Hello Kitty Party!

I admit, I don't know always know the first damn thing about raising a little girl -- I mean, COME ON, have you met me? I am much more capable of having conversations about baseball statistics than I am about Barbie dolls, and I couldn't begin to tell you what the heck a "Lalaloopsy" is supposed to be even if you held a gun to my head, but I could probably tell you who the last ten Super Bowl MVP's were* -- but let me tell you a little not-so-secret: I love Hello Kitty. Because believe it or not, I am human, and I have absolutely no defense against the awesome super powers of the Sanrio Corporation.

We went to a friend's birthday party over the weekend, and we knew going in that it was a Hello Kitty party, and I wore some pink, at least. Okay, technically it was a pink-and-blue turtleneck, but there was definitely some pink going on. And, yes, I stood in front of the cake and took about a dozen pictures, because LOOK AT THAT THING. It's adorable. No, it didn't have a light-up Hello Kitty figurine, but still. (It was also -- wait for it -- delicious.)

The birthday girl has an entire Hello Kitty ROOM. I am jealous. So is Shae, I think, although she didn't really say anything. I could sort of see in her expressions that she wonders why some people get to have Hello Kitty rooms while she has a room that features a non-zero number of monkeys, several stuffed dinosaurs, and a giant plush polar bear that we use as a sort of beanbag chair even though it has sprung a leak and all the stuffing and little beady things are coming out, but she is polite enough to not mention it. (She does have both fairy princess AND cupcake sheets, though, so maybe she figures it all comes out in the wash.)

WANT. Shut up. I totally want that handbag. That handbag is the bee's knees and the cat's pajamas and all other sorts of idioms. It rocks, and I won't lie. In this regard, I am jealous of a three-year-old. But I am holding out hope that Santa will bring me the Swarovski version.

* Not that you asked, but since 2000, in order**: Kurt Warner; Ray Lewis; Tom Brady; Dexter Jackson; Tom Brady again; Deion Branch; Hines Ward and NOT Jerome Bettis; Peyton Manning; Eli Manning; Santonio Holmes and STILL NOT Jerome Bettis although he was retired at that point but that is no excuse to not go back and give it to him retroactively because COME ON; Drew Brees; and Aaron Rodgers. Also, that is TWELVE Super Bowl MVP's, so NEENER NEENER.


** Know who never won a Super Bowl MVP award***, even though the whole world just WILL.NOT.SHUT.UP. about him? Brett Favre.


*** But who really deserved one? Jerome Bettis. We miss you, Bus!

The Rachel ZOMG Project

Have you guys ever heard of celebrity stylist Rachel Zoe? Have you ever seen her TV show on Bravo? Did you ever consider, just for the sake of entertainment, subscribing to her daily newsletter, where she sends out fashion and styling tips that almost always feature some kind of ridiculously expensive thing, like "summer booties" that have 6" heels and are made out of gold lamé, chain mail, and kitten fur, or, to cite another recent example, designer leather cargo pants that cost $6,450? Seriously, check it out -- it is B-A-N-A-N-A-S.

Anyway. Every once in a while she puts together these "special report" guides to what she thinks you need for the season. Sometimes there is some cute stuff, sometimes there is some really weird stuff, sometimes there is stuff that costs more than the mortgage to my house. None of it fits me, of course, because I am not the same shape and weight as an asparagus, but everybody's got their something.

Why am I giving her all this free advertising? I don't know, really. She fascinates me in the same way that a train wreck or a giant fish tank filled with starving rabid piranha eating a cow might fascinate me. I can't wear any of the clothes she ever recommends -- she deals primarily in couture designers, so nothing comes bigger than a size 6 anyway, and when she makes a "real world" alternate suggestion, it's for an $800 knockoff of a $10,000 rug, and even that is out of my price range, you know? And I won't necessarily go so far as to say that she is outright tacky, but ... well, she's not always my style. Let's leave it at that.

She kind of inspires me in some weird way, though, so I have put together my very first "ZOMG Report" by me, Rachel ZOMG. We'll call this collection "Swing Set Summer," my own version of RZ's "Jet Set Summer" collection, and I'm featuring all the absolute must-haves for a preschooler on her way to the pool this summer:

"Your summer 'uniform' should be brightly colored to show the world how happy you are, but pack a T-shirt in your bag to cover up when the sun gets too hot."

"Earn your wrinkles the old-fashioned way: by laughing! Look great while protecting yourself from the sun's harmful rays. Yard-sale vintage accessories are always in."

"Keep your pedicure neat and protect your polish poolside with these snazzy water sandals. Use the squirter to keep yourself cool while you walk along the beach letting everyone admire your sun-kissed glow."

"Dry off, and then dry out ... and keep warm with this snuggly cover-up poncho that features ironic snow-skiing illustrations. One of the best yard-sale finds ever. I DIE!"

"Hold yourself (and your stuff) together with this totally cute bag that is big enough to hold all your necessities, with room to spare for books and games."

=====

Hey, maybe this celebrity stylist gig isn't so bad after all. Anybody know any famous people who shop at Target and Dollar General? I have a pitch for them.

A Typical Day in Dogpatch, U.S.A.

Since my husband got laid off last year, he's been in charge of getting Shae up in the morning, getting her dressed and fed, and getting her to school, all so that I can hit the snooze button for 28 minutes and then rush around to get ready for work in under 20 minutes so I can hurry up and go sit in traffic already.

Actually, he hits the snooze button for me, too. Because the alarm clock is on his side of the bed. Because I planned it that way. Because I am lazy in the morning. And because I whine if he doesn't smack that button for me. Because I think alarm clocks are the work of the devil.

Also, we have no idea why our snooze feature is 7 minutes, but it is, and we don't argue. Except when he hits the "off" button by mistake and I wake up 20 minutes after I was supposed to have left for work already. Dun-dun-DUUUUN.

{Secretly, I think he might enjoy that particular aspect of unemployment: the not-having-to-run-your-life-at-the-mercy-of-the-alarm-clock-all-the-time aspect. Also, the being-able-to-sit-at-home-and-play-video-games-in-your-underpants aspect. I know I would. Although the broke-as-a-joke aspect is not quite as much fun.}

Anyway. My point is -- or was, I don't even remember what verb tense I'm supposed to be using any more -- that most mornings I don't get to be part of Shae's routine, because I am gone before she gets up and starts grumping. Our daughter is not a morning person, and sometimes he has trouble getting her to cooperate.

Hey, don't look at me. I don't know where that stubbornness comes from. It's not my fault. She's adopted, so she doesn't get it from me. And also, she's an Aries. The only people I know who are anywhere near as stubborn as Arieses are Tauruses, and there are none of those in my house.

(SPOILER ALERT: I am a Taurus. And also, this kid is so much like me it's not even funny.)

This morning I peeked in on her before I left the house, and she was already up, so while my husband was still in the shower, I got Shae up and dressed. I miss being home in the mornings. We used to have such fun together. She was all smiles for me, although she was a bit disappointed that the strawberry-banana yogurt was already gone. We made up for it with cherry yogurt and two pieces of dried pineapple.

But there is one thing I won't miss: having to comb out that hair. What's funny is, even with these special iPhone camera effects, that's exactly what her head looks like in the morning. Good luck, babe.

A Note From Management

O hai! Just a little note, which I have conveniently buried between posts because I know you're probably not going to care about this anyway, but I am all about the FULL DISCLOSURE, savvy?

Anyway. Because I am a COMPLETE AppWhore, I have made a few small eensy-weensy changes to my sidebar and added a little Formspring box. You can type a question in there and I'll answer it. It's that simple. If I like your question, I might even be able to make a blog post out of it, because let's face it: neither one us wants to see another post about toddler underpants, do we? I thought not. To make room for the sidebar, I deleted the "Cast of Characters" box. Don't worry, G and Shae and the cats will still make regular featured appearances.

So now that I have that box over there, why don't you ask me something? Or tell me something? Or something? The box doesn't know whether something is a questions or not. It's like commenting anonymously. If you don't want to tell me who you are, I will never know, and that's OK. I won't judge you, or make fun of your spelling errors, or anything like that. Except maybe in private, but never in PUBLIC, because I have MANNERS, ferchrissakes. But help me entertain you, 'k? Thxbai.

Can't Talk -- Eating

According to the CrapCam, I took this video on November 8th, which was like two weeks after we got back from Chicago for Joey's birthday and christening, so I don't really know what all of this is about. She's eating leftover Chinese food here, and we're sitting in the dining room. Beyond that I can provide no context whatsoever, unfortunately. I have no idea why we're having this conversation.

I took a couple of videos that day, evidently; one of them is a clip of Shae eating (some more) and about a minute into it, Owen pops his head up in the lower right corner and she tells him to go get his own food and then says "Scram!" for like thirty seconds. Personally, I think it's hysterical, but I'm a little stressed out right now, so I think it might actually be me who's hysterical.

Anyway, hope you enjoy this random cuteness!

You Say Yes, I Say No

Got tagged for another meme on Facebook, and I am feeling frisky, so I'm going to do it -- with a twist. But first, "the rules":

The rules are simple:
1. You can ONLY answer YES or NO
2. You are NOT ALLOWED to explain ANYTHING unless someone messages or comments you and Asks!

Of course you all already know that I have issues with authority, so I am not going to let "them" tell me how to do a damn survey. Not exactly, anyway. I am going to answer these questions, but for three of these items, my answer will be a LIE. You need to figure out which ones are fibs. I will reveal the answers in comments on Friday.

(Also: numbering added for ease of commenting -- these numbers did not appear in the original survey. Doesn't technically matter, but full disclosure and all. Just in case you were tagged too.)

1. Kissed any one of your facebook friends? Yes
2. Been arrested? Yes
   
3. Fallen asleep at work/school? Yes
   
4. Kissed someone you didn't like? No
   
5. Slept in until 5 PM? No
6. Held a snake? Yes
   
7. Run a red light? Yes
8. Been suspended from school? No
9. Totaled your car/motorbike in an accident? Yes
   
10. Been fired from a job? No
11. Sang karaoke? Yes
    
12. Done something you told yourself you wouldn't? Yes
13. Laughed until something you were drinking came out your nose? Yes
14. Caught a snowflake on your tongue? Yes
15. Kissed in the rain? Yes
16. Sung in the shower? Yes
17. Sat on a rooftop? No
    
18. Been pushed into a pool with all your clothes? Yes
19. Broken a bone? No
20. Shaved your head? No
21. Blacked out from drinking? No
    
22. Played a prank on someone? Yes
23. Felt like killing someone? Yes
    
24. Made your girlfriend/boyfriend cry? Yes
25. Been in a band? Yes
    
26. Shot a gun? No
27. Tripped on mushrooms? No
28. Donated blood? Yes
29. Eaten alligator meat? No
    
30. Eaten cheesecake? Yes
31. Still love someone you shouldn't? No
    
32. Think about the future? Yes
33. Believe in love? Yes
34. Sleep on a certain side of the bed? Yes

I will answer questions about these responses, except "Is #XX a lie?" That one you need to figure out on your own. (And I can't promise I won't obfuscate.)

Long Strange Trip

Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick, I have been awake for a looooooooooong time. Got up at 4:30, snoozed, got to work at 5:30, farmed the cubicle wastelands, then had an adoption class, which was kind of OK, but it ran late. We are just now getting home and before I shuffle off to bed, possibly to keel over from exhuastion, I have to start installing my Wrath of the Lich King expansion, because: DUH.

So a couple of random observations:

• Didn't the Italian Chicken Sandwich at Burger King go away for a while, and then come back? I remember getting it in the 80's, possibly up until the early 90's, and then it like disappeared or something. Now it's back. Had one for dinner. It was good, but of course Chicken Parm from a divey sort of local pizza joint is always better. (Hello, Frank's!)
• And didn't there used to be a French Chicken Sandwich, that was kind of like Cordon Bleu, with Swiss cheese and ham? Or am I just making shit up again?
  
• According to my sister-slash-babysitter, she has seen my house more times this week alone than she has in the almost 5 years I have lived here. I have no reason to doubt her; it's just one of those things.
• Anything will pass for a blog post when it's 10:30 and you're tired and you're trying to get in under the deadline.
  

Etsy

Have I mentioned that I love Etsy? No? OMG, I love me some Etsy. I have gotten some really awesome things over there, like the Sock Zombie for Cupcake, and Sock Monkey Friends for Boba and for my friend Melissa's oldest son Evan, and I have lots of ideas for Christmas. Almost everything is handmade and a lot of things can be custom-made just for you. Check it out, you will love it.

A good place to start? This shop, where everything is adorable (and from where I might win a new dress for the baby, whooo!)

How I Roll

OK -- maybe this isn't always entirely true of me, but I sure do appreciate the sentiment:

Punk Rock Girl

Punk Rock Girl
Originally uploaded by r_ockle

Punk rock girl
Please look at me
Punk rock girl
What do you see?
Let's travel round the world
Just you and me punk rock girl

Ch-ch-ch-changes

Hi! Just wanted to let you know I have added a new feature to this here blog thingie: patented "Cupcake Cam"©™® technology. Under that gorgeous glamour shot of me at age 2, looking for all the world like the future diva attention whore that I turned out to be, you will see a thumbnail of a pic from my flickr photostream -- every time you come to the page, or refresh, it will be a different random picture of Cupcake. Click on the picture to go the full photostream (same as with the larger daily-ish photos).

Seriously, though -- as she gets older and taller and tanner and even more awesome every day, it will be like a mini blast from the past.

Oh, and if you ever actually do go into my photostream? Feel free to leave notes or comments on the pics. But be nice -- you can snark on me until the cows come home, but Cupcake and G are people with feelings. Don't make me hunt you down like a dog and cut you where you stand, OK? Mean people suck, and besides, that shit is disrespectful.

Miss Misery

No Smiles Here
Originally uploaded by r_ockle

Just to prove that Cupcake is an actual kid and not some kind of animatronic robot like one of those creepy dolls from the "It's A Small World" ride at Disney World*, here is a picture of her in a Very Bad Mood. Took this picture in the parking lot at Coca-Cola Park, the home of the (positively putrid) Lehigh Valley IronPigs, over Memorial Day weekend.

Gotta admit, though -- even when she's pitching a fit, my kid is pretty damned cute.

* I double-dog-dare you to get that song** out of your head now. Bwahahaha.

** It's a small world after all, it's a small world after all, it's a small world after all, it's a small small world.***

*** BOOM. This is where my head explodes.

Little Person Update

... and this time, it's not about the baby. Last time I updated anyone on my WoW main, she was a level 28, just a weensy little thing trying to find her way in the world. Now, she is a level 56, practically an old salt, with powers the likes of which you cannot hardly believe. In some areas, I have the ability to kill creatures with my bare hands. My herbalism and alchemy skills are as high as they can get without going to Outland, which will be happening soon -- I just need to get a little bit higher level. I spend a lot of time exploring the map on the back of "Gilda the Robochicken," a/k/a my [Red Mechanostrider]. I speak in "code" so that I know what it means when stuff is in square brackets with blue lettering, and I have not only become an Officer in my Guild, but I am also the Webmaster.

Or, in short, I have become an even bigger nerdo than ever, thanks for asking. And if not for the baby, I'd be a level 70 already: so thanks, kiddo, for saving Mommy some grief.

Top of the World

Dear Cupcake,

Well, kiddo, we did it -- we all survived your first three weeks of living with us, and none of us are all too worse for wear. I know it can't have been easy for you, moving into a house with your Mommy the giant goober who suddenly got stuck on stupid and your poor long-suffering Daddy, but I have to tell you, you've been handling it like a champ and everything has been that much easier for us because you are so many kinds of awesome.

I can't believe how much has changed since you moved in. When you got here you were this wee little baby, so small and strange and foreign to us, and already we cannot remember a time when you were not a part of our lives. Your clothes and toys and stuff are everywhere, and it is always a special surprise when we find things in places we never suspected -- like the other day, when I found a pair of your socks in the refrigerator. (I didn't tell Daddy about that, so let's keep it our little secret, OK?)

Now, with only a few days left before your first birthday, it's like you're not our baby any more, but our little girl, our little person with thoughts and ideas and a mind of your own. Every day you try to do more and more things by yourself. Last night when we were with Nana Robbie and Pop-Pop for dinner, you wanted to feed yourself chicken and mashed potatoes and macaroni & cheese, and I'm pretty sure that's why you didn't eat very much for supper -- because no one would let you.

We worry, you know. You see Mommy and Daddy doing things, and you want to do them too, and that's completely normal, but we're not sure you're ready yet. We'll try to be better about giving you your independence, but please try not to grow up too fast, OK? Yesterday morning you were crawling around under the dining room table, playing with your buddy Owen and nomming on your own feet, and by the end of the day you were walking all over everywhere, and Mommy could already see you running off to college, and I'm just not ready for that yet.

Of course, you're an absolutely brilliant child, and I'm sure you've probably figured out by now that Mommy has a special talent for making mountains out of molehills, even if you don't know precisely what that phrase means yet. And so I hope you understand why I feel a little bit panicked when I look into the future, and after I waited so long to be a mother, to have a little person who needs and loves me, I can already see you growing up in front of me. It's very weird.

So I hope you will continue to indulge me for a little while longer, when we have our afternoon dance times, and when snuggle with you in my bed before and after naptime. I know there are so many other things you would rather be doing, like reading your Bee-Bo book upside down and playing the xylophone and pulling on the cat's tail and becoming President of the United States, but spending time with you is a kind of a big deal to me, and I want to do it as much as possible.

And when you see me with a goofy look on my face, halfway between total bliss and complete devastation, I just want you to remember what the Carpenters sang, long before you were born, but which explains exactly how I feel about you coming into our lives: "Everything I want the world to be / Is now coming true especially for me / And the reason is clear / It's because you are here / You're the nearest thing to heaven that I've seen."

Yeah, I know I never make any sense. But I love you anyway.
XOXO Mommy.

Teetsie Weetsie Little Leprechaun Feetsie

G and I took the Cupcake to the new outlets yesterday to go buy her an Easter outfit. Yes, I know Easter is in less than a week. Yes, I know I am already a bad mother. Whatever. I have a kid now, but my life is completely the same as it always was except everything is different -- Mamasita still can't even find her shit, let alone get her shit together.

Anyway. We had a (very) brief debate over whether or not we should get a "Baby's First St. Patrick's Day" outfit -- verdict was no -- but one thing that was never in question was whether or not we would be getting Cupcake a pair of Crocs. "Thou shalt have Crocs" is my new First Commandment of Modern Parenting.

Shopping for your own kid is a very overwhelming experience, especially when you are me and you are the Retail Ninja and you are trying to stick very closely to a budget of $0. Everything is so damned cute -- it's like the people who run Carter's and Gymboree and The Children's Place and Hartstrings are deliberately trying to drive me out of my mind from the adorableness.

And most people who know me know that my particular weakness, the thing that drives me over the edge, is baby socks. I love baby socks. This is probably another one of those things that I need a 12-step program to deal with. Hello, I am rockle, and I am addicted to buying baby socks. Can't help myself -- I am the Human Garanimal, and I need to make sure everything is matchy-match.

But really -- when a kids' feet are so small that their entire shoe fits inside my little hand, with room to spare -- can you blame me for being just a little bit crazy in love?

Progress Report

I don't know when this turned into my officially-unofficial World of Warcraft blog, but since that's pretty much my only hobby these days (goddamned writers' strike!), there you go. According to Xfire, I've spent 22 hours in the past 7 days playing WoW, which is horrifying in so many ways. But I'll be the first to admit that I just love vaporizing giant creepy spiders. Again: surprisingly therapeutic.

At this point I am a Level 28 Gnome Mage. Since my last report, I have joined a guild -- well, actually, two of them. My first guild ("The Yummy Muffins," tee hee) was absorbed by a newer, bigger guild ("Beguile") with more high-level players. My guild leader played "Pimp My Mage" with me yesterday and outfitted me with a whole bunch of improved armor. Of course, I still have 3x as much mana as health, but things are slowly improving.

Oh, and now I have a crown. So I am happy.

Yeah, I pretty much have no life any more, but I am OK with it, for a change. Although I still can't use Flamestrike in real life, which continues to be a gigantic disappointment.

PS -- Yeah, that's a mage with a sword. Because I am that much awesome. Mai skillz, let me sho u dem.

Miscellaneous Memory: Inspired by "Lay Your Hands on Me" by Bon Jovi

In October of 1988, when I was in 8th grade at Shawnee Intermediate School in Easton, Pa., I got caught passing a stack of papers to Christy Miller after French class. It was our French teacher, Mrs. Shelosky -- she of the freaky rutabaga obsession and the "vim, vigor, vitality, Geritol" cathchphrase -- who snagged us. We were on our way out of the room, on our way to wherever we were going next, when she stopped us.

Christy had the papers in her hand. We were asked what it was and we both stammered. I don't remember what we said we were doing, but I know we had a French vocab test coming up, and I'm sure that Shelosky thought we were trying to cheat somehow. We weren't, of course -- I didn't become Queen of the Nerds under false pretenses or through subterfuge. But we couldn't exactly own up to anything, either, because ...

... well, what I had given Christy was about 20 handwritten pages for a "book" that we were working on. And by "working on," I mean that I was writing it, and she was the editor, or whatever you call the person who makes you do all the heavy lifting and then stands back and admires your handiwork. At any rate, we were both terrified, because this "book" that we were "working on," what Mrs. Shelosky had intercepted, was: SMUT.

There's no other way to put it, really. Long ago and far away, back before I ever had a boyfriend unless Bill Sauerhauffer counts -- and I don't think he does because our entire "relationship" was limited to passing notes during 7th grade study hall and once (!!) sitting next to each other in the auditorium during play practice when neither of us was on stage -- before I ever kissed a boy or held his hand or anything else, I was attempting to become the next Catherine Coulter.

For the record, I don't think there's anything wrong with bodice-rippers. I mean, they're not real or anything, but they're certainly a better way to pass the time than, say, trying to have a séance in the rec room and almost setting the entire house on fire, or cooking meth in the basement, or anything like that. And they're definitely amusing, because where else are you going to learn clever euphemisms like "quivering turgid manhood"?

Back then, in 8th grade, when I was bored senseless all the time and so I was reading everything in the house including the backs of cereal boxes and of course every single book my mother brought into the house -- well, Jackie Collins novels were not exactly on the list of recommended reading for school, but that didn't stop me. I had made my way through practically the entire "historical romance" section of the Palmer Library, since even then I did not have a life of which to speak.

But of course having my parents' permission to read that stuff did not mean that they ever expected me to write it. Certainly not because I was a good Catholic girl. And most certainly not at that age. Not that they would have had anything to worry about at that point, because even though I was writing amateur soft-core porn, it was terrible amateur soft-core porn, and anyway, my character wasn't the slutty one. (Yes, even in fiction, I was still a virgin.)

I actually stopped writing for a little while after getting caught, because I spent 24 hours worrying about what kind of trouble Christy and I were going to be in, and while I figured I could reconcile what I did with my parents -- "Look, it's only a book, it's not real" -- I had no idea how I was going to explain myself to the 8th grade principal, Mr. Kish. I didn't have to worry about that, though, because instead of reporting us to anybody, Mrs. Shelosky just asked when she was going to get the next chapter.

Eww.

Happy New Year and Shit

With about 19 minutes to go before the ball drops and 2008 begins, and about 20 minutes to go before my sorry old ass can get to sleep, I figure now is as good a time as any to reveal my latest batch of resolutions. Well, not resolutions, per se -- it's really hard to improve yourself when you're a veritable Mary Poppins*. But stuff I'd like to work on in the new year, just the same:

10. Make a flaming dessert. Not "learn to make one," because I already know how to make at least three (two of them intentionally), but actually commit to actually making one.

9. Be less artsy and more fartsy.

8. Stop getting into discussions with anyone about the Philadelphia Eagles. If necessary, I will use my father's gambit on this and say that "my anger management counselor told me I am not 'allowed' to discuss religion, politics, or sports."

7. Eat more vegetables.

6. Learn to say "please," "thank you," and "fast" in as many languages as possible, in case I ever end up on The Amazing Race. Also, learn to drive stick shift.

5. Forgive Santa for giving my husband "Guitar Hero II" for Christmas.

4. Somehow, some way, forget the words to "Surrender" and "Possum Kingdom," and replace them with the words to "Strutter," "Tattoo Love Boys," and "Jessica." Heh.

3. Blog more regularly.

2. Finish the goddamned novel that I have been writing in my head, little by little and piece by piece, since I read my first Judy Blume book when I was 8 years old.

1. Live well, laugh often, and love much. Especially myself.

And not that you asked, but the best part of the last year? This minute, right here:

* = Practically perfect in every way. Heh.

This blog post is titled "My Life, In Words and Pictures Misappropriated from Teh Intartubes."

Two days ago, it was a great day because



Caturdays are full of win and awesome. I love Caturdays. Everybody loves Caturdays.

The next day it was Sunday -- not Caturday, but is OK -- and Sunday was also a great day because



But today it is Monday, and Mondays are full of lose and pleh and also I had an interview and I feel like I am



And also it is month end and so



Please send money for an escape, OK? And booze. Lots and lots of booze.

Is anyone else having panic attacks because it's already October 15th and they only have two Christmas presents purchased? No? Just me? Really? I'm the only one?

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?

Ahem ... sorry about that. I don't remember when I started competing with myself over how early I could complete my Christmas shopping, but I do know this: already, I am panicking. Every day, I spend about an hour working on The List. What I want to get for whom. What I already got them. What stores and websites are having sales. What gifts go in what paper. What the theme will be this year.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN, YOU DON'T DO "THEMES"?

I always do themes for Christmas, although I don't always know what the themes are going to be ahead of time. Sometimes I'm a few gifts in for each person before I decide. One year I did this whole big hockey theme for G. The big gift was a pair of Flyers tickets, and I filled his stocking with a bunch of hockey movies, like "Miracle" and "Mystery, Alaska" and "Slapshot." There were even ice skaters on his Annual Christmas Underpants.

OH, COME ON NOW -- I AM NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO DOES ANNUAL CHRISTMAS UNDERPANTS, AM I?

So far I feel like I am stranded in Christmasland without a map. And I am losing my mind. Although I hate the hustle and bustle of the holiday season, not to mention the fruitcakes (by which I mean: my crazy-ass muffing* family), I secretly really do think Christmas is the most wonderful time of the year. It's an excuse to spend money, sure, but it's also an excuse for getting dolled up and crinkly shiny paper and stealing tape from work to secure every little edge and corner.

YOU HAVE GOT TO BE JOKING BY TELLING ME I GO OVERBOARD WITH THE TAPE. SERIOUSLY, ARE WE EVEN RELATED?

It's a good thing that they don't shut down access to shopping websites at work, because I'll be spending a lot of my so-called "spare time" over the next few months at Amazon and eBay and Overstock and all my other favorite vendors looking for those perfect little things that will fit into the budget and which will say, "I love you, (relative), but I don't like you enough to pay full retail price, and I hope you understand."

NO, IT IS NOT "THE THOUGHT" THAT COUNTS! IT IS THE DISCOUNT, DAMMIT!

It's also getting to be that time when I have to start mentally rearranging the living room furniture and maybe picking out some new curtains so that I can get the perfect tree and lovingly decorate it with just the right amount of lights and arrange the ornaments in just the best formation so that when I put the star on top I can hear the angels sing and there will be peace on earth and goodwill towards men for like 15 whole minutes until our 30-lbs. felonious felines figure out how to knock down a two-ton Frasier fir so that I am cleaning up sap from between the slats of the hardwood floor for months.

OH, SHUT UP! ALSO: SO WHAT IF I HAD THE MORAVIAN STAR UP UNTIL MEMORIAL DAY LAST YEAR! IT'S NOT LIKE THE NEIGHBORS COMPLAINED!

I SAID SHUT UP!

So, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go watch some baseball now and maybe start making some cookies and poking around in the drawers to see if G bought me anything yet and singing some carols and having another nervous breakdown.

ONLY 70 DAYS LEFT UNTIL CHRISTMAS! SAVE YOURSELVES!

(* = "Muffing" is a code word for a popular rude phrase that rhymes with "rubber ducking." You're welcome.)