Le Monde de Fromage de Kate

Until I discover the possibly serious ramifications of this, let us keep my forthcoming revelation on the QT (why in the hell DOES that mean “in secrecy”? Apparently it is derived from “qui vive,” but as far as I can tell , that translates literally to “who lives.” So it’s a secret why “on the QT” means “in secrecy”). Oh yes – the revelation:
I believe my Mother has an unnatural and subconscious

fear of the number “five.”

This was evidenced yesterday in a collage she made (of shoes) that I was to scan and send to my sister-in-law, Julianne, so she could replace her cancelled catalog Christmas present (as I’ve mentioned several times, since my Mother is the catalog shopper extraordinaire of the UNIVERSE, sometimes you only get a little cut-out picture of your back-ordered holiday gift, or you have to choose an alternate gift because they ran out of…whatever it is they run out of). At first glance, you think there are eight shoe choices. Upon closer examination, however, there is NO NUMBER FIVE. One, two, three, four, SIX, seven, eight. I asked my mother about this and she honestly had no idea why she’d omitted number five. This could be serious. I am one of five children. My Mother has five grand-children. Everyone in this family has five digits on each arm and leg.

All I can say to my siblings and my nieces and nephews is GUARD YOUR LIVES AND YOUR DIGITS. MOM/GRANDMA MAY BE OUT TO GET NUMBER FIVE!

As far as the children go, the logical choice would be ME. My Mother is undeniably the most generous and patient person on this Earth, but still waters run DEEP. Perhaps she’s reached a breaking point…

Charles, Ashley, and Paisley, the most BEAUTIFUL baby in the WIDE WORLD, are visiting from Kansas (where Charles goes to school and apparently castrates many, many humongous bulls. If you want to read about “nut fries,” I mention them in the comments section of this, which should load my endless and embarrassingly long comment – the one that mentions “Rocky Mountain Oysters,” among other things, very soon). Here is my youngest niece with her Great-Grandmother Lee:

“Are you pensive?”

“No, I’m just thinking.”

Charles and Ashley are going home WITHOUT HER. They just don’t know it yet.

I found out today, on this auspicious opening of 2006, the scope of my Gilmore Girls addiction. Yes, on THIS day, when one should examine ones priorities and resolutions for the coming year and reflect philosophically on the death of the old year and the birth of the new and use it as a metaphor in deep conversation with ones loved ones over a ham dinner, I discovered just how critical my obsession had become.

Let me back up. I had only caught a few episodes of the Gilmore Girls until this season. I thought it was a very witty, fast-paced show with quirky yet well-rounded characters, but I’d never caught enough of the show consistently to become truly engrossed. Then Sarah received Seasons One, Two Three and Four of the show on DVD (for her birthday and Christmas from various sources). And my Mom purchased Season Five on a whim (so we are having a debate about whether or not Sarah owns it by default – I say NO, TALK TO THE HAND). We all started from the beginning of the series and have been individually watching the show on and off since mid-December. Sarah has been very generous with her DVDs, and thus far we’ve managed to work out the timing so that no one was bereft of episodes completely (and we’ve managed, with varying degrees of success, to watch them in order). UNTIL TONIGHT. After ham dinner (during which I’m afraid we probably discussed completely trifling and inconsequential topics – I cannot even remember what – WAIT – every time we have lit candles on the table with dinner recently we recall the festive occasion, oh so many years ago, upon which the dried flower arrangement in the center of the table caught on fire when someone – I REALLY don’t remember it being me and no one can prove otherwise – knocked a burning taper into it, and I maintain that it was the timely intervention of the gods of tasteful home decor sending a very blunt signal that the dead weeds HAD TO GO) I was doing a craft project (never fear – nothing involving protective eye-wear or solder or Dremel® tools or flying bits of red-hot semi-precious stones) and watching Season Three of Gilmore Girls. I had even convinced Shirleen to watch some episodes out of order because she’s on Season Two and therefore not too uninformed about the overall plot. But THEN, in the MIDDLE OF AN EPISODE – during a very tumultuous moment for Rory with her boyfriend, THEY SAID THEY WERE LEAVING WITH THE DISCS (I guess I had reached the same point in the series as Sarah). I cried, “But I’m in the middle of an episode!!!” But the merciless, callous SCOUNDRELS – who CLAIM to be FAMILY – ignored my repetitions, growing fainter and more hopeless of, “But I’m in the MIDDLE of an episode!!!”*

This is where it gets really sad. I started to sweat and feel faint and the desperation began to usurp all my faculties – I was JONESING for the Gilmore Girls. I considered body-slamming someone, stealing the discs, and locking myself into my bedroom (which is an actual KEYED lock – no nail opening THAT door – ha ha!) until they gave up and went home without them. Sanity crept in (a little), though, when I considered that Shirleen wasn’t feeling very well AND the lumbar region of her spine has been surgically fused and that Sarah has CANCER (she is doing EXTREMELY well with her treatment, incidentally), but you just cannot body-slam someone who has CANCER. It’s gauche. Uncouth.

So here I am, confessing my horrible weakness and trying to start anew for 2006:

Hi. I’m Kate and I’m a Gilmore Girls-aholic.

The first step IS admitting you have a problem, is it not?

By the by, Edward Herrmann’s daughter, Ryen (who, ironically, has a brother named Rory), vomited on me once. And I got to clean up a big pile of upchuck infused with WHOLE GRAPES from their doormat. Let’s just leave it at that. Well, I’ll add that he is, indeed, very tall, and he, unlike some actors, looks EXACTLY the same on screen as in person.

*Okay – big fat lie – they were sweet – even apologetic – about it actually, even though the DVDs (noting the possible exception of Season Five) BELONG to Sarah and, like I said, she’s been exceptionally generous with them.

My favorite quote at the moment is from a FABULOUS Christmas compilation CD from my lovely friends, Michael and Frank:

Socks, I name you “Phil.”

Every time I hear this (and other quotes from the same source) I laugh like a crazy lady (which is, of course, apropos).

I received a large pimple on my right (face!) cheek for Christmas; it was rather festive. It was not the only gift I received. But I’ll get to that another time. I was going to call this entry, “What Would Cause Kate to BAKE?” But zits are funnier.

Nonetheless, let’s address the question. Indeed, what WOULD make Kate act even slightly domestic? Well, as I had mentioned, I was on to Plan G with my big Christmas Craft Project. I think Plan G might actually work. However, I was sooooo tired of broken drill bits and red-hot stone shards flying through the air, wearing eye protection, getting covered in moist stone grit (to the point that it would make my hair stiff – interesting thought for a styling product, perhaps, but also YUCKY), and losing my favourite pieces of rock. I needed a break. So in the middle of the night (is that not when I do ALL my most interesting work?) on December 23 – which, I suppose, would technically make it December 24 – Christmas Eve, I baked a TRIPLE batch of Boiled Raisin Cookies. This is, believe it or not, something in my skill set; I make a decent Boiled Raisin Cookie. And if you’ve not tasted Boiled Raisin Cookies, I should tell you that even folks who do not like raisins have liked these cookies. I use my Great-Grandmother Monson’s recipe (and she was a really WONDERFUL cook and baker). Here, FREE FOR THE TAKING, is the THE RECIPE.

So, yes, I have yet to finish my big Christmas Craft Project, but I have not given it up completely. Besides, Boiled Raisin Cookies are my Dad’s favourite, so it was a nice festive holiday-like thing to do for him.

So Happy Holidays and All That Jazz to All Y’all!

So I’m on to Plan G (I believe) with my major holiday craft project. It seemed simple and elegant; it is now gargantuan, pollution-emitting and, to be frank, slightly dangerous.

The “Rock Men” have been very helpful. They, for instance, inspired my very special hand-crafted water bath made from a piece of laminate flooring. Nonetheless, I’ve broken TWO MORE diamond drill bits (at least this time the didn’t go flying into the air or put me in danger of putting out an eye). I went to replace them, and the “Rock Men” very sweetly told me that one needs to be patient and I was PERHAPS bearing down too hard with my Dremel® tool. Well, in truth, they are more frank than that; they said, “You’re pushin’ too hard.” They then suggested an alternative to suddenly magically assuming the patience of Job. One of the “Rock Men” even showed me how to do it. It looked straightforward, I have the tools, I thought Plan F was well on its way. Nope. I now have ruined approximately two yards of REAL “half-round” silver wire (priced by the GRAM, for crying out loud).

So please, pretty PLEASE, wish me luck with Plan G. It’s a little sticky, but at least no one will sustain second or third degree burns from it.

I have always DETESTED the Carol of the Bells for myriad reasons. It’s overdone (usually badly), it’s anxiety-producing (bad form, you’d think, in a Christmas Carol that talks about anything “sweet”), it provokes an entirely inappropriate (for the subject matter) ominous feeling, and basically it has a bad fit of lyrics to a tune – it scans HORRIBLY (I believe it’s a Ukrainian tune that might be nice with – say – Ukrainian words on an entirely different subject) – how the lyricist (who shall remain nameless because I shan’t even BOTHER looking up such a hack – and I don’t want to know if it was someone good who was temporarily on CRACK or the like) thought that phrases such as “Hark how the bells, Sweet silver bells, all seem to say, ‘Throw cares away,'” should EVER be coupled with that portentous tune (portending EVIL bells, I would say HELL’S BELLS!!!). Don’t even get me started with the chorale arrangements of the beastly thing, which invariably turns into some sort of thumping, marcato nightmare. “Sweet” MY ASS. (Sorry, sometimes there is just no “gilding the lily”). I could go on (Really? One might ask in feigned astonishment).

But Jenny has found the salve for my discontent with this Holiday Carol. Click below to see it in all its glory:

I cannot begin to tell you how happy this song makes me. It is the PERFECT pairing of lyrics with the tune (if you’re going to do it in English, at least), capturing the urgency of the melody and fitting each syllable with faultless beauty. And the PERFORMANCE is utterly FLAWLESS. I LOVE this guy (his name is “Skipper,” too – how perfectly lovely it THAT). Thank you, Jenny. And thanks, too, American Angst.com.

Heartfelt apologies to e. e. cummings (even though he’s dead).

I started this “All Lauds and Honours” blog entry for Blobbies in May. Okay, I wrote the title on May 1, 2005 and then became distracted by the e. e. cummings poem upon which I based it (“i sing of Olaf glad and big”) and became intrigued with my great-grandfather’s World War I history in Engineer Company 5 (his name was Olaf – Olaf Wilford Monson – so it’s not QUITE as tangential as one might think) and was caught up mulling over whether or not he was really “glad” and “big” – he was to some extent but that is, indeed, a subject for another time.

So – BLOBBIES!!! It turns out that now is an opportune to discuss said creatures, as the OFFICIAL Blobby Farm is now open!

Not only is it a website of amusement and delight (peruse it – you will agree), it is the official source for Blobby purchases. AND THERE IS STILL TIME if you’d like to purchase a Blobby as a Christmas gift for your niece or you mail carrier or your boss or your cat OR the Queen of England (I’m thinking that she has NOT been privileged to meet any Blobbies). If you order your Blobbies by December 20th, you should receive them by Christmas (if you are not in Iceland, that is. You’d have to check with Blobby Farmers Maria and Chris about their Reykjavik shipping policies).

Oh – have I said that I LOVE Blobbies? I am Blobsessed; it is true. Read about my EXTREME Blobbsession of last Christmas in my Holiday Gift Ideas.

Let me introduce you to my collection:

Dread Pirate Ned 1

Shawny Donut 1

Hoosier, Jr. 2

Peek-A-Boo Radley, Jr. 1

Tot, Jr. 2

Uni, Jr. 1

Also, take a look at my entry to last year’s Blobby Coloring contest, for which I received a “FREAKISHLY Honorable Mention” in my age category.

For which I won this:

Kitty Crud 1

My nephew, Leif, won first place in his age category (talented little spud).

Ashley bemoans the fact that no one comments on Paisley’s beauty or intelligence, etc., but they say, again and again, “Look at all that HAIR!” Charles spent his time as an infant AND all of his teenage and many of his adult years hearing the same, I’m afraid (also, occasionally, someone approaching him from behind would say, “Ma’am, Ma’am” and then be appalled when he turned around – or there was that child that said, “MOM, that MAN is a LADY!” – or was that visa versa?). But it’s OBVIOUS that she’s disgustingly beautiful and I have no doubt that she will have a copious amount of brains, too (genetics working as they do – she is, after all, MY niece).

Anyway, I love her new hairdo.

Paisley has a “Unicorn Tail”

She’s coming to visit at the beginning of January. I hope Charles and Ashley won’t mind going home without her.

One should LISTEN when the gem and rock shop (that’s literally ROCKS – stones, fossils, gems) man (I call him the “rock man”) tells you to always use water when drilling stone with a diamond bit. Though I am Kate the Safety Dog I could not figure out how to use water while simultaneously using a tool THAT PLUGS INTO AN ELECTRICAL OUTLET (I suppose I’ve read too many of those safety warnings that accompany hair dryers and radios that tell you not to take appliances with you into a tub full of water) so I just blithely drilled away. I WAS wearing eye protection (and feeling silly about it – even though I am Kate the Safety Dog), and it turned out to be very providential.

You see, if you DO NOT use water while drilling stone with the diamond drill bit, the stone and the bit shaft will reach incredible temperatures. Suddenly, the stone will shatter into two pieces with the diamond portion of the bit stuck into it (melded, perhaps, by the extraordinary heat?). The broken piece, inconveniently released from the vise, will shoot into the air, hit your protective eye gear (See? I could have put an eye out), land in your lap, burning you through the towel sitting there AND your silk pajama bottoms, and then it will disappear completely (perhaps transported by intense temperature to an alternate dimension). This makes one squeal and is dangerous.

Today, when I went to replace the diamond drill bit, I deigned to ask another “rock man” HOW to use water while using an electrical tool. He told me to spit on the bit (which rhymes – how fun). He also explained several methods by which water could safely be delivered to a stone you are drilling so that white-hot pieces of Tiger’s Eye don’t burn your extremities. We then had a very interesting discussion during which I observed that, though I wouldn’t have thought of using saliva as a drilling lubricant, it may even be superior to water because it is more viscous (take THAT those of you who think I’m excessively germ phobic). I now have figured out a whole system, which I shan’t explain here, because sometimes I get these ideas which I think are very clever (like long ago when I installed a stereo in our old Datsun and I built the speakers into tupperware containers with somewhat long speaker wires so you could set them wherever you wanted). Every man I ever told about that thought it was completely HILARIOUS. Bloody chauvinists. I maintain that it was extremely versatile and functional AND a most creative use of kitchen storage containers, indeed.

So, basically, please take care, One and All! Watch out for those winter road hazards, keep warm (and remember that a large percentage of your body heat escapes through your head, especially if your noggin is sizable), wash your hands regularly and thoroughly (this is the very FIRST rule in Healthcare Universal Precautions), get your PSA checked every year (if you are a man over forty, that is), be nice to everyone (I’m being sincere – Plato said, “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle”), and, whatever you do, SPIT on your BIT.