Do Books (and Christmas Ornaments) scream?

My heart, she hurt when I threw the ick covered box into the dumpster when we moved.

In large part it was very liberating to throw out a lot of useless shit that had accumulated in the course of ten years in this town. But what a mistake it was to ever put anything into that back shed, where, as it turned out, cretins and critters ruled.

Anything of any possible monetary value was stolen, so many times that I stopped putting locks on the door. We used a What Would Jesus Do bracelet to keep it closed, but the thugs never really got the irony. Eventually all that was left was the Christmas box from hell, waaay too much stuff from the house to ever be used in our tiny duplex, and heavier than cement shoes to try to move--so I never did. Shall we talk about the books? Oh my dear lord, my books. The thugs saw no value in my books, and again, just not a lot of space to store things, so they stayed in the shed.

When it came time to move, I couldn't even look at the Christmas things that had been chewed and, um, otherwise touched by mother nature. I had the Honey's best friend, Tim, just load it into a trip for the dump. If I had not used it or seen it in 5 years, would I really miss it? I do. I find myself hunting for decorations I loved, that are lost--was it in that box, or did I let the Ex have it? Dammit.

I could not bring myself to have Tim take the two boxes of books. I salvaged the fairy tales, but the box of books that smelled like cinnamon and sugar and sweet, sweet lasagna were doomed. They had been "visited" so thoroughly that I would never have brought them into my kitchen. So I sucked it up and tossed that box into the dumpster I had gotten for just such decisions.

Of course the fucking box burst open and all of my babies were exposed, staring at me as I abandoned them to larger critters and more destruction. I almost dove back in for my Cookwise, by Shirley Corriher. I mean literally, it had me hopped up on the edge, teetering, about to save at least ONE of my fortune in books, purchased with a discount I'll never have again. The guy pulling around the corner in his bass-thumping Honda snapped me out of it, and I hopped back down and walked away. Their tiny booky screams were only in my head. (right?)

I'm not so much a cook as I am a baker...Shirley is releasing Bakewise this year. I can hear it calling to me. Do I really envision spending money I could spend on Sci-Fi on a baking book, when I already own so many? Probably not. Probably. Not. I think.

I am a dork, but it's genetic.

I may have mentioned once or twice that I am a Daddy's girl. I adore my mother, too, but in my manic-spastic-creative frenzies, I am my father. I channel my mama-san when we get down to the nitty gritty, and I want it done right. My dad is the supreme idea guy. They both have big gnarly brains, a fact that I am eternally grateful for, but they channel their energies differently.

My love of all things cheesy and over the top?

My dad.

I am working on a project that may or may not pan out for Christmas. Trying to respect the poverty and still give gifts I think are neat--meh, so far it's a maybe. But it involves a lot of felt. Little O positively swooned when she saw all of the scraps I was setting aside.

After promising not to cut off her sable locks with her safety scissors, she was given the bag to rifle through and cut up to her heart's content.

These are the very first thing she came up with, and while I loved her family of eternally resilient paper goldfish, these are my new favorite thing in the world:





She made little felt fingers. The colors kinda make them look like zombie fingers, don't they, Gretty?

I am soooo putting these at the top of ribbons and giving my parents bookmarks for Christmas. Maybe we'll write "You are here" on the ribbon.

The Honey thinks I've gone insane. He doesn't get how beautiful and sooo very genetic these fingers are. I think I am raising my kid right. Ten kinds of awesome in a six year old's brain.

Love my O's.

The Garbagettes Survived!

Okay, it wasn't that bad.

I did get up and sing, we did get up and dance.

The Uber Boss wanted a cheesy name for us, and decided on the Garbagettes--and Bill. My personal favorite was "Bill and the Solid Waste Dancers!" but UB wasn't feeling very Marilyn McCoo--Wasn't that her name? Bre brought Chanpagne, and I had already begun using my drink tickets, so I was, ahem, lubed up by showtime.

Our Christmas party is held each year on an old ferryboat that is permanently docked in the delta. The trick is that it was a working ferry back in the day, so it is divided down the middle, with long corridor for cars on either side. So all of the dinner party is held on one side of the boat, and the dancing is on the empty side. But all night long, the boat tilts to the south, the side the tables are on.

Get yourself some spiky heeled shoes, add several drinks (I tried to get them to choreograph it with a drink in my hand factored in, but they weren't going for it), and then add the subtle tug of gravity sucking you down to the left.

Actually, no one went down, but I guess they couldn't hear us over the music. Whatcha gonna do?

But the party was nice, the food was good, and the prizes were fabulous-even if I didn't win them. He had six Ipod shuffles, a new Xbox 360, two digital cameras, two DVD players, a kareoke machine, and then the items that UB puts in for fun... He had a Superman doll, and a battery operated nosehair trimmer. Oh, and did I mention the envelopes?

UB loves to torture the winners by offering them the gift, or what's in one of the envelopes. Let me give you some examples--Several years ago a girlfriend of mine traded a huge gas BBQ set-up for an envelope, and got twelve dozen Krispy Kreme Doughnuts. ouch. This year, there were no doughnuts, but he had Envelopes, and he had giftcards. We knew the giftcards were fifty bucks. Two of the envelopes contained a certificate for eighty hours pay. One of the giftcards kept getting passed up, and he started writing down the names of who passed on it. Two people passed, then someone finally took it. Yay! It was someone I know!

One hundred and twenty hours AND the standard fifty dollar gift card. I did not get picked, but at least the woman who won this one deserves it, and I hope she takes herself on a vacation with it, instead of spending it all on her grandbabies. (Are you reading this, Bananas?!?!?!)

The cash pot was not mine, either. We bought tickets for two bucks apiece, and it was up to eleven hundred and seventy. UB took a vote and drew two winners who split the pot. sigh. I had sugarplums dancing in my head, let me tell you.

Next year...