newest of years

If I could, I would write a little song about how I miss my laptop (which my brother is attempting to convince to check my email for me) and how instead I've turned to crossword puzzles as my new addictive activity. See, I'm housesitting. And their computer has a password (sob) and I don't have my laptop to hook up to their wireless. Instead I have the newspaper that is delivered each day to their (formal) doorstep. I am taking lots of pictures which I would like to be sharing with you. I am being woken each morning by a cat, at which time I walk a couple of miles downstairs to the kitchen, feed him, take vegetables outside and let the rabbits out of their cage, come back in and try to decide which table to eat breakfast at. And then, which room should I sit in to do my crossword puzzle? And read Good Brother, Bad Brother?*

And here I am at home, retrieving a fresh supplies of clothings and checking my mail. And using my desktop, circa 1999. While a good year, it did not produce perhaps the best computers. This one, monitor barely hanging in there, is no longer just taking up space but is being put to use, oh the joy.

*Perhaps the most fascinating thing about the bio of the Booth brothers is the photographs. I'm getting all Inspector Grant here as I stare into the eyes of an assassin. J. Wilkes was apparently considered quite the looker in his day. Maybe it's the mustache or the fact that I know he killed Lincoln, but he's not doing anything for me. His brother Edwin, in contrast, has a fascinating face. And there's a full page spread of all the accomplices to the assassination - another good study in faces, there.

Christmas, Part I

As I crawled into bed last night, I thought to myself that it must have been at least a week or two since I'd been there. Nope, I'd only spent one night away. But the night of a feast always feels like it's own day, especially if you nap beforehand (which I did NOT do this year - I was not willing to risk losing the will to live right before a cozy night in church).

Saturday was divided into distinct eras. If I knew the order of things like Mesozoic and Paleolithic, I would name my eras in a fancy scientific way, but no. There was, let's call it, the Prehistoric Era, which involved a last minute stop at my sister's neighborhood coffee shop to keep her supplied in iced white chocolate mochas (year round) (although she did mention that she's switched to hazelnut lately, a move of which I approve), a lovely 2 egg breakfast at Zell's with Bee, a search for an ornament for my mother (who insists that her tree will be barren when we take all our ornaments with us, something that is unlikely to happen in the next decade considering she won't let them leave her house) culminating in the discovery of a cunning alligator carrying a gift in his mouth. Nothing says Noel like an alligator.

Then there was the era of Ancient Civilizations, in which I worked. And during which everything went shockingly smoothly and I spread Christmas cheer liberally.

That was followed by the Medieval Period, during which I despaired of ever being inspired enough to create a potluck dish out of the scanty contents of our fridge (actually, the contents aren't too scanty but the edible contents are indeed scarce). I tried reading several titles from the mock-Newbery list (Gnat Stokes and the Foggy Bottom Swamp Queen failed to please after several chapters; Down the Rabbit Hole proved a bit better, but like my supervisor said, it's tempting to give up after he mentions a "kick-ass stereo system.") I tried to eat something to see if that would perk me up. I discovered a package of cream cheese and just enough unsweetened chocolate to throw together a small pan of cream cheese brownies, the making of which revived me greatly and I proceeded to bear them in splendor to the church kitchen.

Then there was the Modern Era, in which I avoided closing my eyes in church because I was afraid I would fall asleep standing. There was greeting of old friends, the strange sense of tired perception where some things were in focus and others were hopelessly blurry, the too-loud whispers of adolescent girls, the snoring of toddlers. Then, finally, after a plate of tiny quiches, Ethiopian food (the taste of which I always associate with post-feast potlucks), ham, and a creamy chocolately dessert thingy, there was bed. Or rather, couch. Because God forbid we waste a precious moment in the morning with me driving the arduous five minutes from my house to my parents'. God forbid. It's like the census, we all have to return to our ancestral homes to be counted. I suppose a couch is a fair sight better than a manger, though.

show and tell friday - these are my coats. Boring black and cheery red. Both, oddly, taken with Katy's scarf. I usually wear my burgandy one with the black coat (but it clashes with the red hat) and my own skinny orange one with the red coat (but it wasn't warm enough that day). 

o christmas tree

 


Yesterday I went over to the house of Q where we engaged in Christmasy goodness straight from the pages of Tasha Tudor. Popcorn and cranberry garlands, a live Christmas tree with beeswax candles, a dress & The Maggie B for Q, and we even tested out their new jogging stroller (not that any jogging will be done around it). Nothing says Christmas like a jogging stroller, eh? Howabout the impending arrival of a sibling? 

On our walk last night. 

Kate and I panic in the snow (can you see the panic on my face?) and head to that haven, New Seasons. 

One lone pear left on the tree. 

The Whole Reason I Teach Sunday School

Today I took the kids into church and they scurried through venerating the icons (all done by the time I'd even taken off my coat) and then one boy (the one who looks like a seven-year-old hipster) came to stand with me because his dad hadn't come back yet. And he's standing there and I'm singing and suddenly he says to me, "I think I'm going to do some blacksmithing when I get home."

hot cocoa snow day

Once my chin thaws and my camera battery recharges, I'll put up some pictures of the snow. Snow! In Portland! Within a week of Christmas! Unheard of, I tell you. Katy & I just went for a walk with our upstairs neighbor, skipping through tracts of virgin snow and testing it for snowball capabilities (none, too dry). We'll see if it becomes ice as promised, and if I am expected to work tomorrow, amd if I ever regain feeling in my cheeks.

mockings & scourgings

I'm in denial about the fact that in a few short, precious minutes I have to pry myself out of my rocker (which is pulled up to my desk, naturally) and put on my uniform and go to work. (Technically, the rocker was inherited from my great-grandmother, Laura, who lived to the ripe age of perhaps 95 and died peacefully at home while her hair was being set. It's an ugly brown rocker, and the underside of the cushion has a great quantity of cat hair, courtesy of Max, and someday it shall be reupholstered because it is exceedingly comfortable.)

My thrilling news of the week is this: I am going to be part of a mock Newbery committee! With librarians from around the state, and a member of the actual committee, and like the dorks that we are, we will sit around and discuss books and then vote! And I have about ten things on hold at the library that I need to read in the next two weeks, in order to be the fully informed person that I wish to be.

At work on Wednesday, my supervisor was talking about how she and the other children's librarian are going to this mock Newbery, and I was asking all sorts of questions about it, and then she said, "You could probably come to if you want." And lo, coincidence was in my favor and it is happening on the only day in January that I don't have to work. And even though the library won't pay me to go, like they're paying the others, my supervisor is sponsoring me. Can everyone say "nerd" all at once, please?

roastaroma

Is there a set pronunciation for Roastaroma? I say "row-ma" like the tomatoes or Roma. Laurel says "raw-ma" like, well, I'm not sure what. Anyway, I'm drinking some which I haven't done in ages. Or perhaps donkey years. It's probably THE beverage of choice from the share a huge house year of college (and what does that tell you about us?)

Speaking of donkeys, I was weeding the folk-tale section of the library last night, mostly looking for books that needed recovering (it was a slow night). There was one book of nonsense stories that hadn't been checked out in something like five years and was pretty well worn. My coworker was flipping through it to see if it should be saved (we did a couple book rescues on things that we just couldn't get rid of, even though no one checks them out) and found a delightful story that went something like this:

A farmer had a large supply of popcorn stored in his barn. The popcorn began to pop [I don't remember how]. The donkey thought it was snowing and froze to death.

And there's an illustration of the donkey in a cloud of popcorn, shivering. It was literally that long.

Here he is with his buddies, the other ornaments. Who are homeless. My tree looks a lot like Babelbabe's right now. 

show and tell

You asked for decorations? You got them. This is my darling sock monkey. Festive, is he not? You can tell he's mine because he's got a book, see? I love it when friends send you sock monkey Christmas ornaments in the mail! 

I take no leave of you; I send no compliments to your mother

Last Sunday, with great trepidation, I went to see the new Pride and Prejudice* with my mother & sister. Trepidation because I adore the book. I wrote my first ever research paper on it. I read it regularly. Everytime I do, I feel more akin to Elizabeth than ever. Perhaps my favorite line, besides the title line above, is: "She remembered that he had yet to learn to be laughed at, and it was rather too early to begin."

At any rate, I digress. We saw the movie. We thoroughly enjoyed it. The characters are dirty and sweaty. They wear the same clothes over and over. The houses look lived in. Mr. Collins can make me laugh without even opening his mouth. Charlotte has spunk. The characters look appropriately young - I mean, really, Elizabeth should never look older than twenty or twenty-one.

Today I read a review in The New Yorker, which puts its finger on exactly the quality that gave me pause. Austen has been Brontefied. The proposal scene takes place in the pouring rain, not a quaint parlor. Lizzie stands on a hillside, windblown. Darcy adopts a Heathcliff-esque brood. Not that this isn't all very attractive (cough) but it's not exactly Austeny. See it anyway. Invite me along.

*I can't say "the new" anything without thinking of High Fidelity and "the new Belle & Sebastian."

Peak

Some coworkers and I were talking on Tuesday, about Christmas gifts and finances and the like, and suddenly realized that we were all referring to it as "the peak season" rather than "the Christmas season" or "the holiday season." I think we're on to the next wave of PC-ness with our company jargon. "Happy Peak!" we'll start to call out. Stores will sell "Peak cards" and advertise "Peak specials." "Merry Peakmas." Haha, we're so funny.

I suppose I'd better look into getting some gifts, shouldn't I? I've got some ideas floating around. I need to stop reading all these blogs and start shopping. Order up a slew of books as gifts. Figure out what on earth to get my college-bound 17 year old techie brother. And, good lord, my father. But it feels so much a part of the holiday ritual - complain about not knowing what to get. Shop ahead and congratulate self. Shop at the last minute and feel rushed yet festive. Bake. Make fudge. Feel your ears begin to freeze when you step out the door. Repeat.

It's time to unearth the Garish & Tweed Family Christmas Tape. The one that's half dulcimer carols and half funky bluegrass tunes like, "Christmas is a comin, and it's a jumpin." Oh yeah.

Self Portrait Tuesday

 

As my sister said upon seeing this picture, "I just love your little head." This month's theme for self portraits is something about reflective surfaces. At my parents' on Saturday, while my dad was trying to explain to my sister how to use his espresso machine (after not using it in several months himself) I kept trying to take pictures in the little milk pitcher and they kept moving it to demonstrate. It was rough, I tell you. 

You deserve to see them in all their glory

 


The elf on the right was badly mangled in an accident with a now deceased terrier. He's never been the same since. 

What happened when my email wouldn't work and I fled to my parents'

 


THIS is what happens when I spend an innocent Saturday chez parents.

Top: the Day of the Dead figure my brother made in gradeschool, which is permanently enshrined in the home. For Christmas, it gets some special touches. A new hat. Some red berries to cover the pastel fake flowers. I couldn't quite capture its face, but my God it would make you weep with laughter.

The gingerbread man. He's been missing an eye for several years. I think he's as old as me.

The elves. Oh, the elves. They've never looked this funny. I couldn't stop taking pictures of them. So cheeky! After witnessing my photo shoot and its products, my brother, who'd left his computer long enough to see what the commotion was, retreated saying, "Slowly back away..."

Middle: The One Ring. Complete with the elvish lettering or whatever it's supposed to be. Word proudly by the Day of the Dead guy. And as my sister said, "If someone was to see the picture of the One Ring, they'd think 'what the hell is this?'" She has no idea.

Day of the Dead guy, with festive surroundings. Need I say more?

With his jaunty hat, the non-seasonal one.

Bottom: Nutcracker. Boring.

My dad dusting off the rarely used espresso machine before my sister took custody.

The fridge, complete with holiday party invitation and mullet magnets (there's a whole set).

THE END 

My email won't open. I cannot comment on the blogs of others because the word verification doesn't show up. I cannot communicate with the world. I must run, screaming. I flee to the house of my parents.

Show & Tell

This is my car. It has no name. Our relationship mostly consists of me pleading with it to behave. Sometimes I miss my old '68 Dodge, but not in weather like this. See, the Dodge only had two options for windshield wipers. Fast and faster. In Oregon, one often needs the intermittent speeds. The sprinkle speeds. Not today, though, because it's pouring (hence the picture taken from the dining room window)


My favorite part of the car. Okay, the tape player/radio/CD player are tied with it.

(For those of you who care about such things, it's a 1990 Mazda 929 or something like that. Originally owned by a friend's grandfather.)