Paging Dr. Jung

I'm having recurring nightmares about spreadsheets. Endless, boring, soul-killing spreadsheets. I don't need a psychiatrist to know what that's about.


Do you want to drive a creative and conscientious person to despair? Give her a lot of spreadsheets. I mean, a lot of them. Make sure that some of them only she will ever look at - that they serve no purpose whatsoever - and then require her to keep them up to date.


Next, some spreadsheets should never add up because you have not given your creative and conscientious person the correct data. Change her data to correspond with the numbers she is not allowed to know. Berate her for the spreadsheets not adding up. Repeat.


Of course you, gentle readers, would never want to drive anyone to despair because that is not what nice people do. But I think it's going to be a while before I stop jumping like a cat on hot bricks every time I see the Excel icon on my computer desktop.

What's New, Pussycat?

The last day on my job was Christmas Eve. Leaving was the right decision, for a number of reasons for which this is not the proper venue. Giving myself time to figure out what comes next, to heal, to rest -- that was also a good decision.

Still, I find myself like a deer caught in the headlights, like the victim of an accident wondering what just happened. I've spent three days wandering around, in and out of my home, starting at sudden noises and forgetting what I'm doing. I've slept a lot.

Part of me has been upset about this, thinking that I should Get Things Done and Accomplish Tasks -- presumably to justify taking time off. But my body and mind have not cooperated. Beyond taking showers and feeding self and cat, I have accomplished nothing.

This morning the sun came out after a year and a half of overcast days (I may be exaggerating a tiny bit). I sat in my sunroom and thought, "I can do this. I just think I'd feel better if I knew what this is." Apparently, the answer is not forthcoming.

And so, I'm sitting here, watching the sunshine sparkle on the snow, and waiting. Patience. It's a virtue -- one I am being dragged kicking and screaming into cultivating.

Merry Christmas!

"If you should happen, by any unlikely chance, to know a man more blessed in a laugh than Scrooge's nephew, all I can say is, I should like to know him too. Introduce him to me, and I'll cultivate his acquaintance."

Charles Dickens

A Christmas Carol

Gentle readers, I wish you a very Merry Christmas, filled with laughter and good cheer. Enjoy the day, my friends. You are all awesome and deserve the very best the holiday has to offer.

Presents of Mind

This is what I've been doing instead of blogging.

I know this is a cliche, my friends, but wasn't last Christmas about a month ago? I guess time flies when you're blogging about the important issues of the day -- such as rat whispering, catalog shopping, and the outcome of Project Runway.

This week has been a blur of cookie making and gift wrapping until the wee hours. I don't remember the last time I was this tired. Oh wait, yes I do: last Christmas.

Auntie Spends The Day Making Cookies

This is what happens to Old Maids after day-long exposure to children.

Christmas In Rhode Island

You've got to love people who go the extra mile with their Christmas decorations. The Army Dude sent this photo to me yesterday morning and I immediately forwarded it to my brother and sister. It's what we do.

Rainy Sunday Morning

I spent the first half hour or so this morning -- the time it took to drink a cup of tea -- looking out my sunroom window, listening to the wind and rain. I watched as a few of the last leaves fell from the maple trees in the neighbor's yard -- some twirling, some floating, some racing toward the still-green grass.

I didn't think about anything in particular. I didn't really think about anything at all. I just watched and listened. It was a welcome break from my usual racing thoughts, my plans and to-do lists.

I didn't worry about the future or regret the past. I simply sat and drank tea. It was nice.

Auntie Incognito

Yesterday was a big day in Maiden Aunt land because the Team Maria president -- who now works in another state -- stopped by my office to see if there were any Peanut Butter Swirl Bars available. Alas, they are all in my freezer (okay, a couple are in my belly).


He took this picture of me cleverly disguised as a demure lady-person whose little cup of joy overflows at the mere idea of ordering more staples and Keurig K-cups. Pretty impressive, isn't it?

Words of Wisdom: Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Ph.D.

When seeking guidance, don't ever listen to the tiny-hearted.

Sunday Morning

Daphne and The Buddha hang out in the sunshine.

Awesome Rating: Very High

This tackle box was made by my maternal grandfather long before I was born. My Aunt Grace, who is an artist and weaver (you can check out her site here), used it as a paintbox so it has leather tacked inside to hold brushes and a few paint splotches here and there.

Auntie was cleaning out some stuff in her house and very kindly asked my mom if anyone wanted the box. I jumped at the offer, which I guess people found surprising. Hell yes, I wanted something made by the grandfather who died while my mom was still a teenager. Hell yes, I wanted something old and paint spotted and well-used. I knew before I saw it that I would love it and I do.

I use it to hold finished and almost-finished jewelry pieces. Every time I open the box to put something in it, I think of the grandfather I never met, of my aunt, who makes her living with her art, and of my mother, who never met a needlecraft she couldn't master. And I smile.

Don't Judge Me

I was talking with a co-worker yesterday, who said "It's important which college you go to because people judge you based on things like that." At first, I thought it she was talking about job interviews. But no, she was talking about social situations. She went on to say "They judge you about everything -- where you went to college, where you live, how much money you make..."


I looked at her with my patented quizzical puppy expression, head cocked to one side, and said "You socialize with people like that voluntarily?"


The older I get, the less patience I have with people whose entire social agenda entails proving that they are better than someone else. I also have no patience with people whose favorite topic of discussion is whoever is not there to defend herself, people who manufacture drama, those who have to control the behavior of everyone around them, or who don't read. I can't stand people who are humorless and boring (be one or the other, but for God's sake don't be both).


This, my friends, is why I rarely leave my house -- and when I do, I choose carefully. Because I don't want to bring up the length and severity of my menstrual cycle to shut up a dude who is an obnoxious know-it-all, but I will. In fact, I feel it's my duty.


I'm turning into an obstreperous old bitch, aren't I?

Words of Wisdom: Joe

We're sitting on a planet that's spinning at eleven hundred miles an hour. You'd think it'd be more windy.

I Finished NaBloPoMo!

Today is the last day of NaBloPoMo, and I did it! Between this blog and my food blog, I did 60 posts in 30 days! Go me!


It was both easier and harder than I thought it would be. For the first week and a half, I was convinced as soon as I posted each day that I'd never think of another thing to write and that the next morning I'd be sitting at the computer staring at the blinking curser until I started bleeding out of my eyeballs. It never happened. There were busy days, and days when I was exhausted, but I eventually figured out that if I had nothing at 6 a.m. I'd think of something before bedtime. Basically, it was one of those Zen-like exercises of living in the day and letting tomorrow take care of itself. I suck at that.


The best part was having a blogging partner in Monica of 5 Cats Shy. We reminded each other to blog, we each tossed out ideas when the other had run out, and we encouraged each other along the way.


It was fun. I would definitely do it again. But not next month.

Book of YES: Shatner Edition

William Shatner interprets "Rocket Man"

Drink in the awesomeness, my friends. Rock out to the 1970s instrumentals. Note Shatner's dramatic pauses. Revel in his over-acting. Giggle like a schoolgirl when you see the drug reference at the very beginning that he got past the censors (Mom, I'll explain it to you later).

Enjoy.

Book of Wrong: Vintage TV Edition

While I was noodling around Google looking for a link to make an extremely hip Bobby and Cissy reference on my other blog, I came across this little gem. It's Gail and Dale, dressed as Holly Hobbie and a barbershop singer, respectively, singing "One Toke Over The Line" on The Lawrence Welk Show. Clearly, they are blissfully unaware of exactly what they are singing about. At the end, Lawrence Welk calls it a "modern spiritual." It's hilarious.

[Mom, if you're reading this, a "toke" is the inhalation of the smoke from a joint ("marijuana cigarette") for the purposes of getting high. I only know this because I Googled it. Honest.]

Progress

After yesterday's epic relaxation, I woke up this morning with a will to win. Or, more specifically, a will to clean. I fired up the vacuum with its fresh, new HEPA filter and attacked the sunroom with a vengeance. Despite the fact that it's the nicest room in the house (it being sunny and all), and despite the fact that's it's where my desk and computer are, the sunroom tends to end up a catchall for things that I don't want to deal with right away, such as junk mail and bills. I'm well aware that this has a lot to do with financial anxiety, but so far my progress in that area has been minimal.

But today, I tackled the room from top to bottom and sorted through all kinds of paperwork. I even polished the desktop with old fashiond paste wax. It's a start.

When I was looking for an image of Carol Burnett's Charwoman character for my post, I started thinking about how when I had to write an essay in my first week at college, I said Carol Burnett was one of my heroes. Sure, I was eighteen and away from home for the first time, impressed with my own coolness. They could make me write an essay about heroes, but they couldn't make me take it seriously.

It occurs to me, though, that a person could do worse than choosing Carol Burnett as a hero. I loved watching the Carol Burnett Show. The cast came across as a group of friends having a hell of a good time. And they were so funny! No matter what was going on in my life or in the world, I could count on Carol Burnett to cheer me up. She didn't care how silly she looked, she just wanted to make people laugh.

The other night after dance class, I was talking to one of my friends who said she liked having me in class because I make her laugh at the end of a long workday. At the moment she was referring to my Happy Dance, which I had demonstrated during class -- and yes, it is very silly.

It's a start.

Hiding Out At Home

About a week ago, the Army Dude asked me if I wanted to get up really early on the Friday after Thanksgiving and go shopping. My response was "Have you met me?


Hell no, I don't want to go shopping on the busiest retail day of the year. There is nothing I need or want so badly that I would get up while it is still dark and fight crowds for it. Nothing. Not even at Tiffany's. I started my Yuletide shopping weeks ago to avoid just this sort of panic.


Instead, I have spent the day doing yoga, napping, reading, browsing catalogs, and getting my holiday baking plan organized. (Oh, and I also showered. Go me!) Tonight, I'm going to eat leftover lasagne and watch a movie in my pajamas.


Now that's how you spend a bonus day off.

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Army Dude and I are repeating last year's tradition of Pajama Pants Thanksgiving, which involves a lot of sitting on the couch and watching TV.

The Army Dude will NOT be wearing pajama pants that look like this -- for which I am truly thankful.

Words of Wisdom: Laurie

What's the worst thing that can happen - jazz hands?

Auntie's Tips: A New Wardrobe In 4 Easy Steps

Forget shopping! Follow my directions and you will be enjoying a new wardrobe without spending a dime.


1. Make friends with someone much tinier than you are, who believes -- despite the fact that she is an adult -- that she is going to grow any day now and should shop accordingly.


2. Wait around while this friend stocks up on things that will never fit her. During this time, it's a good idea to ascertain that this friend has excellent taste. (If not, go back to step 1.)


3. When it finally dawns on your friend that she is not going to grow, and that she is running out of space in her closet, go to her house and select things that don't fit her (but that fit you) and take them off her hands.


4. Enjoy your new wardrobe!

Army Dude: Nice Guy, But A Little Crazy

Exhibit A

The Army Dude, sweet guy that he is, is letting me drive one of his cars while I deal with my flat tire situation. I'm very grateful, but I question whether I need this much help in the looking-crazy department.

One Of These Things Is Not Like The Others

Which one is different, do you know?

I woke up yesterday morning to a flat tire and a neck sorely in need of a chiropractor. I placed a 911 call to the Army Dude, and to his everlasting credit he hopped in his car and came right over.

After getting me to my chiropractor appointment, a hearty breakfast, and making a couple of unsuccessful attempts to get a new tire for my car, we decided to rearrange the weekend and do some pre-Christmas shopping at Target. We'd originally planned to shop on Sunday, but since the Army Dude lives an hour away and has his own life to lead and cat to cater to, we decided that it would be more efficient to reschedule.

By 4:30, we were exhausted, tired of being around people, and hungry. We stategically chose the Cracker Barrel. I figured that given the early hour, it would be filled with senior citizens quietly scarfing down meatloaf and macaroni and cheese.

If only I could make oracular predictions like this all the time. Life would be so much simpler, wouldn't it?

Picture This

The Team Maria President and I have been discussing, via email, the status of my blogs and how we can strengthen the brand going forward into 2011. He expressed concern about the fact that the quality of photographs of yours truly tends to vary.


I have prepared this presentation to explain why, at times, I look like I am waiting for a firing squad. You can make it into a multi-media presentation by humming a showtune -- I suggest "The Lady Is A Tramp" from the Broadway musical Babes In Arms.

Words of Wisdom: Albert Camus

In the depths of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.

It's A MAJOR Award!

I have an ongoing quest to bring the most obnoxious gift possible to my company's annual Christmas Yankee Swap. I'm not sure why. It could be because I resent having to go to three different company Christmas parties and the swap in the office is the last one. Or it could be because one year a friend brought a reindeer hitch cover to the swap and I thought it was hilarious.


My first attempt was a huge Christmas snow globe with snowmen and reindeer inside. It played eleven different Christmas songs. It lit up. The lights changed color. The "snow" was made of little balls of styrofoam. At the party, the son of one of my co-workers fell in love with the thing so his dad had to swap for it. The person he took it from was actually disappointed.


Last year I purchased a calendar with vintage pinup gals from the 1940s. I taped some lottery tickets to it and I warned the ladies I work with which gift to avoid. I thought it would be like a hot potato but the boys fought to get it.


This year I'm bringing a leg lamp from A Christmas Story. It looks exactly like the one in the movie, except it's smaller and therefore more tasteful. Well, it's smaller anyway. Nobody could possibly want that. Could they?

Happy Dancing Auntie

I've realized in the past few weeks that I've taken many dance classes, but I've never really been trained before. What I mean is, I haven't had anyone consistently teach me which muscles I should be using (or should not be using) to perform a particular step, and push me to perform steps in a particular way. I just sort of mimicked whatever my teacher was doing and when in doubt, I threw in some big arms to make it look fancy.

Now I have a teacher who is training me. He is my age(ish), so he is not impressed with my decrepitude. He sweetly ignores my whining and my belief that I can't do half of what he expects. He'll stand right in front of me and smile while he orders me to try. And damned if most of the time he isn't right. I hate that in a man.

Last night while I was doing my ronds de jambe, he corrected my foot position. It's a minor correction, but one that is hard to maintain and also keep the leg moving and my arms where they're supposed to be (hence the need for training). But here's the thing: he said "You have great turnout, and this looks even better."

You have great turnout. Gentle readers, do you have any idea how that made me feel? It made me feel awesome. I've been digging deep to find the little girl who danced so effortlessly and joyfully back in the day. Most of the time I feel more like one of the hippos in Fantasia.

I had assumed that at age 47, I would never get back the turnout in my legs and hips. I was wrong. I guess all the sur le cou de pied I've been doing while waiting for photocopies at work is paying off.

Cat Math

Every time the Army Dude gives my cat a treat, he gets concerned because I always want him to give her approximately half as many as he wants to give her. She's an elderly cat who needs to have good nutrition and not to -- as my mom used to say -- "fill up on junk." For years now, I have been telling him to relax because cats can't count.


I have recently discovered, however, that Miss Daphne knows the difference between "one" and "many." If one treat drops on the floor, she looks at it and then looks up at me with an expression that says "One treat? Really? How much do you like having a poop-free comforter? Think about it. Take your time." If I put down a few treats, she dives on them and eats them gleefully with no sarcastic facial expressions.


Just between us, sometimes I put one treat down because her snarkiness amuses me. But then I follow it up with more because I am no fool. I like having a poop-free comforter a lot.

Auntie Goes To The Opera

The Army Dude and I went to see Tosca at the Shubert Theatre in Boston yesterday afternoon. Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that the Army Dude is a saint to sit through the opera with me, and you're wrong. He's the one who introduced me to the opera. Apparently, he became a fan when he was in Europe on Army business.

Tosca was fabulous. The costumes, the music, the lighting, the sets, the voices - all amazing. I find myself saying that a lot when I go to a theater event because it's really difficult to translate an experience like that into words. Which may explain why theater critics are so crabby all the time.

I can tell you a couple of things, though. One is that I have a little crush on Diego Torre, who sang the lead role of Cavaradossi. He's a wonderful actor with a voice that has to be heard to be believed.

The other is that I highly recommend going to a Sunday matinee. The average age of the audience is about a hundred and two. I can't remember the last time I felt so young.

Catch You Later

A few weeks after the rat encounter, my landlord asked me if I'd seen any rodent activity around the trash area. I told him that I had, and that it probably would have been comical if he'd been home that day to see it. He seemed surprised at my lackadaisical attitude toward a Rodent of Unusual Size.


He then asked me if the rat was getting into my side of the house. I thought, have you heard any crazed shrieking lately? Then, no. But I simply replied in the negative. He told me that the rat was getting into his kitchen garbage and that he'd tried a few different things but had not managed to get rid of him. He was thinking about calling in the guys with chemical weapons.


At this point I started to feel sorry for the rat. After all, he is just trying to live his rat life and do his rat things. He had probably lost his regular habitat because of all the road and sewer work that has been going on in town. None of this was his fault.


The next time I took out the trash, I directed a little speech toward where the rat was suspected to be nesting. I said "Dude," (I call all animals whose actual names I don't know Dude. They seem to like it) "you need to find a new home before the Big Blue Bug Guys show up. Take my advice and move along. Also, I hope you've enjoyed my cooking."


I didn't see him - or any evidence of him - after that. Coincidence? I don't think so.

Call Me Crazy

Billy Ray Cyrus debuted his new mullet at the CMA Awards the other night. I think it's kind of sexy. Is that so wrong?

Kick-Off To The Holiday Season

One of the perks of getting shot at occasionally is that the Army Dude receives free tickets to things like the Radio City Christmas Spectacular at the Providence Performing Arts Center. It seems like a strange trade-off, but there you go.

We went to the show last night and it was indeed spectacular. The singing, the dancing, the costumes, the sets -- and of course, the Rockettes -- were all excellent. I'd never seen the Rockettes in person before and the precision of their dancing was just amazing.

During the intermission, I read in my program that the Rockettes train aspiring dancers. I turned to the Army Dude and asked if he thought I should sign up. He did not laugh or mention my age, weight, and decrepitude. He didn't question my ability to kick at eye level. He simply said "Don't they have a height requirement? I don't think you're tall enough."

That, my friends, is grace under fire.

Auntie Maria's Top 5 Tried-And-True Decorating Tips

I'm sure many of you have been asking yourselves "How can I get that quirky old maid style in my own home?" Fret no more, gentle readers. Auntie Maria is here to help.


1. Forget about trends. They come and go, and then where are you? You're in a dated living space, that's where. If you absolutely must have something trendy because you love it, indulge in moderation. Try places like Target for trendy on the cheap. Remember: retro is cool, vintage is fabulous, but dated is tragic.


2. Buy things you love and they will go together. You may not realize it, but your likes and dislikes are probably fairly consistent - you prefer light or dark woods, solid colors or patterns, florals or stripes, modern or traditional furnishings. If you love it, you will find a place for it even if it's a little outside your usual zone.


3. Try moving things around before you buy anything new. Redecorate with what you already have and you'll get a fresh look without spending a dime. Move things around and from room to room. If space permits, store small decorative items and rotate them as the seasons or your moods change.


4. Your home should make you and your family happy. Whether you prefer the clean lines and clear spaces of a Zen monastery or the busy bric-a-brac of a Victorian parlor, if you walk through the door and you're happy to be home, you're doing it right. You don't want to decorate to impress people who don't even live there, do you? Well, do you? I didn't think so.


5. Hello Kitty goes with everything.

How I Met Monica of 5 Cats Shy

You know how you can meet certain people and it's like you've known them your whole life? That's how it was when I met my NaBloPoMo buddy, Monica of 5 Cats Shy.

I'd been posting for a couple of years on an internet message board full of women (and a few men), when I received an invitation to join a small group for a weekend on Nantucket. I knew that if I told my friends and family what I was doing, they'd be convinced that I was going to be murdered or sold into white slavery, so I did the only logical thing: I didn't tell anyone and I went anyway.

I had a blast. We stayed in a beautiful vacation home owned by our hostess' in-laws, where nine of us, ranging in age from early twenties to early fifties, totally came together as a group. We hung out and talked, toured a winery-distillery-brewery, and watched a few episodes of I Love The 80s.

I liked everyone, but Monica and I bonded right away. I don't remember what we talked about (alcohol was involved), but I remember we were chatting away in no time like old friends, and she loaned me a shirt to wear to the bar that night.

The entire group arrived at the bar wearing tiaras, boas, and sashes that said "Miss Nantucket," and as our hostess reached out to open the door, she said "They don't know what's about to hit them." They didn't. It was one of those epic nights that goes down in the annals of partying.

We were having an impromptu bachelorette party, and the bride had a list of tasks to perform, such as to get a group of strangers to toast to her love and to get up on stage with the band. Monica and I decided we also needed a list, since we'd both had engagements end in disaster. I don't remember the whole list we came up with (did I mention alcohol was involved?), but I do remember one in particular. There was a guy who was obviously very drunk, who was constantly dancing all by himself whether the band was playing or not. The band was Orange Crush, an 80s cover band, so we knew that at some point they would play "Dancing With Myself." We decided that when they did, we would dance with him.

The band came back from a break and played the first notes of "Dancing With Myself." The only person on the dance floor was Dancing With Myself Man, but not for long. Monica and I ran out there and stared dancing all around him. We were laughing so hard we could hardly stand up, but the guy was oblivious to our presence.

That was several years ago. I've lost contact with most of the girls from that Nantucket trip, but Monica and I remain friends. I've visited her twice - one in Burlington, VT and once in Raleigh, NC - and we had a great time then, too. Mostly, we stay in touch via phone and internet.

It's a wonderful thing when you don't have to explain yourself because somebody just "gets" you. For me, Monica is one of those people. And she always makes me laugh. How can you not love a person who keeps you laughing?

Monica has posted her thoughts on the same subject on her blog.

What The HELL Is That?

Those were my exact words, gentle readers, when I looked out the window yesterday morning and saw the ground covered in snow. Snow! On November 8! I took it hard.

I know I live in the Frozen North. Snow comes every year whether I like it or not. But it's not supposed to be winter yet. No, no, no, no, no!

Apparently, snowy weather brings out my inner two-year-old. Fasten your seatbelts, my friends. If this keeps up, we're in for a bumpy NaBloPoMo.

Words of Wisdom: Charles Buxton

You will never "find" time for anything. If you want time you must make it.

Project Puritan

Last night I dreamed that everyone who was "auf'd" from Project Runway had disappeared. There were occasional messages from some of them, but they had been banished to another plane of existence. They weren't dead, they were just... gone. It was frightening.

I guess this is what happens when you finally get around to watching the disappointing season finale of Project Runway, then you do a little reading in a book on American colonial history before bed. (The Puritans of Massachusetts Bay Colony, in case you were not aware, banished people to the wilderness right and left when they weren't putting them to death outright.) Obviously, things got a little jumbled.

It's not as crazy as it sounds. Outfits like this one from the winning collection were enough to give anyone nightmares.

The Other Mothership

I take myself out to lunch every Friday. It's a little thing I do to celebrate getting through another work week. I have already established my love of books, so it should come as no suprise that Barnes & Noble is one of my favorite places to have lunch. It's like going to a small library with a cafe. What could be more awesome?

Sometimes I browse through books that I eventually buy. Sometimes I look at giant coffee table books that are beautiful and tempting, but I enjoy them and put them away because book space is at a premium at my house as it is. Also, I don't have a coffee table.

I get a kick out of browsing through oddball magazines such as Haunted Times, the only magazine whose publisher has a Telephone to the Dead. (That would be people who have shuffled off their mortal coil, not the Grateful Dead. Except, come to think of it, Jerry Garcia, who is both dead and Dead.)

I often think about working at Barnes & Noble, but then I remember that it's retail. I'd spend a lot more time dealing with people than with books. That's where the dream dies.

This Just In

I received the following text message from the Army Dude yesterday morning:

Swamp Yankee update: Hillbilly cat contemplates coup d'etat of oppressive non-democratic military regime. Coup revealed via communication intercept bewtween hillbilly cat and the revolutionary tick army. Hillbilly cat planned to fund coup with blood money.

Now you know why I forgave him for the Military Ball dress debacle. The Dude is hilarious.

Anticipation Runs Rampant at Old Maid HQ

I'm ridiculously excited about the new Lanvin collection for H&M. I couldn't get a picture of any of the looks without stealing from Tom and Lorenzo over at Project Rungay. I adore TLo and I would never do that.

I also adore Lanvin. Whether vintage (like the dress above, from the 1950s) or modern, Lanvin clothing always exudes a certain ladylike sophistication. The collection for H&M is awesome, and priced in a range I can aspire to. Even if none of the dresses fit properly (the H&M customer is, after all, young and junior sized while -- let's face it -- I am hovering in the neighborhood of being a senior citizen) the collection includes jewelry, sunglasses, jackets, and shoes. I will own something with a Lanvin label!

The collection goes on sale November 24 and I can't wait. Pathetic, isn't it?

At Last

Ahhhhhh. Do you hear that? It's the sound of airwaves all over this great land of ours, free of political campaign ads. This may, in fact, be my favorite day of the year.

Boo!

In the spirit of the scary movies that tend to come out around Halloween, each year the Army Dude likes to go over safety tips he's gleaned from watching them:

1. If a psychotic, machete-wielding killer is chasing you, don't run because you will fall down. Then you will be killed.

2. The psychotic, machete-wielding killer will be at the barn (or whatever safe place you choose) before you, and he will not break a sweat. Then you will be killed.

3. If you're a teenager, do not sneak off to have sex. You will be killed.

4. If it's late at night and there is a strange noise in the basement, don't be the person who volunteers to check it out. You will be killed.

I mention this because at midnight on Halloween night, I was awakened by a strange, high-pitched noise. It was the kind of noise that might be made by a malfunctioning refrigerator, a washing machine that has a broken belt, or an alien spaceship landing on the roof. The sound got annoying after a minute or so, and I got up to investigate.

I was halfway down the stairs when I thought of Rule 4. It gave me pause. I reasoned that I was only going to the first floor of the house and not into the basement. This knowledge did not make me feel a whole lot better, but I soldiered on.

I checked my refrigerator (it was fine), I checked my crockpot (breakfast was cooking nicely), and I walked through the rest of the downstairs. I saw nothing unusual. I didn't go outside and check for aliens on the roof. I have a live-and-let-live policy with beings outside my home, including mice, skunks, bugs, and aliens. As long as they're doing what they're doing outside my personal space, I have no beef with them.

The absurdity of the whole situation struck me as I went back upstairs, and I started laughing. After all, if Jason or whatever his name is had come across a cranky, middle-aged woman in no makeup with crazy hair and wearing flannel pajamas with counting sheep printed on them, he'd probably be too stunned to kill me.

You'd think the Army Dude would have realized that.

I May Have Lost My Mind

You are probably asking yourselves, gentle readers, "How can she tell?" My answer to you is that I've signed up for NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month). Both blogs. That means 60 posts in 30 days.

I told you I'd lost my mind. But I figure it this way: global domination will probably require more effort than I have heretofore been putting in. Did Genghis Kahn sit around watching the Food Network and wondering if maybe he should invade the Caucasus? I don't think so.

Wish me luck!

Off To The Military Ball

I know I threatened to wear trashtastic faux-military garb to the Military Ball, but let's face it: a middle-aged woman in an outfit like that is an invitation to a party nobody wants to go to.

My fairy godsister Rachel came through on short notice with this toile-printed dress. I chose to pair it with a cardigan and stockings because although I know it's more trendy to wear a boobie dress and bare legs, the temperatures were in the forties last night. I don't mind having my feet hurt for fashion, but I hate being cold.

Rachel also sent me some Moroccan Oil, which helped to get my hair smooth instead of curly. Be very impressed - that's a 45 minute hairdo right there. You won't be seeing it again any time soon.

What I'm wearing:

Dress by Mystic, borrowed from my awesome sister Rachel

Sweater by Mag Couture, purchased from Modcloth.com

Shoes (even though you can't see them) by Mootsies Tootsies

Vintage jewelry, belonged to my Gram

Vintage handbag, belonged to my Gram

That'll Learn Him

A few days ago - on Saturday, October 16, to be exact - the Army Dude blithely told me that he is expected to go to the Military Ball and he needs a date. On October 30th. He was certain it wouldn't be a problem. Surely I have something in my closet that would be perfect for the event. "Don't stress," he said.

Don't stress? Clearly, the Army Dude doesn't know me all that well. If the invitation says "Flannel Pajamas," I have a multitude of options. But for a ball? Not so much. I didn't just stress, I hyperventilated and began plotting his murder.

Fortunately, this little number will be perfect. After all, you can't spell Army Sergeant without a little T and A, amirite?

Creeping Crud

What do Old Maids do when we don't feel well? We catch up on our reading, of course.

You know what they say about the best-laid plans of mice and men: that it's all well and fine as long as you are feeling well and fine. Or something like that.

I had a long list of Things To Accomplish this weekend. I woke up yesterday full of motivation, and then around nine o'clock, I started feeling... not well. I took a nap. I woke up feeling... still not well. I took my temperature, and it was as high as other people's normal body temperature so clearly, I was sick. I looked around at everything that needed doing and thought "Oh, the hell with it," gathered up my reading material, and hit the couch.

The more sharp-eyed among my gentle readers will notice that there is way more material in this photograph than can be read in an afternoon -- particularly since my NOOK has approximately ten books that have been downloaded but are still marked "new." But I always find it comforting to be surrounded by books. I browsed through magazines, I read a chapter or two of The Peabody Sisters of Salem. I napped again. I read a little more. It was actually quite pleasant despite the fact that I had a headache and body aches.

Note to self: Add "spend an afternoon on the couch reading whatever you damn well please" to the list of winter projects. Why should I only do that when I'm feeling lousy and can't fully enjoy it?

Witch Auntie?

For some reason, I've recently developed an aversion to garlic.

The Army Dude and I went to Salem, MA on Monday. That's right, we went to a tourist destination on a holiday weekend. I don't know what I was thinking. Actually, I do - I was thinking that the town would be filled with professorial types in sensible shoes and cardigans with elbow patches taking advantage of a day off from school to revel in colonial history. I was wrong.

It was filled with the same sorts of people who visit every other tourist spot. Loud people. People who wander out into traffic. People who say to their children "witches believe..." and then get it completely wrong.

The performance artist was great, though. The picture doesn't really do her makeup and costume justice.

My nickname at work is Fatima. As in Our Lady of. If I have to explain to you why that is the best nickname ever, it's not going to be funny any more.

I tried to convince the Army Dude to get a Tarot card reading, or his palm read, or a picture taken of his aura. No luck. Capricorns. They are so sensible.


This very pretty headstone is in the noisiest graveyard in Christendom. Seriously, there were people all over the place. Kids were running around and climbing trees. There was a loudspeaker announcing the times for tours of a nearby attraction. It was like a carnival, but with gravestones. You'll note that Mistress Higginson's stone does not say "rest in peace." Good thing, because she isn't getting any.



Eventually I had to mentally block out my fellow tourists because they were getting on my nerves. I tried to focus on the history and architecture, like this door on the house at number ten Chestnut Street. It's not every day you see a doorknocker wearing a tricorn hat.



Or this building, which had a pagoda-like feel to it and I have no idea why. It was pretty, though.



Over all, we didn't get more than a smattering of history, and what we did get I already knew. So our trip to Salem was not the learning experience I'd hoped for. We didn't even go the the House of Seven Gables, because it turns out the Army Dude still harbors some resentment against Nathaniel Hawthorne for a little book you may have heard of called The Scarlet Letter, which the Army Dude was forced to read in high school.

My friends, I was not about to argue with an Army Dude who has been nursing a grudge for thirty years.