for me, after you spend any amount of time in an African country, they're not so keen to take your blood anymore. Too many creepy crawlies, so i haven't donated blood in years. Huh, nothing a little Augmentin can't handle.

At any rate, I'm certain that I'm on the mend, which is great news. Even better news is that my sweet little Aloysius is getting maaaarried. It's like that little girl in Father of the Bride, when Steve Martin looks at his daughter and all of a sudden she's four with pigtails and announces she's met a man and she's engaged and they're in love and getting marrrried. Only I didn't know Aloysius when she was little. Nor am I that much older than she is to have flashbacks of this sort. But still, I hadn't done more than look at the picture before calling and shrieking hoarsely in her ear (imagine Marge Simpson's sisters shrieking), "OHHH MY GOD! I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! I'M SO HAPPY FOR YOU!" What's funny is that she started out having such a crummy year, what with being usurped by the Asshat Former Boss and temporary poverty. And now, she's moved cities, started a new career, bought a house and embarked on a new life with her love.

I'm so proud of you, Al, and happy for you!

Sunday, December 11, 2005

The Dog and I...

...are sitting on my newly upholstered couch watching Two Towers and lusting after Aragorn. Well, I know am. She's just tending to her personal hygiene, which leads me to believe she is also.

Why does Liv Tyler speak in this dramatic whisper for the entire trilogy? I love her, and she's a hot elf, but she does overdo the whisper. And Elrond is and will always be Agent Smith from the Matrix, no matter how many elves he plays. I keep expecting him to say, "How can you french my daughter, Mr. Aragorn, if you have no mouth?"

And Cate Blanchett just sucks in these movies. It's like listening to Cher sing with that crazy electronic booster. It's. Just. Not. Real.

Got up and went on a 8 mile run with the CTO and his wife, and it was cold as a witch's left tit in a brass bra at the bottom of a thirty foot well on the north end of an iceberg. Jesus, it was cold. Coming across the Cooper River Bridge, you could actually lean on the Arctic headwind. Starbucks has never tasted so good.

Then I came home and started the cleaning again. Vacuumed, mopped, dusted, took everything off of every shelf and cleaned it all, cleaned the curtains, washed the blankets...I even cloroxed the damned walls. And guess what, I still feel gross. Maybe all that vacuuming just stirs up the mold and dust mites and whatnot. My apartment is like the snow globe of allergens, dammit. The doctor is seeing me first thing tomorrow, and I think I'm going to collapse sobbing on her feet and beg her to do something. ANYthing!

And I HATE cleaning.

Actually, to tell you the trust, it still doesn't look all that tidy in here. Heh. That's kind of funny actually. The futility of cleaning.

I finished A.S.'s scarf yesterday, but I've forgotten how to cast off, so I have to wait until Tuesday to take it to the nice Knit ladies to help me, because they're CLOSED Sundays and Mondays. CLOSED! (drawn out wail of dispair) And I have to buy some more yarn to do the fringe, and I can't remember how to do that either. Amazing how the mind goes. But I hate waiting! I'm so close to being completely done with it, and now I have to wait. Boo.

With what little sense of smell I have left, my simmering pot of split pea soup smells awfully good. I wish it was done now.

Saturday, December 10, 2005

The Blog of Ingratitude

Here was my Christmas list this year:

The Silver Spoon cookbook
Black dress coat
iPod armband
Christmas ornaments
Aveda makeup products
Brush pants for hunting

Here is what my mom will actually get me from that list:


She asks for and receives a specific Christmas list from me every year, and then I guess she rolls it up and smokes it, because every year she just takes a flying leap into the alternate Christmas Present Universe.

I asked her for a black winter dress coat a couple of years ago too, and when I opened the box on Christmas morning, expecting wool, I got…velvet? She had handmade a floor length silk velvet opera cape lined in white taffeta. Gorgeous yes, but oh so practical for those business meetings in Kansas.

Does Mom actually imagine that my lifestyle requires this kind of drama? If only!

The year I asked for a new suit, she was thrilled to find me a high ruffle-necked black corduroy Anne of Green Gables-esque poufy thing she found in Nova Scotia that was neither cool nor retro nor Goth nor classic...just very ugly. I don’t know what goes through that woman’s mind sometimes. What made her look at THAT and say, “Sarah must have it!”

Shit, I’d take cash if she’d give it to me and let me go buy my own damned coat. I actually even showed her the one I wanted on Bluefly and she said, “Oh, I already got you something [red flag], but I’ll go in for half if you want a coat.” WHAT THE HELL! That was the one thing I told her I really really really wanted (and needed). I’m pretty sure she purchased some wretched pink tweed skirt and brown quilted jacket for me, although she passed it off as a gift for my sister, who won’t like it any more than I will. It even had shoulder pads. DOOOOOOM!!!

Apparently I am not the only one whose mother smokes a little holiday rock and then goes shopping. My friend Bear says, “My parents know by now to not go off the reservation when selecting presents for me. I am the world's absolute worst actor when it comes to feigning joy at receiving gifts like the Drakkar Noir gift set, or a set of Pooh Bear candles.”

I guess those would be right up there with holiday sweaters, since all three of those items are guaranteed not to get you laid by any decent woman ever again.

Anyway, I decided to get Mom something she can’t help but love this year, a raspberry colored cashmere cable knit sweater. And no, I’m not knitting it. If I tried that, it would end up looking like a straitjacket and take me two years to make. But maybe when she gives me a mustard yellow, sequined, llama-fur, lace trimmed, matador’s jacket instead of the plain black coat I asked for, she’ll feel guilty as hell and give me the receipt.

See…I’m going straight to hell for pooping on the spirit of Christmas.

Friday, December 09, 2005

I'm touching his present right now...

After picking up groceries for our cheapass potluck holiday work party, and immediately before racing off to my former English teacher's Christmas party with the awful hors d'oeuvres and jug wine, I popped into my new favorite store, Knit ( I've been meaning to go in for ages, but it's always closed by the time I get off work. But I read in Skirt that they had a Stitch N'Bitch and would be open late.

The store is so great and full of these really wry and funny women and their very small dogs. I bemoaned the fact that it had taken me so long to come in, and the owner told me to just call and she'd stay open late if I needed something. And she even asked where I live (about four blocks away) and then said, "Oh, I can deliver there."


Deliver? Is ANYONE this friendly anymore? I want to quit my job and work with the nice knitting ladies.

So I finally decided what to get A.S. for Christmas--I'm knitting him a scarf. I've done about a foot already tonight in this gorgeous grey alpaca wool. It's soooo soft. I'd forgotten how therapeutic knitting and crocheting are, since I haven't made anything since high school. I have these new bamboo knitting needles that click so nicely and make me want to drink tea, and still not get a cat, and I don't even want to go to sleep, but just knit all night long.

Thursday, December 08, 2005

The sneezing had got to stop

I used to enjoy a good sneeze. You know, it was a little break in the tension, a justifiable explosion that almost always elicited a response, at least a “Bless You” if not a “Jesus Christ! Are you OKAY?” (I’m a loud sneezer.) It was pretty satisfying. However, after nearly a month of sneezing about a hundred times a day, let me just say…I am over the sneezing.

I keep a roll of toilet paper on my desk now, and I go through about a third of it every blessed day. My trashcan overfloweth. My coworkers glare at me and douse themselves in melon-scented Purell. I’m tired and haggard and look like hell. My nose is peeling. I wake up all night long to sneeze. I’ve taken antibiotics, Mucinex, Sudafed, Tylenol Allergy Sinus, Vitamins, Immunity Boosters, cleaned my house…what more can I do?


It's got to be this house, since I feel awful half an hour after walking through the door, and worst in the morning. By one o'clock in the afternoon, I'm usually feeling normal again, having been away from this den of snot for about five hours. It's probably the five years' (bless me, I sneezed again) worth of bat guano dust I've been breathing through the walls and floors. Mark my words, they're going to make a CSI episode out of me one of these days. And when they do, I want all of you to tell the blonde agent, "The landlord knew!"

Wednesday, December 07, 2005


The Architecture Student turns 30 on Sunday! He’s taking it a little hard, probably because he never thought he’d be thirty and still in school, so to cheer him up, I am planning the most marvelous party. I wish I could figure out how to post pictures and change font from this Mac (none of my options actually show up in my New Entry box anymore), because the invitations are fab. I scanned this photograph from the Sexy Attorney’s foyer, with this toothless old geezer in a Parisian café, grinning wickedly from under his beret. Then on the back, I printed:

He’s ancient! He’s old!
He’s feeling the cold!
So for his soiree,
wear your toupee,
your best cane or wig;
old age is the gig!

The Dress is “Geezer.”

I know the poem is rotten, but I was under serious time constraint…as in “five minutes because they have to go out TODAY.” So A.S. is aware that I am throwing him a party, but he doesn’t know everyone will be wearing wigs and canes and suspenders. Boy, is he going to be mad. This time of year, tombstone decorations are very reasonable. Apparently there are big vulture balloons you can purchase that say something like, “Your youth is dead.”

Anyway, I’ve invited all of his closest friends and family, and a few of mine, and we’re having an oyster roast with chili and beer, and cake and cookies, and a big fire in the biggest syrup kettle I’ve ever seen (like a shallow, cast iron bowl used for making cane sugar). It’s as big as a tractor tire. Anyway, Mom has redone the backyard, so we’re all going to my parents’ house for the party. It’s going to be excellent…although about a week and a half after his actual birthday. On his real birthday, he’ll be staring bleary-eyed at his thesis project, preparing for his huge presentations on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. Gross. What a wretched way to spend a birthday.

From here on out, I decree that all birthdays should be spent on tropical islands nursing fruity bevvies with little umbrellas. All those in favor?

Tuesday, December 06, 2005


Ahhh, soup. I know Bonfires doesn’t like it, but I have to say that on a rainy crap day, there is nothing quite so nice as a bowl so hot, it steams your face while you eat it. Right at this very instant I am hovering above a bowl of bean soup, all cozy in my sock monkey slippers at the kitchen table, just me and my PowerBook and my vat of soup. I soaked the beans overnight, rinsing and swirling and draining and resoaking, and removing all beans that weren’t pearly and unblemished. Then I made a mirepoix, chopping everything so fine, weeping from the onions, and browning my salty hambones in the heavy cast iron skillet until the kitchen smelled positively heavenly.

Don’t you just love that word?




Then I simmered the stock overnight, barely stirring, skimming off any fat, so the broth was clear and rich, waking up to the kitchen windows all fogged up from my soup sauna. Then it all went into my crockpot (first time use), layering beans/broth/shreds of ham, three hours of cooking on Low, and the resulting bean soup could raise the dead. I’ve actually been driving home for lunch so that I can sit in front of my lovely antique gas heater in my gold velvet armchair, eating soup in relative peace. It’s like a mini winter holiday every afternoon.

Of course…then I have to go back to the shouting.

Sunday, December 04, 2005

Hee Hee! Blervghsjanadf!

Ooh, very good tree trimming party at the Sexy Attorney's. Brandy Alexanders + champagne + Nantucket Sleigh Rides (not sure about the Nantucket part) and lots of hors d'oeuvres...salmon and brie and shrimp and bean thingy (not all together). So much boozey goodness. And you should see my new Christmas cards--George Bush viewing the body of the late Pope, with a thought bubble, saying, "Who killed Santa?" SACRILICIOUS!!!

It was a lovely way to end an excellent weekend of camping and hiking and scromping (lovely college word) in a tent and buying fabulous ceramics from a potter friend. A quick shower and festive getup and then someone hands me a frozen, ice creamy bevvie with nutmeg and vanilla ice cream and a heavily laden holiday brandy buzz, and man, I LOVE living here. The Wench started an accidental drunken racial slurring (insinuating that all black people must know each other), which made all of us launch into some kind of tirade, like asking the Sexy Attorney why she didn't have a sombrero tree topper and how strange it was that she is Latino and yet has a law degree. I think I asked her if she bought her degree online, and we all snorted Brandy Alexanders out of our noses. Wench was a great sport, as always, even when we called for another "Brandy for the Bigot!" In all fairness, she was wasted, and I think something came out wrong without her realizing it, and Vince aside, we're all pretty damned liberal around here, poor thing, so she really got it. And drunk. Let's not forget drunk. Ben was photographing everyone's cleavage--convenient for him, since he's 6'7". Ooh, and he brought the gay merman ornament for the tree. Amanda brought the Jesus sock monkey. Even the dog was drunk, since she got into everyone's empty glasses. We all directed Daisy to keep one paw on the floor at all times.

Sounds like Amanda is downstairs listening to Angst Rock right now. My floor is vibrating.

We also looked online to see if any good bands are playing for New Years this year. Alas, none are. We checked Seattle, Austin, New York, Chicago, Prague, Paris, London, someplace in Spain I am too drunk to remember, San Francisco, etc, etc, and NO ONE is playing. What the? I guess we just lucked out last year...

Oof, so tired. Oh and out of champagne. Boo.

Thursday, December 01, 2005

Saddlebags and Eyebags

So my eccentric godmother says to me tonight, "You look tired." Considering I was taking her to Harry Potter, you think she could have reserved judgement until I'd finished signing the credit slip. Harumph.

Well, I am tired. I've been staying up late reading (Five Quarters of the Orange, which was fabulous.) and getting up early to go running. And sneezing. Let's not forget the sneezing.

At least I've been using my fancy gym membership, rather than just pouring the money down the drain...along with the delicious Aveda products they have in the showers. Ooh, I finally used one of the gym showers tonight. And because my mother would be so paranoid, yes, I wore freaking flip flops. She's made me so petrified of public bathrooms, I couldn't sit on a public toilet and actually accomplish anything for a million dollars. It can be quite crippling really. But I actually left the gym smelling like a rose today, with freshly blow dried hair and newly applied makeup. God, I'm such a starlet. However, my paunch remains undiminished, dammitohell.

Architecture Student apologized for being a turd on the phone last night. AND he's going to meet me in the mountains, so I only have to drive 4.5 hours instead of 6. At least I have downloaded more books to burn on CD, so i'll have something to keep me occupied. And it's Don Quixote, so I think I actually have about a month's worth of listening...the narrator better be stellar.