Le Monde de Fromage de Kate

I interrupt the intended disclosure of my Cunning Plan to bring you the following newsflash:

WOMAN WHO SKIPPED “PATCH TESTING” ENDS UP WITH DISFIGURING CHEMICAL BURNS COVERING THE BOTTOM HALF OF HER FACE. MORE AT 11:00.

For now I’ll merely say that I have something rather important to add to THIS list.

In the last couple of years, as some of you know, my life has gone through quite a bit of upheaval. Score ONE for me for mastering understatement in that last sentence; I could have said turmoil, cataclysm, disorder, commotion, disruption, confusion, and perhaps even MAYHEM. I did not.

Occasionally, I manage to extricate myself from a fetal position, and have a thought – perhaps even a cogent notion – which I would define that as anything other than, “What the…????” I mull over different prospects for my future, and if I take extra medication, I may come up with a number of possibilities that don’t trigger uncontrollable weeping.

For instance, I could go back to school and get a Master’s Degree (something I’d always intended to do before I spent approximately twenty years getting my bachelor’s degree and was so exhausted that the prospect of taking another class EVER seemed like horrific TORTURE – and I say that having learned more and more about ACTUAL methods of torture). If I were a more persuasive person, I’d have a Master’s by DEFAULT. That’s how many credits I have. Finances make that one a stretch, not to mention WHAT IN THE HELL WOULD I STUDY? Would I keep up the fine arts pursuit? Would I go back to anthropology (I double-majored in Vocal Performance and Anthropology for a while – this should explain a lot about my efficiency and decision-making abilities)? To make any of it lucrative would I have to get the Ph.D., too (as a child a ASSUMED I’d do this – my Father is a professor after all)?

I had a therapist who kept calling my job as an Office Coordinator my “career.” She was skilled, qualified and helpful in many respects, but I really thought I’d slap her upside the head if she said that one more time. She didn’t seem to understand that – yes – that’s the kind of job I had done for years to make ends meet (or attempted to make ends meet), and, moreover, the possibility existed that I’d ALWAYS have such a “Joe Job” (in the Arts this is the flippant way of saying, “Job that actually entails a consistent wage, health insurance and additional benefits”). Ugh. Yes, there are, no doubt, many “Joe Jobs” in store for me. However, that’s only if I become more clever and don’t say “verklempt” in West Valley – and if I’m even SMARTER and don’t GET verklempt in West Valley (I suppose I should add that the interviewers actually likedmy and my verklempt-itude (?) didn’t have anything to do with my not getting the position).

I’ve also considered going back to school and getting a teaching certificate. Again, finances make the option of ANY schooling far-fetched currently. And then, of course, there’s the galling reality that I would have worked hard to earn certification on top of my Bachelor’s Degree so that I could go and make considerably LESS money than I did at my last “Joe Job.” I don’t refute that teaching is important. I don’t deny that I’ve had very gratifying and fulfilling experiences while teaching. I’m just asserting that TEACHERS SHOULD MAKE MORE THAN OFFICE COORDINATORS AND ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANTS AND TRUCK DRIVERS. Not to mention the fact that this State has the dubious honour of ranking 51 (yes, that’s correct, 51) in per pupil expenditures. On the other hand, from what I just read, we’ve managed to rank very CONSISTENTLY in terms of per pupil expenditures. And being consistent is like being RELIABLE…

Wait – TRUCK DRIVERS! According to late-night TV commercials, certainly the most trustworthy form of media in the WORLD, I could be a truck driver in only SIX WEEKS! And the wages and benefits are INSTANTLY wondrous AND, what’s more, I could shower at a TRUCK STOP! Since, at the moment, my shower head is broken, that has a certain allure to it.

But I should get to the meat of the matter – or should I say CHEESE. Almost a month ago, Grettir sent me a link to The Cheese School of San Francisco. Yes, you read that correctly CHEESE SCHOOL. Could there be a more perfect aspiration for a turophile than to attend CHEESE SCHOOL?

And not only is it CHEESE SCHOOL, but San Francisco is a fascinating locale (very close to my birthplace, actually) AND they are practically flooded with excellent cheese shoppes. Oh JOY and RAPTURE!!! The prospect of CHEESE SCHOOL lifted me from my mundane existence to a Beauteous Shangri-La of Dairy BLISS.

Alas – I must impart that reality eventually set it. I’ve already mentioned finances as an issue in consideration of possible life endeavors. Living in the Bay Area is so prohibitively expensive that I would no doubt have less trouble buying a yacht and living in the French Riviera. With a cabin boy named Raoul catering to my every need… Hmmm. That’s a nice fantasy, too.

But – Oooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh – CHEESE SCHOOL! Can I really dismiss THIS:

The Cheese School of San Francisco is the only institution of its kind in the San Francisco Bay area wholly devoted to helping people maximize their enjoyment of cheese.

The curriculum is designed to satisfy food lovers of all types, from the merely curious, to the serious cheese enthusiast, to the food service professional.

They teach “Fondue” and “The Art of the Cheese Tray,” for crying out loud. On the faculty they have several professional cheese mongers, chefs and culinary experts, an expert on chocolate (why not?), an acclaimed cheese author, and a cheese educator who is also a renowned judge of cheese competitions and a sought-after lecturer on cheese. They are, in their own words, “…just plain crazy about cheese,” and “…positively passionate about cheese.”

If I don’t get there somehow and teach them the word “turophile,” what MEANING will my life have? I might as well be lactose-intolerant (knock-on-wood)!!!

This is why I am hatching a cunning plan. It is SO cunning that other cunning plans bow their wily heads in shame, mortification and degradation at the mere suggestion of MY cunning plan.

Regrettably, I must leave the elucidation of my superlatively cunning plan until later. It would not do to throw such a flawless gem in with all the mucky-muck, interminable rubbish you just read (or didn’t). So, I shan’t bid you any goodbyes, simply au revoir and auf wiedersehen.

As one might imagine, when I search for something through my numerous and varied piles and boxes and bags and crates and baskets and room-fulls of my belongings, I often run across some quite remarkable things. Now and then, they are truly amusing. More often than not, they are disconcerting beyond belief. Still, they frequently serve to distract me from the fact that I, more often than not, CANNOT locate the article for which I was originally hunting.

Here is one such “found” item:

Regina and Clarence (pencil, date unknown)

I located this fascinating illustration in an otherwise empty sketchbook. Here’s the best part: I DREW THEM. I’ve no idea when, I’ve no idea WHY, and, most importantly, how in the hell did I decide to name then “Regina and Clarence?”

I will say this: They show far more artistic skill than this (though, I admit, that’s not saying much).

I think I may start a competition in which I reward the champion with a tin of Hungarian bacon (again – something I found amongst the debris of My Former Life™)*. If someone can tell me WHY I have a particular found object and from WHENCE it came and WHAT it means, they win this marvelous prize.

*Okay – a tin of Hungarian bacon. I, in point of fact, recall being given this item many years ago (perhaps at a White Elephant party?), so I presume it’s not edible. Why then, one may ask, did I keep it? Oh – COME ONE – it’s a CAN OF HUNGARIAN BACON! The sheer absurdity of it necessitated saving it. Besides, one never knows when one might have a sudden and critical need for a can of Hungarian bacon, whether or not it’s unfit for human consumption.

And please, everyone, rest easy. It doesn’t appear as though the tin is in any imminent danger of bursting (it’s not even bulging – impressive!) – which, as Kate the Safety Dog, is something I dutifully considered. I shudder to think what critical wounds might be caused by an exploding can of Hungarian bacon.

Okay – it’s not ALL ABOUT SARAH’S HAIR; I’m not obsessed. However, I feel that there is something to the idea that all the changes to that crazy head of hair do, in some very small way, symbolize her journey this past couple of years. And like I said yesterday:

But somehow, it’s as though one can admire the wonderment of healing and nature through something that most people take for granted – the seemingly mundane – the tresses of a young lady. And a wonderful young lady she is.

No mincing words here; I’m a geek. I just quoted MYSELF, and, what’s more, it was something I wrote YESTERDAY. Ugh.

Let’s go back to Sarah instead. It’s possible I may have already mentioned this: She has had what they define as a “complete response” to chemo and radiation. She tolerated the chemo very well (considering that’s on the scale of how WRETCHED it can make you feel). And the Hazmat Emergency Responders only had to come and evacuate everyone ONCE, and it wasn’t Sarah’s fault (I do love the irony that it takes a suited-up Hazmat crew to clean up fluid that they are INJECTING INTO THE BODIES OF CHILDREN).

After she finished her rounds of chemo, Sarah opted to have her broviac catheter removed (I think she really, REALLY wanted to shower ALL AT ONCE). And after chemo her hair started growing in earnest – in CRAZY, wild, swift earnest (until a stalk reached the sky and Jack climbed up it, and there was a GIANT – wait, that’s a different story). The effects of each radiation treatment made her feel progressively worse as they went along, but it was over soon enough to be bearable. Moreover, during THAT time she didn’t have to have anyone ask if she’d “flushed” that day (heparinized her line and injected saline into it). She was also able to go off the cortisone (that accompanies chemo and all its meds) and start to lose the resultant “moon face.”

I may not have mentioned before (and should have) that Sarah’s last set of scans looked great. She still has some extra lymphatic tissue, but the doctors seem quite certain that it’s just, essentially, scare tissue. Her Hodgkin’s Lymphoma was of the “bulky” variety. That means that tumor cells can actually inhabit a “framework” of non-cancerous cells (making already large tumors even more pronounced). The tumors are gone, but some of that “framework” has remained as a kind of residual scarring. At least that’s how I understand it.

I still cannot get over seeing some of her initial scans. The tremendous extent to which the largest tumor was pushing her trachea out of line was appalling. I honestly don’t know how she breathed and sang and spoke as well as she did. To say she was a trooper is an understatement of gargantuan proportions.

And NOW, don’t you think we should put the follicular journey in PICTURES?

As you probably know, click on an image to see a bigger version. And it’s TRUE (and obvious); I do not know how to make a pretty “gallery.” Please notice, though, that I made each and every thumbnail the same WIDTH. And it is an interesting mosaic…

Sarah Writes a Missive to Her Man
Amidst the Detritus (lovin’ that word) of Her Birthday Party

You know – in the penal system… Oh – and I warn you – do not EVEN laugh when I attempt serious commentary about the legal system; most of us are NOT fourteen-years-old, and to laugh at “penal” is just infantile*.

I’m just saying that the courts wouldn’t have to go through any extra rigmarole to charge Sarah as an adult, as they might have had she bludgeoned five thousand kittens PRIOR to November 4th (please tell me that crime would entail myriad SEVERE felony charges – I should probably pay a fine just for writing it).

But never fear, Citizens of the World; though she turned eighteen just last week, she has already honoured her civic responsibilities and registered and VOTED. So much the prospect of a lucrative criminal way-of-life. I could have been her get-a-away driver and taken a substantial cut, but NO. Oh – and she not only voted, but she did some RESEARCH beforehand, which is much more than I can say for ninety-two percent of the population (and that’s the VOTING populace). That, incidentally, was a very scientific poll that I conducted by pulling random numbers out of my butt.

Now that I have said something crass (could have been WORSE), I will, for the VERY FIRST TIME, utilize the “extended entry” option. If you want to read my somewhat (‘kay – perchance VERY) political confession, it will follow the rest of this entry (at least I think that’s how it works).

Okay. So Sarah is EIGHTEEN. I will now OFFICIALLY wish you your cyber Happy Birthday, my Dear!!! And I’d add some of that complimentary flashy-twinkly birthday clip-art, but it really does make me motion sick. How about some ART instead?:

Portrait of The Birthday Girl as The Birthday Girl

Oh – in my spare time I also did a watercolour:

Portrait of The Birthday Girl as The Birthday Girl
But THIS TIME in Watercolour…

Sarah, still being a teenager, and in spite of her advanced civic proclivity (say that five times fast), made the celebration of her birthday rather difficult. She didn’t know what she wanted to do, what she wanted to eat – you name it – even though her Mother and my Mom asked her EVERY DAY for I don’t know how long. Finally, she told my Mother that what she wanted for Sunday dinner. She and Shirleen went shopping, I think. And she ultimately concluded that she wanted my Mother to buy her “hooker” boots (this is her designation – the girl who dressed as Hayley Mills for Halloween). Put more simply, she wants tall, black leather boots – trÚs chic, really. And, as she STILL IS a teenager (have I said that two or three or fifty times now?), none of the five thousand three hundred and fifty-two pairs that she tried on in all seven hundred stores through which she dragged my Mom were “right.”

I eventually marked three billion possibilities on Zappos so we could order some online. She scoffed at most of them, though she had no explanation as to what she ACTUALLY wanted and what, exactly, she found HIDEOUS and objectionable about ninety-eight percent of the possibilities I’d marked. Who KNOWS what was wrong with pair number seven hundred thousand three hundred and thirty-one (I don’t think she did). She mostly indicated her displeasure of my suggestions by a strident “NEH!” and a dismissive sweep of her royal hand (she WAS wearing a tiara). I hope the ones we ordered FIT.

Otherwise, it was Birthday business pretty much as usual. There was chocolate cake with candles (I honestly had to ask if there were ONLY eighteen), our traditional rendition of Happy Birthday with loads of improvised off-key operatic harmonies, extraneous coloratura and Tuvan throat singing (okay, one of those is not true), “lite” ice cream – which probably doesn’t make any sense considering the chocolate cake weighed (by ITSELF) approximately three hundred pounds, and jollity and high spirits all about (which is REQUIRED by law, I believe). Sarah received two dozen beautiful purple-ish roses (I think purple roses always have the loveliest fragrance):

Sarah also received an assortment of small gifts. I thought mine was very thoughtful and generous. I gave her a tape recorder with an incorporated microphone (so she can make gushy tapes to send to her boyfriend); I even let her choose between two that I purchased and didn’t tell her which one was more expensive (so naturally, as a young woman of discerning taste, she chose that the more costly one). I’m munificent like that. Oh wait – I got it for her so she wouldn’t use my recording equipment all the time. Perhaps I’m an narcissistic shrew (well, it is all about ME, isn’t it?).

The culmination of the party was when we tried to simultaneously shoot small incendiary devices at the dining room chandelier so that it was bedecked in festive, multi-coloured streamers. And it didn’t even start on fire.

Now, as is my LEGAL right as an Aunt, who saw Sarah come into this very World (via C-section – that was COOL), I get to be mawkish and overly-sentimental. After all, she was my very first niephew (niece or nephew). And if you mock me, Sarah, you will be visited by the mauldin Karma fairy who will bonk you on the head with her cosmic wand so that the older you get the more sappy you’ll become. You think I’m kidding? I am firmly convinced that I am as slushy-mushy as I am because I used to mock my Mom when SHE was moved and teary-eyed at things.

To the point: Sarah impresses me more each day. Yes, it boggles my mind and alarms me to no small extent that she is, in essence, AN ADULT. But, again, as it’s ALL ABOUT ME, I think that it’s most agitating because it makes me VERY OLD, indeed. But despite my advanced age and the possible onset of dementia, I can still see with what ever-increasing poise and kindness Sarah goes through life (sometimes it is extremely LOUD poise, but it’s poise and grace, nonetheless). She’s been through so much, and she NEVER (for more than a few paltry minutes here and there) loses her humour, her hopefulness and an astonishing eagerness for life. May I borrow a cup of that, please?

And what I find most astounding nowadays – what leaves me more and more and MORE dumbfounded each time I see her – is her FREAKIN’ HAIR. It grows like…Hmmm. It grows like Morning Glories, but as fast and all-encompassing as when you realize that you that you are old enough to see past the fact that they are “pretty” and notice, instead, that they are killing your shrubs with their insidious tentacles – causing a slow, painful, choking death to your plants. Yes, Sarah’s hair fits th
at analogy, but in a good way, not the suffocating death option. And it’s so CURLY. Untamed waves and tendrils and ringlets wantonly flowing this way and that and then the other direction; it’s amazing. I don’t know if the curl an after-effect of the chemo, or if it’s because her hair is short now…

Whatever the case may be, her tresses evolve constantly, and not just because they grow at miraculous rate, but she experiments with different coiffures (and well she should). At her Birthday party she looked like a Greek Goddess. I didn’t get a picture that did her justice.

Okay, so her HAIR isn’t the critical subject of the day. But somehow, it’s as though one can admire the wonderment of healing and nature through something that most people take for granted – the seemingly mundane – the tresses of a young lady. And a wonderful young lady she is.

I LOVE YOU VERY MUCH, SARAH! You inspire me.

*penal – heh heh

Read the rest of this entry »

Well, Terry, I was just about to commence with this SLIGHTLY belated post about my second Halloween costume when I noticed SOMEBODY was already bitching about the delay. I do have things to DO, you know (everyone please keep their inevitable snickering very quiet).

Just yesterday I tried to locate something in my room. Wait – first I read The End. Yes, it took me a long time to acquire it, but it was worth the wait. I admit, I’ve had a hard time settling my mind down enough to read recently (and for a while…), and this is perfect fare for such a predicament.

Back to my room – ugh. Well, I couldn’t have read a more suitable book, because as all scholars of A Series of Unfortunate Events know, especially if they’ve mastered The Complete Wreck (Emma, I would assert, has graduated this endeavor summa cum laude), The End, like my room, is COMPLETELY full of detritus (I’m not talking about the text ITSELF – rather, “detritus” is an important subject in the story). I found myself rifling through the heaps and piles of this and that thinking (and occasionally musing aloud to myself or SHOUTING to the Universe), “Detritus,” “Detritus,” “AAAAAAAAAHHHH – DEAD SPIDER PARTS,” “Detritus,” “OOHHH – I wondered where that was,” and, naturally, “DETRITUS!!!”

Never mind. Back to Halloween?

I was going to open with a reference such as this:

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death.

Now I don’t feel like it. And I’m not going to say which play it’s from, especially since I only got it right on the second try.

OKAY – I’ve been tetchy enough, let me get to the point (there’s nothing at all amusing that anyone can find to say about the irony of my tangential, divergent and CRAZY “writing style,” so don’t even try).

Ah, Halloween 2006. It was a lovely autumn day; there was a slight nip in the air, and the smell of …. oh – screw it. I spent most of the day reeking of non-staining Ultra Tiger Balm (please remember that it is not made of tigers or tiger parts; it says so right on the packaging). It LOOKED nice outside. Let’s just leave it at that. However, it was downright CHILLY when I was standing behind the door in an ugly pink towel that provided VERY questionable coverage.

The aforementioned shower did afford my back and neck some temporary relief, so I donned my PLANNED 2006 Halloween costume. And here is what I was emulating:

CRAZY CAT LADY

I must assert right this very moment that the only reason that I could use the “Crazy Cat Lady” as a costume is that I am NOT A CRAZY CAT LADY. I successfully passed the very scientific and definitive “Are you a Crazy Cat Lady?” test from Archie McPhee®, and I further summarized the arguments that supported those test results in a previous entry. Enough said.

So, I had the plaid:

I also had the dark shirt, the robe, the scuff-style slippers, the headband and the CRAZY hair. I created the pallor (OKAY – so I accentuated my own pastiness with makeup). I even used dark eye shadow to create the dark eye circles and to emphasize my “eye luggage.”

Then there were the cats. I hadn’t arranged far enough ahead to acquire real and/or stuffed cats from Sarah, William and Shirleen. I found two plush kitties, and I presumed my Kitten Children would be excellent props. I figured that I could say that all the other cats were hiding – plausible, I thought – if anyone asked. “If anyone asked, “- HAH!

Here is one of the “faux” kitties. They were well-behaved – PERFECTLY obliging and cooperative. Here’s the first:

I Call Him Boboli (because Julianne would like it…)

Here is the second – my “Pocket Kitten”:

I Call Her Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantisiliogogogoch
(You know, after that Welsh town)

Then there were MY Kitten Children. I brought food and water, their favourite toys, Kitty treats – a veritable Kitty orgy of fun things – into the living room. I should explain that the Kitten Children aren’t usually allowed in the living room. BeBe tries, regularly, to sneak into the room while people open and close the door, as she seems to have an unnatural obsession with the high-backed green chairs in there; they are like Kitty cocaine – she is addicted and cannot help herself – she wants to scratch the hell out of them. Fiona is MUCH more reticent about the sneaking in. She has observed BeBe being thrown out of there far too many times, I suppose.

So I left the door open, and sweetly beckoned to them to enter. They were incredibly suspicious. BeBe came in first, ever-so tentatively. After a bit, Fiona very timidly followed. This is the sort of thing they initially did:

When the doorbell rang, my plan was to pick up BeBe and “accessorize” with her. I reckoned that not only would this enhance the authenticity of my costume (see the picture above – the one upon which I modeled my outfit), but it would prevent her from running out the door, going to the very first patch of grass she saw, and gob
bling up huge chunks of the stuff, which she would then vomit up not long after. Yum.

The doorbell rang, and I answered as per my plan. The three boys on the porch did not seem to be impressed AT ALL with my ensemble. Besides, I said, “Oh – what GREAT hobbits,” which they found most insulting, since, as they curtly informed me, they were Jedi masters. In my defense, their light-sabers were not glowing (that I noticed) and so I thought they were perhaps walking sticks (?). I heard them muttering as they walked away, “Sheesh – we have LIGHT-SABERS, etc.” Strike one.

The doorbell rang again. This time, it was two little boys (dressed as I do not KNOW what because BeBe was becoming increasingly disconcerted by her “accessory” or “prop” status, and she was struggling to get away). Right off, one boy pointed to the other and said, “He’s ALLERGIC to cats.” (DOESN’T ANYONE JUST SAY TRICK-OR-TREAT ANYMORE?) I responded, “The cat hasn’t touched any of the candy.” Allergy boy very nicely said that he only had problems with cats if he had direct physical contact with them. Strike TWO.

So my Kitten Children seemed determined to cause “costume malfunction.” I don’t suppose it mattered all that much, because, as usual, no one seemed to understand WHAT I WAS TRYING TO BE.

Finally, a substantial group of My Most FAVOURITE Trick-or-Treaters arrived. By then, Fiona had retreated to the kitchen, and BeBe was just getting NASTY (STRIKE THREE). Jenny very nicely offered to put her in the kitchen, too, (probably hoping to prevent any disfiguring injuries to her beautiful children – BeBe rewarded her kindness by hissing nastily at her all the while).

So I had a great time admiring all their superbly-executed and imaginative costumes. I even took little fifteen-second films with my phone (which I must figure out how to LOAD and utilize). And in that large group, only ONE costume confused me (sorry, Jenny), but I still found it very appealing (where DID you get those bloomers/pettipants – whatever they are called?). I was going to take lovely photos with my Dad’s camera, but the re-chargeable batteries were defective, so hopefully someone will send me pictures. Only one other group came to the door during this time, so I just cheerfully flung some candy their way, bid them a “Happy Halloween,” and went back to my honoured guests.

After everyone left, and in view of the fact that we did not get a SINGLE additional knock on the door or ringing of the doorbell, the Kitten Children decided that they could PARTY.

OH, The Temptation…

Fiona Frolics Festively

Then they decided to “chill out:”

BeBe is audacious and stands RIGHT NEXT to the Scary Punkin

Fiona is more Lady-Like

Okay, so they were HORRIBLE props/accessories, but their utter cuteness prevents me from EVER staying annoyed at them for very long:

I have always considered myself a creative person. And feedback from others seems to support this conclusion. I suppose the possibility exists that I am told, “That’s very…creative,” when the subtext is, in fact, “That’s INSANE and I’m afraid to anger you with an honest response lest you go into a psychotic rage.”

Either way, my imagination (if I, indeed, have one), seems to fail me when it comes to Halloween costumes. Either I cannot come up with a ANYTHING, or I conjure up an ensemble that completely and utterly baffles people.

Years ago, for instance, for the Genetic Research Halloween party, I printed a bunch of white business cards. Right the middle, in a small and (I thought) appropriately characteristic font, I printed the word “Ennui.” My acting chops were decent in those days, and I think I did a very fine interpretation of “Ennui.” No one (with the exception of my dear friend, Boom Boom) understood it AT ALL.

Then there was the last Halloween costume I created (prior to this Halloween, I should say). I was Antarctica. I took a very large white sheet, cut a hole for my head, and donned it over a white turtleneck. This created an excellent and vast white continental expanse. Then I added the indigenous fauna. For this I did RESEARCH. Then I purchased a number of little plush penguins and two varieties of seals, which I safety-pinned onto the sheet in an area which I though seemed like the “coastline.” I skipped the lice and midges, etc. I also skipped the flora entirely (you know – lichens, algae, moss). I didn’t want to interrupt the whole characteristic “ice-storm” and barren vastness impression. I was pleased to have come up with what I presumed was rather a unique design.

I went to a party in this garb. No one got it. I even tried to MAKE some people guess what I was. It was a painful process that took many broad hints to elicit ANY success. Humiliating.

I wondered, in retrospect, if some very tiny research stations and a few minuscule people trekking with little sleds across the most immense and “barren” portion of the continent would have made things more clear. Probably not. And they certainly would have made it uncomfortable to sit down.

So, this year I did not have any high hopes for Halloween inspiration, nor did I have plans that made a costume mandatory. However, I was expecting some of my most FAVOURITE trick-or-treaters. And, because I thought it might be fun for them (?), I actually concocted something. I’ll elaborate in a further entry, because I want to prepare the appropriate accompanying pictures.

Unfortunately, my back and my neck were feeling especially wonky on Halloween (that IS the very scientific medical term, in case you were wondering, and I would know because I’ve worked in the industry). It’s not unusual for my back and neck to BE wonky, but my usual tricks weren’t seeming to improve the…wonkiness. I realized that the symptoms had worsened since – YES – I fell down on Sunday (and NO, I will not discuss how I fell UP the stairs rather than down and the resultant bruises are not up for debate).

I worked throughout the day to improve my range of motion. Finally, at about 5:30 I decided to direct a hot shower onto the area. I should mention that, as I was to be the sole guardian of the trick-or-treat treats and answering the door, I had not only left the porch light off, I was keeping the entire front of the house DARK. When I was young, Halloween had RULES. And these statutes were very clear.

If the porch light was off, you DID NOT ring the doorbell or knock on the door. This was because:

1. The residents were not planning to be home.
2. The residents were Jehovah’s Witnesses and did not observe Halloween.
3. The residents hated children and despised anything that might induce merriment amongst young people.
4. All of the above or any combination thereof.

Obviously, some percentage of new-fangled, “modern” children have not been schooled in proper Halloween etiquette. Thus, as I stepped from the guest room shower and put on a towel that somewhat LACKED in the complete coverage department (my Kingdom for one of my BATH SHEETS), I heard the doorbell ringing. And ringing. And ringing some more. Then I heard fearsome knocking.

On the off-chance that it was some of my most FAVOURITE trick-or-treaters, I thought I’d check the peep-hole; if it was them, I could crack the door, tell them to give me thirty seconds to leave and go get a robe and that they could come on in (when I’d disappeared). As I should have suspected, the porch was covered with COMPLETE STRANGERS (I NEVER should go to the door in completely or semi-inappropriate attire – it’s NEVER the people I’m expecting). In the moments I squinted through the peep-hole trying (IN THE DARKNESS, CHILDREN) to discern who it was, I heard them make the following comments:

UUUHHH! Why don’t they answer the door? What are they doing? Whey aren’t they getting the door? What is the deal? What’s their problem?? THEY ARE WASTING OUR TRICK-OUR-TREAT TIME!!!

It was that last comment that emboldened me. HEAVEN FORBID I should waste their valuable trick-or-treat time, even if they were recklessly and WANTONLY flaunting the rules of appropriate Halloween decorum. So I thought I’d, perhaps, SCARE them.

I grabbed the scary papier-maché pumpkin head containing the “treats,” ensconced myself behind the door, opened it and thrust the pumpkin outside (it really is a rather frightening serving implement; you have to stick your hand into the gaping maw of a this hideous faux gourd and pull the treats from it’s dark interior WHERE ITS GUTS SHOULD BE). I mumbled something about how I’d been in the process of “fixing my back”; I’m sure they couldn’t have cared less. One girl did say, “You probably should get dressed before the next people come.” Hmmm – really? DUH!!! I did feel that at this time I should probably allay their fear that I was behind the door COMPLETEY NAKED. “I’m wearing a TOWEL,” I said defensively. One of the other kids responded, “It’s your costume – ha ha.” As they exited the scene in record time considering there were about seventeen of them and they all had to get their candy THEMSELVES, I attempted some droll comment about my “lady just out of the shower” costume. They did not hear this witty remark, as they were already sprinting towards the next abode, which, I hope, had a darkened porch light so that they wasted MORE precious “trick-or-treat” time in a futile attempt to get someone to the door, when, in their ignorance, they were needlessly flouting the sacred laws of Halloween.

I did successfully resist the temptation to lecture them on CORRECT Halloween protocol. Moreover, I also refrained from sqandering even MORE of their valuable “trick-or-treat” time by giving them a lecture on the origins of Halloween and holding them hostage until they’d identified at least ONE other tradition “related” to Halloween that is currently practiced on or near them same day (I would have accepted All Saint’s Day, All Soul’s Day (or even All Hallow’s Eve as an alternate to either of those), Dia De Los Muertos, Samhain, or even Guy Fawkes Night*). I wouldn’t have considered the fact that I had previously seen a “Halloween” special on The History Channel a few days earlier, bolstering my recollection of many facts and adding some festive new tidbits, at ALL inequitable, taking into consideration that these children were infringing on respectful Halloween customs, AND I WAS BASICALLY NAKED.

Tomorrow I will elaborate on my second and intentional 2006 Halloween costume (which was not without malfunctions and FAILURES).

*Perhaps, in honour of the fairly large percentage of my Euro-Mutt heritage originating in the British Isles, I will from now on just skip Halloween and hold out for Guy Fawkes Night. Burning a straw man in effigy sounds like LOADS of fun. And I believe that with the correct precautions that even I could perform this ritual without harm to myself or others. Probably.

As it is not EVERYDAY you accuse one’s child of being a possible cugine, especially one of your SISTER’S children, so I sent Janet the following email:

Okay, first of all, don’t be offended because I said on my blog that Anders might have mob ties. It’s really funny – I PROMISE.

Also, even if I’m a very bad sister, I think you should share ALL your Costco albums with me so I can see all the cute pictures of your family. Please? Especially since of every 50 or so pictures Dad takes, 47 are blurry.

Your Bad Sister,
Who you should love ANYWAY because she is a Child of God,
Kate

P.S. No guilt trip or anything. 🙂

Okay, I was ALSO trying to wrangle a bunch of photos from her…

Do you think I twisted the knife just a little too far with the “because she is a Child of God?” Hmmm. Nothing like exploiting someone’s obligations to benevolence.

Her response follows. I think she has a rather lilting à la Virginia Woolf stream-of-consciousness style. Moreover, she didn’t write this email in all SHOUTING CAPS, as she is sometimes wont to do (I tell you, it’s GENETIC):

I am so offended. Not because you insinuated he had ties but because you failed to recognize him as the mod [sic] boss which is what he really is. That is funny that you referred to him as that because mom bought him a somewhat unattractive baby outfit last year. It was basically a velour jogging suit with a bear on it and it zipped up. My friend Amy would always call him boss and tell me to buy him some gold chains. I’ll send you the albums when I get a chance.

Well, there you have it. My suspicions were very well founded.

Hereafter, forever, please refer to Anders as “The Boss.” Now, as he grows up, we can patiently wait for the day when he becomes Capo di tutti capi. I know Janet and Erik will be so proud.

*Yes, I stole this from Terry, as it was just too good. Oh – please call her “Cougar.”

Anders is just over twenty-two months old. He embodies the innocence of childhood; His angelic visage, his adorable “chattiness,” the delicate way he holds a pretzel stick…

But, alas, under that charming exterior lurks something…darker. “What?” you may ask. Well, to be honest, I think it’s MOB TIES. This may sound ridiculous, but reports of several recent incidents have raised my suspicions. The first sounds fairly innocent.

My Mom is in their favourite local gift store with Janet, Anders and Leif. Anders, sitting in a shopping cart, spies a ball. My Mom hands it to him (which, as a Grandparent, is pretty much a signed-and-sealed contract to purchase the thing, whatever it may be – so good thing it wasn’t a LIVE PONY – NOTE: That dream was dashed last holiday season. Click here and see “Holiday Gift Idea #3). Anders looks adoringly at the ball and says, “I LIKE-A da ball!” Ah. Small blond children often do stereotypical New York Italian pizza joint proprietor impressions, don’t they? “I LIKE-a da ball!” he says again. “I LIKE-A da BALL!” He continues with this mantra even after said ball has been purchased (like I said – Grandparents – they cannot resist when the grandchild “like-a’s” something). True, taken ALONE, this all seems fairly innocuous (cute, but innocuous).

But consider THIS evidence: Janet, Erick, Leif and Anders were eating at the local family-run burger/shake/sandwich/soda-fountain/taco/cookie/deli-fare/ tamales-in-corn-husks/EVERYTHING joint. Erik and Janet were chatting, not noticing everything the boys were doing. Leif suddenly complains, “Hey! Anders is drinking my drink!” Indeed, Anders had stolen Leif’s fruit punch and was going to town with it. By the time Janet looked over, Erik was cracking up. Evidently, Anders had narrowed his eyes, pointed his little index finger right at Leif, and menacingly was whispering, “SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Yes, it’s funny. However, if that’s not the toddler equivalent of “You’d better shut you pie hole* or you’ll be sleeping with the FISHES,” then I don’t know what is.

Granted, since he still drinks from a sippy cup and isn’t potty-trained, I suppose we’re not in real danger of him packing heat or anything. But, if he starts saying things like, “I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse,” or “…you’re my older brother, and I love you. But don’t ever take sides with anyone against the Family again. Ever.” – OR, worst of all, “It’s not personal, Sonny. It’s strictly business,” then perhaps we should be concerned. I’m just sayin’…

*Yes, “pie hole.” Very Mafioso, I’m sure.



Oh, the gladness for the natal day for not one, but TWO illustrious women!! A hail and hearty HAPPY BIRTHDAY to Grettir’s Mom, who is, among many other notable and wondrous things, The Laundry Goddess of the WORLD.

AND a hail and hearty HAPPY BIRTHDAY (and a SPECIAL wish for your mazel to be dominant!!!) to Jodi (you lil’ punkinhead) in her Jodiverse BECAUSE SHE SAYS SO!

And if you happen to think that this entry is fraught with clip-art, you are right. But I couldn’t go through over thirty pages of FREE birthday clip-art and not use SOMETHING (though I assiduously avoided the creepy clowns).

However, I couldn’t help but use this:

It may be cloying, but you cannot say it isn’t Fancy!

Oh HORRORS! I almost forget that most important new-fangled Birthday tradition:

GIFTS!!! MANY GIFTS!

Indeed, I hope that you both had a:

NOTE: The size of the each respective Birthday cake is in no way related to the sincerity of the intended greetings. Also, almost every image in this post danced about or twinkled or winked or frolicked (to the point that I am now slightly motion sick). However, having evidently reached or exceeded the “twinkly/dancy” quota, I cannot guarantee the consistent animated nature of the above-mentioned images. Also, when I tried to delete frames from the floating pink balloon animation (so that STUPID, STUPID I.E. could handle it – it couldn’t just automatically compensate like FIREFOX) then it wouldn’t upload. So it’s I.E.’s fault that the balloon is WONKY, not mine. Mind you, this should in no way detract from anyone’s Birthday joy and celebration (which, by Kate Law, should last at least a week after your actual birthday).