Plus/Delta 2013

Ever heard this expression: Plus/Delta?  It’s used mostly in classroom or business meeting settings, at the end typically, to determine what worked, what didn’t, opportunities for improvement blahbity, blah, BLAH!

Well…before we get into the NEW New Year’s resolutions, I think it’s important to do a Plus/Delta on the OLD New Year’s resolutions.

If you recall, my 2013 New Year’s Resolutions were to: 1) complete the entire P-90X series and 2) to get a job.




Yes, done.  Thank Heaven.  Especially for that P-90X bullcrap.  That was the most excruciating thing EVER.  (Perhaps the X actually stands for ‘X’cruciating?!?  It must.  It absolutely must.)  Also?  I believe I am the only person.  In the world.  To ever GAIN WEIGHT on the program.  Needless to say, I will not be resoluting anything remotely similar this year.

As for the job portion of the resolutions, I would argue that I HAVE a job.  As a blogger.  No…perhaps it’s not one of those corporate thingamabobs all y’all judge your success by.  But I did make a whopping $4.12 through the Google Ads I have on my blog. 

I know, right?  I’m surprised too that I’m still driving my 12-year-old Honda Odyssey minivan instead of a new Beemer or some such with that kind of loot burning a hole in my back pocket.  But perhaps there may have been a flaw in my Google-Ads-Plan from the start. 

The flaw is that I, bein’ all blog-hostess-with-the-mostess, offered to deliver my blog directly to your inbox.  An offer which most of you took me up on.  [Sigh.  Darn “pretty face and generous nature” gettin’ me into trouble yet again.]  As a consequence, no one actually WENT to my blog.  Therefore no one actually clicked on the ads ON my blog — which would have earned me money.

But, really.  That’s ok.  Don’t worry about me.  [She says while blinking back tears and stifling sobs with one dainty forefinger pressed to her lips.]  Because most of the ads were for raised potty seats anyway. 

By the way – do I blog a LOT about raised potty seats?  Because there’s a program that runs behinds Google Ads that reads through my blog entry and subsequently posts corresponding ads based on blog content.  So I must be blogging a LOT about raised potty seats.  In fact, I AM blogging a lot about raised potty seats.  My blogs are PACKED with insightful, witty comments about raised potty seats.  You should visit my blog often for just this type of content.

And in the New Year?  If you DO need a raised potty seat?  Please think of me.  I’m your Go-to-Gal for raised potty seats.  Please click on the ads for raised potty seats you can find on my blog, day or night.  In fact…THAT will be my New Year’s Resolution: to sell ONE raised potty seat in 2014.  Or die trying.  

I’m covered either way.  So put THAT plus in your delta and smoke it!

Oh.  And also?  Happy New Year!

The Sun’ll Come Out Tomorrow!

We went to see the play Annie yesterday.  Coincidentally, yesterday was also the last day I could collect unemployment monies.*

So…naturally…I mostly spent my time at the play wondering why Annie has SUCH terrible hair.  I mean, it’s really AWFUL.  And that red dress she wears?  It clashes somethin’ fierce with that mess on her noggin.  (As a side note, my daughter used to think the word “noggin” was a bad word.  She knows better now.  But naturally, this means that I need to use the word noggin whenever possible just to give her the willies!  Because I’m that much of a good mother.  And speaking of ME!  I used to think the word “peepers” was a bad word.  Jeepers, creepers, where’d ya get them peepers!  See?!  Why would you be shouting Jeepers…creepers!…if “peepers” were something good that ya got?!?  And while we’re at it, where’d ya get them EYES??)

Anywhoooo…that was a weird veer-off.  But we’re back on track.  And yes, while the play is about that rascally, red-haired (whose hair is awful, just awful) Orphan Annie, it’s also set in the Depression.  With that sort of back-story,  it’s no surprise there’s this one scene where all these people are on the street corner drinking stone soup out of a garbage can.  And they are pee-oh’d!  Really PISSED at Roosevelt, because they’re jobless!  And what he promised them was that chicken-in-every-pot, New Deal nonsense. 

Yeah!  New Deal my A$$!!! 

Huh?!  That was WEIRD!  Given my OWN backstory, I felt like I was right there with ‘em, in that scene.  (Ok, maybe not RIGHT there with ‘em…but “in spirit” there with ‘em, for sure-sies.  “There but for the Grace of God go I with the stone soup out of a garbage can” there with ‘em.  ‘Cause I’ve had PUNCH out of a garbage can – and that’s bad enough.  Especially when you get to the bottom of the garbage can only to find there’s a HOLE in the garbage can LINER!  It almost makes you want to lose all of that punch you’ve been working so hard on at the fraternity party.  So, aside from the punch, I’ve never had ANYTHING out of a garbage can, stone soup or otherwise.  Again, Grace of God and so on and so forth.)

In the midst of all of this angst and anger, Annie starts up with her cheery, positive attitude schmatitude.  All “sun’ll come out tomorrow” blah, blah, blah.  And then all the angry people on the street corner are singing along with her.  And what’s this??  What do I hear?!?  They’re singing “Tomorrow is ONLY a day away!” 

What?  WHAAAAAT???  I always thought the words were “Tomorrow is ALWAYS a day away!”  Which I gotta say, is a bit demotivating.  It’s like, you can never…quite…get there.  It’s always just outta reach. 

But tomorrow being ONLY a day away?  Now that’s different.  That’s do-able.  That’s achievable.  Just hang in there.  All you gotta do is hang on ’til tomorrow.  Come what may.  Because it’s only a day away.

Yeah – what THEY said! 

In fact?  This is the approach I’m going to take with my new job, and all the money I’ll be making shortly.  It’s just around the corner.  I can feel it.  Because?  Well…it’s obvious, isn’t it?  Because, tomorrow is ONLY a daaaaay aaaaaaaaWAAAYYYYYYY [big finish, arms wide]

And if not?  Maybe Daddy Warbucks will adopt me.  I’d be willing to wear any crazy crap on my head if he would. 


*Even though I have almost $5,000 left on my unemployment claim, I can’t claim it after 12/28/13.  Because the Federal Government says so, that’s why.  Hmmm…really?  Really?!?  This throws me back to the days of asking Mom if I could do something with my friends, and Mom saying no.  A response which begged the follow-up question: Why?  To which Mom would say, “Because I’m the mother and I said ‘no’, that’s why.”  Uhhh…Federal Government?  Could I have any more money?  “No!  Because we’re the Federal Government and we said no, that’s why!”  Uhhh.  Uhhm.  Ok.  But I HATE YOU!  You’re RUINING my life!  You never let me do ANYTHING!!  I’m going to my room now.  And I’ll NEVER love you again.  EVER!!!

Wassail, Wassail!

I learned my first drinking song when I was in 6th grade. 

Is that bad??

I was a “Lady” at the time.   Chuck Purzner was my “Lord.”  We were in the middle of a Medieval Christmas program.  [Does this surprise you?  And do you think this Lady gig is better – or worse – than being a robot in a sci-fi Christmas program??  And as a Christmas gift to ourselves, we’ll pause right here, right now, and address the elephant in the room by saying that every grade school Christmas program is horrific.  Completely horrific.  This has been the case since Time Immemorial.  And yes, that’s a phrase.  Look it up.  It means ‘since before anyone can remember.’   I bet even NOAH’S kids were giving bad Christmas programs back in the day; especially that one year they had all the rain.  Well and no real Christmas to speak of because Jesus hadn’t been born yet.  But whatevs.  You get the point.]

Anywhoooo…back to me.  Hey, LAAAADY!

Matthew Torpey had just wrapped up his stint as Good King Wenceslas, wearing a cape and trudging across the stage re-enacting the song of the same name.  ‘Cept instead of giving off a Father-Christmas-does-good sort of vibe, Matthew made it look like he was from mimeville.  And he spent all twelve stanzas of the song perfecting his walking-into-the-wind act.

After which a short 6th grade girl dressed in a tunic and tights stumbled on to the stage carrying a big punch bowl.  (By way of explanation on how we all got our awesome Christmas program parts: she was short, so she got to be a page.  I was tall, one of the three tallest girls in the class, and thus got to be one of the three ladies.  We were paired with the three tallest lords in the class.  How you like dem apples?  No mad skillzzz involved.  Just height.  Or lack thereof.  Hey LAAAADY!)

Once the page stumbled on to the stage, that was my cue to give my big line, “Pray, Dear Page, tell what brims thy wassail bowl?”

At which point we all started singing the worst, most nonsensical Medieval drinking song of all time:

Wassail, wassail, all over the town!*
Our bread it is white, and our ale it is brown.
Our bowl, it is made of the green maple tree.
In the wassail bowl, we’ll drink unto thee.
Here’s to the ox, and to his right eye*
Pray God send our master a good Christmas pie
A good Christmas pie ‘ere I did see
In the Wassail Bowl we’ll drink unto thee
I still don’t really know what this song means.  But the mystified 6th grader in me knows that as the song goes on, you’re supposed to get rowdier and rowdier.  Perhaps even consider clanking your mugs together if the spirit so moves you.  And for shizzle, be of good cheer.  While you’re doing that?  Grown up me will be over here.  In the Wassail Bowl.  Drinking unto thee.

Cheers!  And Merry Christmas! 


*These are the words I learned thirty-five years ago.  But I recognize there are many variations of the song.  None of which really make any sense.  (I mean, come on!  Here’s to the ox and to his right eye?  What, exactly, are we doing with the ox’s right eye?  Are we shooting dice with it?  Or…gulp…EATING it for good luck?!?  Either way, I’m out.)  But if you do know different words?  Then you should totally get your OWN blog and tell us about YOUR Sixth Grade Christmas program.  Until then, you know where you can put your good Christmas pie.     

‘Twas the night before Christmas…

…and on our asteroid,
Not a creature was stirring. 
Not even a droid.

I had to memorize that poem.  Back when I was a robot. 

Yes, a robot.  In a Christmas program. 

It was the early 80’s.  Everyone – including nuns and Catholic school children – had been (and remained) bitten by the Star Wars bug.  So robots were popping up everywhere…even in the St. Joe’s gradeschool Christmas program. 

I would like to claim that the robots were part of a sci-fi manger scene: with Princess Leia as Mary, and R2D2 as the baby in the crèche.  Storm troopers arrived, called by the star.  And a galactic battle ensued for the souls of the faithful.

But it was nothing of the sort.  Instead, it was just a bunch of kids wearing boxes covered in aluminum foil, bumping in to each other as they tried to stand in orderly robot rows on the choral risers in the school gym while reciting a Space Age version of ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas in their best impression of monotone, robot-like voices.

(Although I will say that I added some flair to said standard-issue robot uniform, by wearing a robot SKIRT!  Hey, I was a girl robot, afterall!  And I know EXACTLY what you’re thinking: How creative, right?!  While still just a foil-covered-box, I wore it from the waist down and paired it with a white turtleneck-with-little-red-hearts-on-it and some cream-colored pants.  Whoop…whoop.  80’s Girl Robot in the house!  Bringing her 80’s Girl Robot A-Game of Fashion!!)

But now?  Now the steel trap of my robot-y youth has rusted a bit, and I don’t remember SQUAT about how the main part of the poem went, but I can still recall the closing lines:

Then he took off through space with his reindeer and pack
Leaving my radar to bleep and go black
But our video scanner showed his message unfurled,
“Sure hope your Christmas is out of this world.”

In other words…Merry Christmas to all!  And to all a good night!  Beep-boop.

Shelf Elf

Do you know about this scam?  This Christmas Scam where a weird elf dressed in red, with a startlingly cheery smile plastered on his plastic face shows up at your house on December 1st

Helllllooooo!  [That was a creepy hello.  Said the same way the Shelf Elf would say it – in a high-pitched Creep Factor 100 voice.  It was NOT a ‘whoop, whoop, let’s get the party started’ hello.  ‘Cause it ain’t no party when the Shelf Elf comes to roost.  No party a’tall.  For ME at least.] 

The first time he shows up (with an expensive book in tow), the kids in the house get to name him.  Ours is named Roberto.  Don’t ask.  Don’t EVEN ask.  It’s my theory that they actually meant to name him Sebastian (‘cause that’s a BETTER name for an elf than Roberto?!?).

But once Roberto shows up for the season, you then have to spend the next 24 days watching him squirrel around the house. 

Surprise!  Now he’s sitting on the mantel in the family room.  Where he can see the WHOLE family.  All at once.  And keep an EYE on EVERYONE.  And in fact FOLLOW you with his eyes as you move around the room.  Hellllloooooo.

Surprise!  Now he’s in the Christmas tree, hidden amongst the ornaments.  Oh, that Roberto!  Isn’t he a gas?!

Surprise!!  Now he’s lying on your pillow, staring at you when you wake up.  And sucking your soul out of your mouth.  Hellllloooooo.

Oh, how much FUN we have figuring out where he’s going to be tomorrow!!!

And when I say ‘fun’ I mean it in a terrible burden, drag-your-spirits-down-into-your-winter-boots sort of way.  In which you constantly have to have the Shelf Elf’s next move in the back of your mind.  Every Day.  For TWENTY-FOUR DAYS.  And then you wake up in a panic at 3 a.m. because for ONE SECOND the Shelf Elf slipped your mind and you forgot to move him to his next location before you went to bed.  And if he doesn’t show up in another impossible place come morning (hanging from the chandelier in the front hall?  Roberto!  How did you get up there, you rapscallion?!?), the kids will be crushed.

Also?  This ding-a-ling has extra CLOTHES you can now purchase for an exorbitant price.  Will he be making cookies today while the kids are at school?!  Then he should be wearing the Shelf Elf chef’s hat and matching apron and have his adorable wooden rolling-pin in hand when they come home.  With a darling little smudge of flour on his cheek.

Jackass!!!!  You frickin’ JACKASS SHELF ELF!!!!! 

And really?  REALLY??  If your kids can’t put two-and-two together…hmmm, Mom AND Shelf Elf were home alone ALL DAY today, and Shelf Elf changed his clothes and MADE COOKIES, and Mom was none the wiser?!??…and come up with Shelf-Elf-is-a-lie, then you should send them to live in a shoddily constructed house in the backyard.

Better yet, YOU should go live out back.  As punishment for making it really, REALLY hard for the rest of us to get through the Christmas season with our sanity intact.

And whatever you do?  Don’t TOUCH the Shelf Elf!  My mother – who didn’t know the Shelf Elf rules – turned him around one time in front of the kids.  Based on all of the weeping and wailing that ensued, you would have thought she told them to line up for dismemberment and to choose which hand or foot they wanted lopped off.

But in her defense, she just wanted to stop seeing his smarmy smile and haunted house eyes following her around the room already.

But a word to the wise.  If you TOUCH the Shelf Elf, all of his magic runs out.  And he can’t get back to Santa by Christmas Eve to report on your sucky, sucky behavior during the season.  So DON’T TOUCH THE *^%# SHELF ELF.

Yes.  Yes!  I’m on to something here.  Actually LEAVE the Elf on the shelf.  Step away from the ELF!!!  Let him grow old and wizened.  With a long, white beard.  Buy THAT outfit for whatever they’re charging, no matter the cost.  Oh, look kids.  Shelf Elf has grown too old to go on.  We should KICK HIS A$$ TO THE CURB AND SAY “GOOD RIDDANCE!”

Who’s with me?!  Mothers Against Shelf Elves…Unite!!!  

Now, please click the link to the right to purchase your old-and-wizened Shelf Elf costume.  Checks can be made payable to me and every costume comes with a long white, elf-sized beard and arrives before Christmas. 

Christmas Carols

In the spirit of the season, let’s deconstruct some Christmas Carols, shall we?  Why, yes.  Yes, we shall.  ‘Cause it’s my blog.  And what I say we shall do, we shall!  Yay!!

Let It Snow.  I can never quite figure out WHAT is going on here.  Is this a cute, harmless song about love-in-the-winter?  Or is there something smuttier at work here?  How long, exactly, have they been “good-byeing.”  And what does this “good-byeing” entail??  As long as you love me so (nudge, nudge, wink, wink) let it snow, let it snow, let it snow! 

Silver Bells.  There’s this one part in the song that causes confusion in my family every time we hear it.  It starts out with: Hear the snow crunch.  And then opinions diverge from there.  Sonny insists the next line is: See the kids PUNCH.  Yes, punch.  As in: the kids have been waiting too long for Santa and now they’re taking it out on each other.  [Newsflash to the kids in this version of the song: Fatman ain’t comin’ if all y’all are gonna be punchin’ eachother like that.]  On the other hand, Sissy and Hubby insist the word is not punch (because ‘punch’?…in a Christmas Carol??…would be too silly!) but is, instead, ‘munch’.   As in: the kids are happy to wait in line to see Santa because some kind soul handed out candy canes earlier.  So now, while the children wait in an orderly fashion, they MUNCH.  But…they’re ALL wrong.  And I’m right.  [Surprise, surprise.]   Because what is ACTUALLY going on here is some ‘Breakfast with Santa’ scenario:  See the kids BRUNCH!  This is Santa’s big scene!!

Holly Jolly Christmas.  I think some Type A person, who was hard-of-hearing, wrote this one.  Have a holly jolly Christmas [note controlling you-must-do-this-a-certain-way tone of voice].   And in case you didn’t hear (Noooo…we heard it just fine.  Maybe YOU’RE the one who needs a hearing test.)  Oh by golly, have a holly jolly Christmas this year!  [note repetitive holly, jolly demands]  Also?  That part where the old feller (who sounds suspiciously like the snowman from the Rudolph t.v. special) tells you that somebody waits for you, KISS HER ONCE FOR ME!  Er…Creep Factor 100, Snowman.

We Need a Little Christmas.  The person in this song is wound a bit too tight, don’t you think?  We need a little Christmas.  RIGHT.  THIS.  VERY.  MINUTE!!!    Uh…ok.  Settle down, Sparky.  It’s a’comin’.  Just hang in there.  Also?  If the rising or falling of your spirits is dependent upon hauling out holly?  Then you should see someone for that.  It’s called Seasonal Affective Disorder – or SAD.  The cure?  Sunlight.  Go to Australia.  They have Christmas on the beach in the middle of summer.  No one is stressed.  And there’s shrimp on the barbie.  To cure SAD in Russia they make you stand in front of an ultraviolet light in your underpants.  Definitely go to Australia instead.

And then there’s something my husband calls the “Coo-coo Dame” songs.  These songs are basically any Christmas song sung by Frank Sinatra.  I love those J-i-n-G-le BELLS!  Oh!  Those holiday J-i-n-G-l-e BELLS!  Those happy J-i-n-G-l-e B-e double L-S.  I love those J-i-n-G-l-e BELLS!  Oy vey.  There is absolutely NO NEED to jazz up classics with Coo-Coo Dame shenanigans.  Am I right?  Or am I right??  [Hint #1: I’m right.  Hint #2: I’m always right.  Hint #3: We’ve been over this already, SHALL we go over it again??] 

Grody to the max!

Remember that phrase from the 80’s: Grody to the max! 

Well I think I should bring it back.  Starting now.  About what I found in my sandwich.  From a sandwich place that shall remain nameless.  But which apparently gets its ingredients off the floor of a New York City subway station.

Originally I thought it was a pre-born baby bird all burnt up and cooked into my bread.  [Seriously!  It looked like it had FEATHERS!!!  And it was baked INTO my bread.]  But when I returned it, the sandwich shop people insisted it was a piece of plastic.

Either way, there’s a problem with the system that allows burnt plastic/feathers/baby birds IN bread to escape the notice of the guy CUTTING the bread, the girl PUTTING food onto the bread and the other girl WRAPPING the bread.  Really?  REALLY?!?  NO ONE noticed the crap erupting from the bread except for me?!  The FOURTH person in the process – who was looking forward to EATING the bread??

‘Cause you better believe I noticed it.  I opened the wrapper and noticed it.  Right.  There.  Right…THERE!   Perched like a cluster of burnt feathers (and I have to admit that there was one heart-stopping second where I even thought it was a massive spider) right on the TOP of my sandwich!!!


And this…is EXACTLY why they invented the phrase: Grody to the max!

Also?  Gag me with a spoon.

Crochet Chicks

Remember that one blog where I commented on how them Crochet Chicks is wack?!  Well…them Crochet Chicks is STILL wack!

Below is a sampling of projects from a recent crochet newsletter so you also can see how wack some of this crap is that they come up with.  (And you can just shut your everlovin’ pie hole if you have anything to say about why I’m even GETTING a crochet newsletter.  Shut it!!!)

I realize that I made a mistake in my previous blog post; I didn’t include project links so you could behold the wonder of crochet with your very own peepers.  But, lesson learned.  Here goes:

  • Berries in the Snow Scarf.  You know berries don’t ever freeze well.  And when you take them out of the freezer and put them around your neck, they drip all over the place.  Yep.  This scarf was appropriately named.
  • Sensational Scarf.  Hmmm…sensational??  That overstates things a bit.  I would call it a “Meh – it’s okay” scarf.
  • Snow Goddess Scarf.  Uh… if you’re not ALREADY a snow goddess, this scarf will not make you into one.  Just sayin’.
  • Bumpy Popcorn Crochet Scarf.  Yes, make this crochet project if you want to look like bumpy popcorn when you wear it.
  • Fallen Leaves Slouchy Hat.  If you want to BE slouchy and LOOK slouchy while you do it, then go right ahead, make this hat and wear it with all due haste.  And then don’t ever wash your hair again.  And become a doofus hipster.  That’s cool.  Also, I suggest wearing it with the bumpy popcorn scarf so boys never come near you again.
  • Sleazy Dress.  Yes.  Yes, absolutely make this dress if you want to look like you’re wearing a sleazy dress straight out of a 70’s nightmare.  I can’t even believe they would call it that, but that’s exactly what it is.  A sleazy dress.  From slouchy hat to sleaze – boy, them Crochet Chicks sure do run the gamut!
  • Scraptacular Circle Scarf. This was actually mislabeled.  The correct title should have been CRAPtacular Circle Scarf.  Because it’s totally crappy looking.
  • Snow Queen Blanket.  If you click the link, the description says you’ll feel like a queen as you sit in your living room watching the snow fall.  But you’re only gonna be sitting there all quiet-like ’cause Norman Bates propped your body up & tucked this dopey blanket around your knees.  So I’d give this project a pass.
  • Quick Fix Winter Hat.  If you need a hat in a jiffy (and you still use words like ‘jiffy’), then you should just go to Target and buy one licketysplit.  By no means should you crochet this hat.  So knock it off already with your fake “quick winter hat” challenge.  No one is issuing this sort of challenge, so stop pretending there’s some under-the-gun scenario wherein you must craft a project out of yarn otherwise you…DIE!  No one will kill you if you don’t make this hat.  Someone might kill you if you DO.

Whaddya have a hole in yer head?

To the Neighbor Man who may have thought I was giving you the finger this morning?  I was not.

As you know, it’s been a HIGH of 6ᵒF here for the past MILLION days.  (Ok, maybe not a MILLION.  In reality, it’s only been a week or so.  Either way, I’m now TOTALLY over Winter.  Screw you, Winter!  AND the horse you rode in on.  ‘Cept it’s not even Winter yet.  In which case, don’t even ride IN on yer horse, Winter, cuz yer not wanted ‘round these parts.)

As additional backstory – you need to understand that Sonny had eartube surgery a few days ago.  And has a couple of wide open holes in his head.  AND?  He was on dog walking duty this morning with the temperature reading a cheery -2ᵒF.  (Don’t miss that little symbol before the two.  It’s a MINUS sign.  I’m no good at math, but I do know that much.  And that ‘F’ AFTER the two?  That stands for EFFING minus sign.) 

So, being the good mother I am (Oh?  You have something to say about my ‘good mother’ comment??  Well you can just zip it.  ZIP.  IT!  ‘Cause it’s not about you.  It’s about me.  So, back to me…) I offered to walk the dog instead of having Sonny walk the dog and risk getting that effing minus sign into the holes in his head.

And what started out as a nice little walk with the dog became a clusterbomb of massive proportions.  I won’t go into too much detail here, other than to say my brilliant idea of bringing a hot cup of coffee with me wasn’t so brilliant.  Talk about a hole-in-the-head plan.  The coffee ended up not being that hot about ONE minute into the walk.  Not only was it not hot, it became a HUGE pain in the A$$, especially after I had to carry the dog for a bit because he got scared (of the way the sunlight cast half the street in shadow), slipped his collar and bolted the other way – with me running down the street after him, desperately offering rides in cars to good boys who COME!  And sloshing coffee everywhere. 

When I finally set the dog down after the carrying portion of the walk, he did a HUGE (mushy), steaming dump in the snow.  GAACK!!   

And it was right-about that time — as I’m bobbling fogged-up sunglasses, coffee cup, dog leash and steaming poop bag (I mean, seriously, it looked like I had an active locomotive in there!) — that I realize the fingers of my right-hand-that-had-cold-coffee-sloshed-all-over-it-during-the-chasing-portion-of-the-walk are freezing.  In-imminent-danger-of-frostbite FREEZING!  (Effing minus sign.  Effing coffee cup idea.)

So, for the rest of the walk, it became a game of pulling my freezing fingers one-at-a-time into the dry warmth of the palm-area of the glove:  Now-warm Pointer Finger gets sent back out into the cold and Freezing Middle Finger takes its place.  Just as it was Middle Finger’s turn in the warm hidey-hole, Neighbor Man drove by.  And honked. 

The way the glove’s fingerless middle finger was threaded through the handle of the now-mostly empty coffee cup (effing coffee cup idea) made it extra sticky-uppy.  So when I raised my hand to acknowledge the honk — instead of looking like a friendly wave, it looked like a demented toast-to-your-health/eff-you sort of move.

Well…Cheers!!   Stay warm!

Book ‘Em Danno!

Ok, you never really did seem on board with my fun movie theme idea.  I’m not sure why.  Is it because you’re not fun?!  Naturally I’d never SAY something like; that would be hurtful.  I’ll just wonder quietly to myself…

And NOPE!  Too late.  Don’t try to be all “but we really loved the movie theme idea” NOW.  Because now?  We’re done with it, I hope you’re happy – and we’re moving on to my latest reads…

I was right and Cutting for Stone was a big boo-hoo fest.  And I still find myself wondering how everyone at Missing Hospital (everyone who is left, that is – cue tissue box) is doing from time-to-time. 

But you know what was an even BIGGER boo-hoo fest than Cutting for Stone?  The Tiger’s Wife by Téa Obreht.  In fact, it’s put me off ALL of the “Wife” books for the rest of…life.  The Time Traveler’s Wife, The Shoemaker’s Wife, The Kitchen God’s Wife, A Reliable Wife, A Blahbity-blah-blah Wife.  Naw.  I’m out.  The Tiger’s Wife did me in.  [Spoiler Alert] Set in Serbia (or Bosnia?  Maybe even the Ottoman Empire wherever that is??  The setting is actually a mystery), a Turkish apothecary kills a pregnant deaf-mute because she sympathizes with and subsequently feeds a half-wild, half-tamed tiger.  Why did you have to kill her, Apothecary Man?  You couldna let her birth the baby and go on her merry way??  ‘Cause Karma’s a b**ch and then YOU got killed, didn’tcha?  During some WWII ethnic cleansing effort, I believe.  But, really, who knows – it’s all so senseless.  And that Deathless Man bit was a distracting sidebar, but we all know the real point of the story was to break your heart over all the poor unfortunates.  Gulp.  I’m gettin’ choked up all over again.  And you wonder why I’m off all the Wifely books?

Speaking of “off”.  You know what else I’m off of?  Food.  I’m reading The Anatomist’s Apprentice by Tessa Harris.  It’s set in olde tyme England circa 1780.  It’s about the dawning age of Coroners.  But before they had…er…bodily preservation techniques.  GAAAAacck!!  All of the descriptions of smell and “grave wax” will put you off food too.  Which isn’t really so bad as a pre-holiday slim down effort.  But as an enjoyable, lighthearted reading experience?  GACK!

Finally, I started to read The Twelve Tribes of Hattie by Ayana Mathis but only got about 10 minutes into it.  That part about Hattie’s twin babies dying of pneumonia?  That’s a deal-breaker for me.  Homey don’t play that. 

So…what unexpired library books do I have left on my Nook?  The Ruin of a Rogue by Miranda Neville; A Kiss at Midnight by Eloisa James; and Highlander Most Wanted by Maya Banks. 

Now THESE?  These I can get behind.  You ALWAYS know how they’re going to turn out – the rogue will get ruined or do some ruining (nummy, num, num); there will be a kiss at midnight (uhhhh-huhhh that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout); and that naughty Highlander?  The one who’s “most wanted”??  He’s gonna git hisself captured!  But in a good way–no tears (or grave wax gaaack!) will be involved.