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.