I'm Knitting As Fast As I Can.....

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The snow's comin' down,

Christmas,

I'm watchin' it fall,

Christmas....

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("Christmas (Baby, Please Come Home)", P. Spector & E. Greenwich) *

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Look! It's snowing like heck outside! (I know, the camera can't really catch a good enough pic, but you can kind of see it blowing out there...)

I'm waiting for Blaine to come home and take me to my regular appointment with the psychiatrist. (Yes, I see a psychiatrist---you didn't think I was crazy enough to go through life without SOME supervision of my nuttiness, did you?)

(That poor doctor, bless his heart---he never knows whether I'm telling him my insane thoughts in all seriousness or if I'm just pulling his leg---which I do sometimes to amuse myself, heh!)

("Why, you know, sir....I thought my knitting yarn was talking to me the other day. It was the Regia---and it was saying 'knit me first!'")

(Incidentally, for some reason the good doctor told me not to admit on my blog that I see him---he said "They don't need to know that---nor do they need to know that you think your yarn is talking to you...." )

Anyway, my regular ride to the doctor cancelled because of the snow, and so Blaine's going to take me instead. And I'm knitting while I wait. I love to knit while it's snowing outside. Sit me down with a good movie, a good cup of coffee, and the curtains thrown open so I can see the snow---and I'm good for the day. But all I've done all week is argue with my irksome knitting yarn and double-pointed knitting needles, desperately attempting to make some progress on my intended Christmas gifts while the Christmas countdown keeps ticking closer and closer to its deadline.....

The problem is that I am an extremely "sloppy" and haphazard knitter, according to some people, and so I tend to run into problems. But I can't help it---I have always been a rebel. The things I knit are usually somewhat quirky--and not always "perfect"--- but that's just the way I knit. I think I'm like Mrs. Weasley in the Harry Potter movies---I just love the things she knits.

Being a rebel can be a good thing sometimes, freeing me up to be myself. For instance, it means that I am not bound by fashion rules (see my post on the disastrous trip to Bass Pro Shops.) I can wear any bizarre thing I want and nobody says a word to me. They might whisper behind my back but I'm used to that.

Also, whenever I am caught talking to myself in public nobody thinks a thing about it. "You know how SHE is...." they say to each other. Because I always talk to myself in public. I even argue with myself in public. And I have no problem asking innocent passerby's for their opinion on my inner arguments---and they usually give it to me.

I once asked a passing shopper if she thought I should get some on-sale underwear briefs for my 2nd-to-last husband---they were in a bargain bin in a grocery store and I was hesitant to buy underwear in a grocery store versus a clothing store. "Go ahead," she replied. "It's 6 pairs for five bucks---a great deal. Wrap them in a nice box and he'll never know you bought them in a grocery store."

"My thoughts exactly," I commented as I tossed them into my cart along with some spaghetti sauce, a package of pasta, and a can of mushroom pieces. "I'll let him think I bought them at Dillards..."

Where was I?

Oh yes, it's snowing and I'm having trouble knitting some Christmas gifts.

I have unconventional knitting habits. I think part of it is because of the way I was taught to knit.

I was taught to knit by my beloved nanny. My parents worked for the US government and I was raised in foreign countries. And when I was about 11 years old we lived in Lisbon, Portugal, where I had a wonderful nanny named Odelia. (I saved her life one time---maybe I'll tell you that frightening story some day---and perhaps I'll tell you where my parents left her when we were transferred to another country.....it still haunts me....)

Anyway, Odelia was the one who taught me to crochet and knit.

I bless Odelia every day of my life for introducing me to a craft which has brought me untold joy, comfort, and relaxation.

Knitting and crocheting is one of the main ways I stay sober these days---it is my method of relaxing from my inborn constant anxiety. I've even knitted during AA meetings.

But Odelia taught me to knit and crochet in the European method, which is where girls are taught to shape and design their knitting (and crocheting) on their own, out of their heads, without the benefit of written directions. She taught me to memorize stitch patterns or make up my own stitch patterns---and then forge ahead, while incorporating and blending whatever knowledge I had learned from her into my own designs. And she taught me to "fit" the knitted garments to the intended individual as I went, tailoring and sizing as I progressed, while using my own intiative and minds eye.

Over the years I have expanded on this habit, knitting from those childhood memories of the skills I learned from Odelia and other European knitters---as well as continually gathering new knowledge and skills from knitting books, magazines, and the advice of other knitters. Odelia always knitted beautiful, wondrous things---but my own knitting creativity ended up going down a slightly different path....

My knitting is a hodgepodge of that childhood learning---and it is driven by my innate rebelliousness and constant desire to "experiment", especially with colors---which usually deviates wildly from what "normal" knitters do. My knitting does not always look "normal"---it frequently looks somewhat quirky. Oh well---I always maintain that the act of knitting, in itself, is still a pleasant and relaxing activity for me---especially when it's snowing outside--- whether or not whatever I'm knitting comes out "normal" or not, you know what I mean?

I'll never forget this wonderful German lady who owned a knitting supply store in Austin, Texas. I would go buy yarns and needles from her and she'd show me all the latest knitting magazines with their interesting new patterns and techniques----and then I'd oblige her by buying the patterns.... but then inform her that I wanted to substitute yarns, change colors, and rearrange the entire stitch patterning in some crazy idea that I "wanted to try".

Now this lady was known throughout the Austin knitting community for being extremely opinionated about what her customers bought and knitted with---in fact, some customers used to get really intimidated by her insistence that customers use whichever yarns SHE thought were appropriate---and she'd flip out and have a fit over my strange ideas, swearing up and down to me that to perform any substitutions for my own nutty preferences would be disastrous.

Sometimes she was right, but sometimes she was wrong. I'd knit things however I wanted to anyway--- and then take the finished items back to her in order to "prove" that my ideas had been sound. And I never used normal colors---I had always picked bizarre, psychedelic combinations which I nervously believed would cause her to have a cardiac arrest. But one time, to my astonishment, she looked at what I knitted and smiled, saying in her beautiful German accent: "You should haf been German---you are brave wiz zee colors!"

I get great ideas out of knitting books, magazines, and on the internet---I learn important fiber, technique, stitch patterns, and guaging information from them---but ultimately I cast on my stitches and barge forward, knitting madly along without the benefit of a written pattern, come what may....

Sometimes I have "successes"---and sometimes I have "disasters". Currently I'm knitting 3 pairs of socks for Christmas gifts. And my knitting score is 2--to--1 in favor of the successes.

Here's a success---some purple Regia Jacquards (using purple Opal for the contrast color) for a sister-in-law for whom I need a "make peace" gift (don't ask---it happened ten years ago when I was "under the influence"--- and since she has invited me to her house for the big family Christmas celebration while telling me her shoe-size, I figure she's finally ready to "forgive and forget"):

It's my first attempt at a short-row heel, using Lucy Neatby's percentage garter-stitch method, which confuses me as I knit back and forth (all that "slipping" and "wrapping"), but I think I've finally gotten the hang of it. And they're being knitted on size 0's, which makes the progress somewhat slow...

And then here's a disaster:

No, the disaster isn't the fact that they don't "match", the heel flap looks funny, and the base color is a somewhat weird neon-glowing mass of blues, rust and greens. (I frequently, and deliberately, make "non-matching fair-isle" socks in wild colors---I'm too impatient to follow a fair-isle chart and I like to use "easy" little patterns so that I can do them absent-mindedly while watching television.)

The disaster part is that they're slightly too loose---thus too big. Like an idiot, I waited to try them on my ex for a "fitting" when I had already knitted down to the foot. WHY DID I WAIT??? I'm too rebellious to frog them back and fix the sizing---I'd have to re-knit the whole dang things. They're too far along to frog, I say.

And so I'm going to finish them in my own foot-length, for myself. My feet are always cold and I usually wear multiple pairs of socks at once around the house. So I'll use these as the top pair. I like wearing baggy "house socks"---might as well use these.

So I cast on to make another pair for the guy---and this time I got the size correct. And I decided to make them "match" in their fair-isle-ish-ness. (Is "fair-isle-ish-ness" a word?) But, unfortunately, I knitted them while watching really exciting movies on television----and subsequently made some mistakes in the fair-isle patterning.

But nope---I'm not frogging them. (Told you I was rebellious.) (Oh well again....)

Lastly, here's a pic of the back of something I started for myself. It's one of those items that I saw in a knitting book and just HAD TO HAVE!!!! It's so ME!!!

When I saw the below picture while perusing the knitting books in "Borders" bookstore, I startled a nearby shopper by showing her the picture and loudly asking her: "Isn't this the COOLEST AND MOST FABULOUS THING YOU EVER SAW???"

The hapless lady didn't answer---she just politely nodded in confusion and stealthily inched away towards another shelf.

Fooey on her---anyway, it's the "Molly's Amazing Technicolor Housecoat" in the book "Charmed Knits, Projects for Fans of Harry Potter" by Alison Hansel. And again, I LOVE THIS THING!!!

I love it so much that I began knitting it, using red for the body (instead of pink, as the pattern directs----remember, I'm brave wiz zee colors....) and I have actually been trying to follow the pattern fairly close to what Ms. Hansel recommends, even though I had to change the numbers for my size as I'm smaller than the smallest size in the directions---and...well....I threw in some stripes that aren't in Ms. Hansel's original pattern..... and.... I....uh... added a seed stitch border on the bottom. But I'm sure Ms. Hansel won't mind. Here's a link to her wonderful blog.

Again, I love this pattern so much that I even watched the DVD "Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets" all over again just to see Molly Weasley wearing this sweater. When she appeared in it I "paused" the DVD during her scene and began shouting for Blaine: "Look! She's wearing the Amazing Technicolor Housecoat! Do ya see it? That's what I'm knitting!"

Poor Blaine was nonplussed. And I saw that look on his face which means he is thinking to himself: "You know how she is..."

It says in Ms. Hansel's book that this sweater "requires both a strong personality to wear and an advanced knowledge of crochet techniques to make". I think I have both (the knitting and crochet skills thanks to Odelia.) (And I really want this one to turn out okay and not be a disaster---so I'm buckling under and trying not to be rebellious as I knit.)

(I'll let you know about my progress--but for now I've put it aside as I've got to finish all these dang socks.)

(I always think of Odelia when I knit.....) *

It's 11 O'Clock---Do You Know Where Your Cat Is??

Everybody wants to be a cat,

because a cat's the only cat

who knows where it's at.

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("Everybody Wants to be a Cat", Disney Lyrics)

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Blaine has really done it now.

He gave one of our cats some turkey on Thanksgiving. And now that damn cat is hooked.

Who understands cats?? I certainly don't. And yet I try in vain, day after day, to reason with these stubborn creatures.

Currently I'm having a problem with one of our cats, named "Little Baby" ----a cat so completely obstinate that I almost can't comprehend it. I warned Blaine not to give her "people food". Oh, how I warned him. I told him that giving her real food instead of cat food would "surely ruin her". But does Blaine ever listen to me? Nooooooooooo. So he did it anyway, giving Little Baby some nice juicy turkey meat on Thanksgiving, placing a big handful into her saucer while declaring generously that "cats should have Thanksgiving, too".

And he created a turkey-addicted monster.

Because, immediately, that idgit Little Baby promptly decided she adored turkey meat so enormously that she wanted some more RIGHT NOW. To my chagrin, it appears that she is craving it all the time, even to the point of rejecting her expensive brands of wet and dry cat food while insisting we give her turkey instead. In fact, ever since she tasted that stupid turkey she has been constantly meowing and meowing at us while pointing at her saucer whenever we go into the kitchen---telling us in cat language that she wants some more damn turkey.

But the simple fact of life is this: she simply CAN'T HAVE turkey every day, just like I told Blaine in the first place. And I most certainly haven't put anymore in her saucer since those fateful tidbits on Thanksgiving. But that fact has not deterred Little Baby one bit. And she has become so irate at not getting any more turkey that she has taken to persistently sitting by her saucer in defiance, around the clock, almost in an act of rebellion---as if to demonstrate that if we don't put turkey in there she will simply SIT THERE UNTIL WE DO.

You should see this idiot cat. Ever since that first morsel of turkey touched her delicate little cat lips she has insisted on sitting by that stupid saucer, hour by hour, day after day, morning--noon--night, hoping against hope that she can break our will and force us to put more turkey in that saucer.

Sometimes she sits so damn close to that saucer that she is almost LAYING IN IT.

I've even found her SLEEPING there, as if she doesn't want to leave for fear she'll miss the one time we put more turkey in there.

"Look what you did!" I exclaim to Blaine each time I walk into the kitchen and see that stupid cat sitting there. "I told you not to feed her turkey. Now she thinks she can force us to do her bidding. It's been 5 days since Thanksgiving and she still hasn't moved from that dish. What does she think this is? The 60's--- where you could plop yourself down on the ground in a 'sit-in' as a sign of protest? Why... I ought to handcuff her and hawl her off to cat jail for illegal loitering in a public place."

"Just explain to her that we won't have any more turkey until probably Christmas," Blaine suggests calmly, as if that would solve the problem. "Or take her to one of your AA meetings and have her introduce herself as a turkey-holic, heh!!!"

And then--- like an obliging fool --- I'll stand there and try to reason with Little Baby. But it does no good. I can explain things to her until I'm blue in the face and the cows come home, vainly explaining over and over that THERE IS NO MORE TURKEY---but she refuses to budge. In fact, SHE IS STILL SITTING THERE AS WE SPEAK.

In fact, it never does me any good to explain ANY DADGUM THING to Little Baby---or our other cat Leonard--- or any OTHER cat I've ever had, for that matter. They are too stubborn to listen to me. And I should know---I've raised a lot of cats.

Here are some of the observations I've made about these frustrating animals during my cat-raising history:

1. They are just plain RUDE. Have you ever tried reasoning with one? They don't even have the common decency to look you in the eyeballs while you're speaking to them---and sometimes they'll even pointedly turn their head away, as if you're BOTHERING them.

2. They are STUBBORN AS MULES. (See pictures of Little Baby sitting by the saucer, waiting earnestly till frigging doomsday for some more turkey to magically rain down from the heavens.)

3. They will NEVER, EVER play with any toy that is given to them for that purpose---nay, they will ONLY play with some object they are not supposed to have, like my knitting yarn, my house plants, or Blaine's cigarrette lighters (which they amuse themselves by shoving under the couch on purpose so that he can't find them.)

4. If you sacrifice a ball of yarn for them to play with, hoping against hope that this will divert their attention, causing them to leave your other yarn alone---it DOES NOT fool them one single bit. No, they will stop playing with it the very minute they realize they are "allowed" to have this ball of yarn--- and will then commence to playing with the forbidden objects once again.

5. They actually LOOK FOR WAYS to annoy the hell out of you. For example, they will sleep quietly all day long---but then the minute you want peace and quiet as you lay your head down to sleep at night, they will then begin noisily playing with the window blinds in order to disturb your sleep. And if you lock them out of the bedroom, they will LOUDLY PAW AT THE DOOR, over and over, no matter how much you yell at them to stop it--- until you think you're going mad.

6. Whenever you scold one they will gaze at you with a completely insolent expression on their face, almost like a sassy teenager remarking "WHATEVER!"

7. If they are messing with something they're not supposed to play with, like your best houseplant or a dried flower arrangement, you can holler "No!" a hundred times from your comfortable position on the couch----but they will not actually stop playing with it until you are FORCED TO GET UP from your comfortable position to come swat at them---and ONLY THEN will they stop what they're doing and run from you while staying just out of swat-reach. (Oh yes indeed, they knew EXACTLY how comfortable you were and that you didn't want to have to get up yet again....)

8. They think they should be the ones to run the world---and that I am the main obstacle to them achieving their ultimate goal of declaring a cat monarchy. Their plan is to eliminate me by driving me so insane that I am permanently committed to an asylum, whereby they can then live in bliss while being waited on hand and foot by Blaine. (Yes, I've even seen Blaine showing them TWO flavors of canned cat food, asking them "to pick" whichever is their fancy at the moment.)

9. And if you ever attempt to get them INSIDE something----like, say, a cat-carrier for a trip to the vet---they will NOT COME TO YOU. Even if you tempt them with an entire opened can of tuna fish, they will not come near you and you will exhaust yourself trying to catch them. Sweet words and honey-dripping talk from your smiling lips will not convince them one iota. (And gritting your teeth while angrily muttering something like "Come here you little asshole!" definitely doesn't work either, trust me.)

10. And if cats see you approaching their vicinity, they will immediately and deliberately move right into your direct PATHWAY so that you TRIP over them, nearly killing yourself.

11. They will figure out where you want to sit---and then they'll sit THERE. If you ask them to move they will regard you with wide-eyed horror, as if you had just asked them to eat crushed glass or something. (They have the nerve to act like it's YOU who is the rude one.)

12. And lastly, they are horribly SNEAKY. If they know that you are keeping a particular room's door closed in order that they not enter and mess things up in there (like your yarn stash), they will hang around in the distance quietly, looking innocent, until you open that door for some reason--- and then they'll suddenly streak between your legs into that room----and you will NEVER get them out.

Only once did I ever win a battle with a cat. It was a few years ago, when I was still legally married to Blaine. It was in this exact house. (And I may have told you this story before---if I did, forgive me.)

It was right after Halloween and I had come home from work early. But just before I entered the house I remembered my recent battle with the cats about the dining room table. Of all the places in the house that the cats drape their royal selves over, I draw the line at the dining room table----I believe that any furniture which is meant for food consumption should be free of cat hair and cat paw prints.

I allow them sit anywhere else but the dining room table, okay?

So on this day I wanted to see if they were following my dictates---or if they were being naughty, as my cats are frequently wont to do when they think I'm not around.

So I very quietly and surreptitiously turned the key in the front door's lock---and then, like an avenging cat-terrorist SWAT team, I BURST INTO THE LIVING ROOM BY SURPRISE.

And yes....just as I suspected----THERE SHE WAS. One of our cats was sitting her fat little self right on the dining room table, big as you please, content in the knowledge that I was supposed to be at work and therefore wouldn't witness this transgression.

But she didn't count on me coming home from work early in a surprise attack.

"Ah HAH!!!!" I screamed maniacally. "I CAUGHT YOU RED-PAWED you little butt-head! GET YOURSELF OFF THAT DANG TABLE RIGHT THIS MINUTE!"

But she deliberately hesitated, leveling an unconcerned, arrogant gaze towards me as if to say she would jolly well sit wherever the hell she liked--- "WHATEVER!" ----and SHE DIDN'T MOVE.

And then by pure reflex, blinded by righteous fury, I noticed the nearby leftover Halloween candy dish. And before I realized what I was doing, I scooped up a stray Three Musketeers mini-candy bar and then hurled it towards the startled, ill-mannered cat--- bonking her neatly on the top of her head with it!

And then she ran, by golly, mortified, I'm sure, that I had made such a skillful bulls-eye on her self-righteous noggin---and probably mad as hell that I'd figured out a way to get her off the table without having to run myself breathless chasing her--- and also completely indignant that I had made her look foolish in front of our other cat.

Now, please understand that I normally don't recommend cat-abuse, name-calling, or throwing Halloween candy for dealing with cat misbehavior--- but on that nerve-frazzled day, my poor self-control and handy Three Musketeers candy bar definitely solved the problem. None of our cats have ever sat on the dining room table since, and my dinners are now served on a clean, cat-hair-free surface.

Sigh.....

I think Little Baby is sitting by her saucer again. I suppose that's alright....

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7.

Getting Ready for the Holidays...

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Just a little bobsled we call it old Saint Nick,

But she'll walk a toboggan with a four speed stick,

She's candy-apple red with a ski for a wheel,

And when Santa hits the gas, man, just watch her peel...

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("Little Saint Nick", Brian Wilson & Mike Love)

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Okay, so we're getting ready for the holiday season.

And for me the two activities which usually increase during the holiday season are my shopping and knitting. This year is no different. I've definitely been knitting my head off, making Christmas gifts for Blaine's family, and I usually get dragged on shopping expeditions with either Blaine or his sister, Lexie. *

I also look forward to the holidays here in Kansas because holidays are always wild and crazy affairs within Blaine's family.

One reason the holidays are usually so chaotic around here is because of the size of Blaine's family. Here in Overland Park there are three households which band together to celebrate the season---Blaine and I, his sister Lexie, Lexie's Greek husband "Emmy", their 3 kids--- and Blaine's next oldest brother and wife plus their 2 kids.

Blaine's family is a large group of lively New Yorkers, originally from Queens. And Lexie's husband's family is also a closely-knit group of Greek New Yorkers, also from Queens. And so in addition to celebrating the "regular" holidays we also usually celebrate many of the Greek holidays as well. (For example, we always celebrate "Greek Easter" which usually occurs about a week or so before "regular Easter". )

Most of both families remain in New York, but the three households here in Kansas are quite a force to contend with. And lest you think that eleven people isn't too large of a number for gatherings, you've got to know this family. They are raucous and loud, the children usually have multiple friends in tow, they're all very funny and witty---shouting jokes and wisecracks at every occasion---they are all varied and interesting personalities---and the group as a whole has an endearing habit of harmlessly arguing "for sport".

In fact, special occasions involving large dinners, turkeys, hams, mutton and cranberry sauce most definitely always include long and loud exchanges about every little thing--- like table stettings, hand serving-versus-a buffet arrangement, who gets to do what and when, what movie or football game to watch, where everybody is going to sit--- and whether or not to add feta cheese to something.

But the most notable trait in this family is their habit of what most people call "making scenes". These are simply not the type of individuals who pass through life quietly, without notice. No, no, no, you will always KNOW beyond a shadow of a doubt that you have seen any of them when they pass your way, yes indeed. They are honest and forthright, and their constant laughter and hilarity is infectious.

And I'm certainly no shrinking violet. I definitely have a strong enough personality in that I can always hold my own in any of their familial gatherings.

In fact, I'll never forget the time we all flew to New York in order that Lexie and Emmy's newborn daughter get baptized in Emmy's Greek Orthodox church. We were all so incessantly noisy on the airplane, with all the kids bickering over toys and we adults hollering back and forth to each other over seat tops, that an exasperated flight attendant finally got tired of it and unceremoniously told us all to "sit down and shut up" .

We ignored her rudeness and simply commenced to texting each other, whereupon all of our cell phones and some of the in-flight phones began ringing madly...

.

It also happened to be Thanksgiving at the time of that christening, and so the christening ceremony was to be followed a few days later by a huge family dinner whereby Blaine's entire family (Kansas and New York combined) and Emmy's equally huge Greek family were precariously combined into one gigantic conglomeration. In addition to our large brood, the rest of Blaine's parents and New York relatives attended, as well as Emmy's huge Greek group which included each of his four brothers' families as well as an assortment of parents, grandparents, uncles and aunts.

Aside from the incident on the airplane, everything about that New York trip had so far proceeded without too much more fanfare except that we noticed during the christening ceremony that the priest seemed....well....a little tipsy. He missed his mark when he attempted to sprinkle the water on the baby, sprinkling it on Emmy's sleeve instead....

"Don't worry about it," Emmy whispered later to our stricken queries. "The priest told me he's already been to two other christenings this morning--- and each family kept toasting the babies with wine. So we'll just give the poor guy Coca-Cola at the reception brunch...."

After the christening we wives all began preparing for the humongous affair of the Thanksgiving dinner. I was in my prime as I had proudly brought several of my family recipes for the occasion in order to show the New Yorkers some "old fashioned Southern cooking".

But then an unexpected showdown occurred during the final moments of the gigantic meal's preparation---whereby myself and one of Blaine's sister-in-laws got into an argument over the giblet gravy of all things.

"You will most certainly NOT put giblets in that gravy," she pronounced loudly as we both squared off over a huge pot of gravy, which was innocently percolating on the stove top waiting to be either giblet-ized or de-gibletized. "Giblets are gross---I never put them in our family's gravy."

"Not putting giblets in giblet-gravy is....well.... UNTHINKABLE!" I sputtered stubbornly, edging my pile of newly-chopped giblets closer to the bubbling gravy pot. "Why, not putting giblets in giblet gravy is...just... well... it's un-Thanksgiving-y!"

(Is 'un-Thanksgiving-y' a word?....)

But, just in the nick of time, Emmy's sensible Greek mother noticed the situation and saved the day, proving that she hadn't successfully raised a huge family of boisterous, argumentative children for naught.

Ignoring the stares of all the amused husbands (who were probably all hoping that somehow this heated exchange between the battling sister-in-laws would somehow end up in a hair-pulling, potholder-throwing catfight, sure to prove fodder for good scandal stories for years) she sternly marched herself firmly over to where myself and this infernal anti-giblet woman were both of us throwing down our aprons and dishrags like gauntlets at a duel-challenge--- and she planted herself solidly between us.

For a minute there I thought she was going to pull our ears or something!

But instead of pulling our respective ears like naughty schoolgirls, she resolutely seized an empty saucepan and, with the wisdom of Solomon and her 50 odd years of kitchen skill, she swiftly dolloped half the un-gibleted gravy from the offending pot into the empty pan--- thereby dividing the gravy neatly into two portions ---and then loudly slammed both pots of gravy down on adjacent stove burners in a manner which told both us bickering idgits that the matter was now solved.

"NOW THEN," Emmy's mother proclaimed, looking each of us in the eyes very seriously, shaming us both, "Make BOTH types of gravies!"

And so we did.

(I don't speak to that particular sister-in-law much these days. But then, she still lives in New York and so I don't have to see her very often.....)

Anyway, Lexie and I inaugurated the holiday season this past weekend with our usual "go to the mall" Saturday, whereby we intended to cruise the stores to get Christmas ideas and start getting into the mood for the Christmas season. It was our last time to hang out together before the upcoming Thanksgiving Thursday, and it proved to be a typical excursion with zany Lexie, who wanted to begin her Christmas shopping.

Lexie and I are the types who can do two things at once---chat and shop. We can carry on entire conversations-- "arguments" and all -- at the same time as we're snatching items off shelves, trying them on in dressing rooms, comparing prices, and discussing details with sales clerks.

We started at one end of the mall, in JC Penneys, and we went up one side and down the other, on two different levels, never stopping our conversation---or our arguing. And, as usual, I was also whistling to myself.

"Oh God, you're whistling again. What is it this time? It sounds like the tune to that stupid movie 'Get Smart'" she complained as we perused JC Penney's appliance department. "What do you think I should get for Blaine this year? He loves popcorn---should I get him a popcorn machine?"

"Just don't get him a coffee machine," I advised. "He already bought a new one the other day and I hate the ugly thing. It's a monster---it chooses how many beans to grind according to the program, grinds the beans, mixes the coffee, wakes you up in the morning, tells time in military time--- and I can't figure out how to use it at all. It took Blaine two hours to read the manual on how to use it and now our simple morning coffee time is a ridiculous production."

I didn't mention that I think the damn thing is looking at me......

"Hold on, my Blackberry is ringing," Lexie said and answered it.

The thing you have to remember about Lexie is that she also conducts all her daily business from her trusty Blackberry---and she does it all day long, no matter what you're doing. It's distracting at first but you ultimately get used to it.

"No I WON'T buy you any Ugg boots," she told her Blackberry. "I'm going to wait and see how much they cost in the after-Thanksgiving sales."

"Who was that?" I asked.

"My daughter," she replied. "The brat has already loaded her 'Christmas Want List' onto my Blackberry---and it's on the wallpaper so that it's the first thing I see when I glance at the screen. Hey, let's go to Victoria's Secret and see if their lotions are on sale--- it's just down the hall to the left."

And so we shopped. We hit Victoria's Secret, Aeropostale, Express, Bath and Bodyworks, and everything in between, searching out sales and ideas for Christmas. I griped about her Blackberry usage and she griped about my chronic whistling.

"Let's go in here," she announced at a gourmet bar & cocktail supply store, after griping about my new whistling song, which was now to the tune of the 'Final Jeopardy' question.

"Why in the hell do you want to go in a bar shop?" I asked.

"Emmy's new project is turning the basement into a bar room."

"Well you're certainly a very understanding wife," I quipped as we swept into the place, which was currently having a sale on tequila shot glasses. She eyed a huge margarita mixer, various glassware, and some large, lighted Canadian beer signs, but evidentally thought better of her idea.

"I wouldn't mind having one of those Canadian beer signs..." she mused. "But I've changed my mind and won't get anything here. Because if I get him new bar stuff he'll want to spend more money on the basement and start buying a bunch of expensive tools."

She checked her Christmas list on the Blackberry. "Let's go to the video store."

We continued to fight the crowds and made our way to the next store.

"Now what are you whistling?" she demanded.

"'O Canada'".

"Well that's certainly better than that annoying 'Jeopardy' tune," she retorted.

"Oh for God's sakes, now you went and put stupid 'Jeopardy' back into my head!" I exclaimed, changing my whistling back to the 'Jeopardy' tune.

We had another brief argument in the main hall of the shopping mall because I wanted to ride the merry-go-round.

Okay, I have never been able to pass up a merry-go-round. I love merry-go-rounds. I think that they are, by far, the most fun and romantic "ride" in any amusement park. But for some reason nobody has allowed me to ride one since I was about 8 years old.

I have many unfulfilled dreams that some day somebody will allow me to ride a merry-go-round to my heart's content, going round as many times as I wish, mounted on a beautiful painted pony.

"I am NOT standing here while you go ride the stupid merry-go-round," she declared. "Next you'll want to sit on Santa's lap and tell him what you want for Christmas. And besides, it's going to take us forever to wait in the pretzel line---and I've GOT to have one of those big pretzels!"

Lexie won the argument and I didn't get to ride the merry-go-round. And she was right---I DID want to sit on Santa's lap but that's besides the point. So I contented myself with staring dreamily at the beautiful merry-go-round while she got a pretzel, thinking jealous thoughts of the kids who were happily perched on its guilded horses.

And then I changed my whistling to match the tune of the merry-go-round's pipe organs.

We went to shop after shop, ticking off each item displayed on Lexie's Blackberry list. And then what usually happens finally happened. It was in a clothing store.

Lexie's Visa Card was rejected.

"There seems to be a problem with our credit-card machine or something," the sales clerk apologized.

"Huh!" Lexie and I both laughed as we looked at each other in bemusement. We've been through this drill tons of times before.

If truth be known, both Lexie and I are veteran debit card "rejectees", as neither of us can manage our money or checking accounts worth a hoot. Our debit cards are continually mismanaged, overdrawn, in error---- and routinely rejected.

Hell, I haven't known the exact sum of the total in my checking account since 1997.

"I love how you salespeople are always so polite as to blame it on your credit-card machines," I told the guilty salesclerk. "Don't worry--we know that what you really mean is that her card has been rejected. And it's true---she's probably out of money again."

"Wait a second, I'll transfer some money from another account," Lexie mumbled, unconcerned, punching away madly on her Blackberry's buttons as the hapless sales clerk looked on in astonishment. "There you go---I just transferred $400 from my husband's account into my Visa account. Hopefully he won't notice. Now run the damn card again...."

Right. And so we continued shopping.

"What are you looking for?" she asked me as I eyeballed racks of ladies' sweaters in one particular store.

"I need a sweatshirt or something to wear to your house for Thanksgiving dinner," I told her. "I haven't got a dang thing that's decent and I hate to look raggedy."

"Well there's no Bass Pro Shops in here," she teased, reminding me of the whole "fishing boots affair". "What are you getting everybody for Christmas?"

"Oh, har-dee-har-har," I replied ruefully. "And for your information I'm knitting all my Christmas presents this year. I've knitted jacquard socks for the other sister-in-law, a feather-and-fan scarf for your mother, Harry Potter scarves for the nieces, and I started some fair-isle socks for your step-father."

"God, your fingers must be crippled," she remarked.

We finished our marathon shopping trip in the late afternoon and then returned to the parking lot where, predictably, Lexie couldn't find her vehicle. I should have known that Lexie would forget where we'd parked.

So we were forced to tramp up and down the packed parking lot, lugging Lexie's packages, vainly searching for her silver SUV among a sea of thousands of other silver SUV's.

"Dammit, Lexie!" I huffed sweatily, irritated with myself for my lack of foresight. "I knew I should have written down where we parked. And now I can't remember what type of SUV you have these days---isn't it a Ford?"

"It's a Ford Explorer," she explained, standing on tip-toes to scan the miles and miles of parked cars. "But it's not ours---it's a rental. My company decided that it's cheaper to pay for a rental than to reimburse me for gas."

I pondered the logic of that issue while I searched vainly for a silver Ford Explorer. But I couldn't find one. I loudly sighed and muttered to myself such grouchy phrases to the effect of "I'll die in this stupid parking lot while looking for a silver Ford Explorer..." and "They'll probably find my skeleton hanging onto the bumper of a RAV4....."

"Now, I KNOW for SURE that we parked out in this general area somewhere," I finally exclaimed, getting more irate by the minute. "We've been up and down these rows five times---surely you see your own SUV?"

But she didn't. And then I suddenly realized that she had a car alarm gadget attached to her key chain.

"Hey, punch the car alarm button!" I told her excitedly. "When the car starts beeping we'll be able to find it for sure!"

And so she did. And sure enough, a silver Ford Escape directly in front of us started blaring its horn and winking its lights.

Relieved, and thinking that Lexie would then unlock its door so we could get in, I waited---but LEXIE CONTINUED TO KEEP LOOKING FOR HER SUV!

"Lexie?" I questioned increduously, grabbing her arm and forcing her to look at the blaring SUV. "This IS the vehicle, right? It's the ONLY DANG ONE blasting its alarm!"

"Oh yeah," she replied, the realization dawning on her. "I forgot--it's not a Ford Explorer--- it's a Ford Escape!"

Sigh......Lexie is almost as big a birdbrain as I am....

Finally, we made our way to Applebee's where Lexie and I had a snack while she ordered a promised take-out dinner for Emmy, who was waiting back at home and had texted her his menu choices on her Blackberry, listing every detail of what he wanted down to his preference of salad dressing.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the waiter reported as Lexie consulted her trusty Blackberry. "But we don't have blue cheese dressing. Do you think he'd like ranch instead?"

"Hold on a minute, let me call him," she said--- and to the waiter's irritation she proceeded to call Emmy and get an updated salad dressing request--- even interrupting their discussion of salad dressing to give a cheerful narration as to what she and I had done at the mall all day.

To the waiter's credit he didn't roll his eyes as waiters usually do whenever Lexie makes mid-order calls.

(Yes, she does it often....)

Next, it was on to the beauty supply outlet where Lexie wanted to pick up her favorite shampoo, an industrial-sized bottle of Biolage . "But I have to hide it from my sons," she allowed, giving me the free tote-bag that came with her purchase.

"Thanks, Lexie!" I told her, happily stowing my little red Walmart purse in the new tote bag.

"Maybe this will save Blaine from having to buy you a fishing tackle-bag for your next pocketbook," she remarked slyly.

"Speaking of Blaine, can we stop at World Foods?" I asked. "I want to get him some French chocolate truffles. He loves French chocolate truffles."

"Why are you buying them so early again?" she asked me, remembering an ugly incident on a previous Christmas whereby I had also bought Blaine some French chocolate truffles.

I had excitedly placed the truffles with glee into his Christmas stocking, which was hanging over the fireplace along with my stocking and the cats' stockings, dreaming of his pleasure when he found them.

Unfortunately, I had unthinkingly done that way too soon before Christmas Day---and by the time he dug into his stocking on Christmas morning the lovely French chocolate truffles were melted into one solid ugly lump in the toe of the stocking--- after being melted and re-melted from the heat of countless fires lit in the fireplace during the many cold days before Christmas.

(I told you I was a birdbrain.....)

"They're not for Christmas, silly," I replied in what I hoped was a dignified fashion. "I'm going to give him the truffles now to butter him up. And besides, I've learned to put chocolate stocking-stuffers into the REFRIGERATOR......"

Finally we finished our shopping day and Lexie headed the Escape towards home to drop me off.

"You never did get anything to wear on Thanksgiving Day," she stated. "Are you going to have time to shop before this Thursday?"

"Sure," I told her, smiling to myself. "Blaine and I are going shopping tomorrow---and I'll get something then."

"Are you going to The Bass Pro Shops again? HEH!"

"No, smarty-pants," I replied evenly. "We're going to Carabela's Outfitter because Blaine wants a flannel shirt. And I hear they have a wonderful Duck-Hunting Camouflage Department there....."

*

That was then---This is now....and again....

*

*

She don't believe in shootin' stars,

but she believes in shoes & cars,

Wood floors in the new apartment,

couture from the store's department...

("Flashing Lights", Kanye West)

Initially I thought it would be me that had the most trouble adjusting to things when I returned to my ex-husband, Blaine, here in the huge suburb wasteland called Overland Park, near Kansas City, Kansas.

It's been a little rocky but overall I think that he, not I, should garner the most sympathy for having to re-adjust all over again to this relationship. He claims that I am "eccentric". He says that he never knows if I'm truly insane or if he needs to feel my forehead to "see if I'm feverish". Maybe I really AM crazy but you can't let him off the hook that easily.

He knew what he was getting into when he didn't sign on the dotted line this time. It mostly seems to crop up the in the little, everyday things.....

For example, Blaine declared this past weekend that he knew I'd "finally gone completely wacko" over a footwear issue. Sigh.... I don't know why he even bothers to try and understand my logic, anyway, because everybody knows that I have never HAD any wardrobe logic. I tend to wear strictly what I like, damn the social consequences.

I never wear an item of clothing simply because it is "fashionable", or it's a particular brand, or it's classy or tacky, or expensive or inexpensive, or whatever. I wear whatever strikes my fancy at the moment. And I mix clothing articles without prejudice. For example, I might wear multiple articles of clothing which are all in direct "opposition" with each other.

Like, I may wear a cheap pair of Walmart sweatpants with an expensive, department-store sweater. Or I might sport a plastic cartoon wristwatch I bought at a gas station together with a $200 designer-dress.

I once wore a full-length mink coat over a Cal Poly sweatshirt to the grocery store but we won't go into that right now......

Anyway, this weekend the ruckus between Blaine and I was was over shoes, of all things.

Saturday morning I had announced that I needed some new footwear. It was because that evening we were going to attend the newly-opened AMC 30 IMAX theater with Blaine's sisters' family and I didn't want to wear my same old raggedy athletic shoes to a social occasion yet once again.

"You've got to buy me some new shoes," I had stated to Blaine emphatically. "Everybody at the theater will be all dressed up and I don't want to have to be ashamed to show up in these stupid ole running shoes." I was tired of my stupid ole running shoes.

Of course, Blaine never sees any good reason for spending perfectly good money on some fool female clothing ideation.

"What difference does it make what you wear on your feet in the dark at the movies?" he countered, blissfully unaware that I had been totally and goodnaturedly prepared to counter-attack his usual attempt at male logic. I know that it is going to take some time for him to get used to us being back together---and also for him to get used to, again, my blatant disregard for whatever constitutes current Paris' fashion dictates.

And besides.....he HAD agreed to support me financially upon my illustrious return to the Land of The Mary Kay Parties....

"But this is the brand new IMAX theater," I continued patiently. "It just opened up and so it's a special occasion. You don't just 'go to the movies' at the IMAX---you sit and get SERVED DINNER while you're watching the movie. It's not like the old days when you just bought a stupid box of Milk Duds and a Coke at the concession stand."

In the end Blaine took me to the Bass Pro Shops. He wanted to buy a new cold-weather jacket and probably figured that I couldn't get into any apparel troubles at that august and conservative establishment.

But he was wrong.

Because sure enough, like everything else when it comes to me and Blaine, everything went to a very public hell in a handbasket. You'd think he would have remembered......

Because upon arriving at the Bass Pro Shops, I promptly strolled over to the fishing department and carefully picked out a pair of black rubber, totally waterproof, size 3 little boys, Pro-Line knee-high rubber boots.

And I thought Blaine was going to have an apoplectic fit.

In fact, the minute I plucked the boots off the shelf he came sputtering to attention with his eyes bugging out like a gigged frog, trying to breathe out a coherent statement of protest, to the astonishment of the hapless salesgirl.

"Oh my God, why in the HELL would you pick out those hideous things?" he choked. "I knew you'd do something nutty like this! These are FISHING BOOTS for crying out loud! They're made out of rubber!"

"And they have steel-reinforced shanks," I replied calmly, sitting down on the bench to try the boots on. The salesgirl was starting to look nervous.

"But we are GOING TO THE MOVIES, NOT THE LOCAL FISHING HOLE," he persisted. More nearby Bass Pro Shop staff were starting to perk up their ears. "And it's NOT EVEN RAINING!"

"Oh keep your shirt on," I snapped, vainly searching my mind for an explanation which would shut him up and save him from having a coronary.

Finally, seizing upon female reasoning, I explained.

"Um...they're the latest fashion," I mused blithely, dancing a spritely jig as I modeled the boots in the little foot mirror. "Everybody's wearing them."

A little white lie, but that's besides the point.

Also in the little foot mirror I could see the salesgirl rolling her eyes behind my back.

Now please allow me to explain here that I like the dadgum boots. So what if they're all rubber and knee-high? They are easy to pull on, they're warm, they're waterproof, and (like I said before) I don't give a rat's patooty whether or not anybody else approves of my attire.

"I am NOT paying for those ridiculous things," he protested finally, even yet while pulling his American Express card out of his wallet. "They're not even LADIES' shoes. They're BOYS' boots!"

"I told you, they're the latest fashion!" I replied audaciously, smiling to the incredulous stare of the evidently traumatized salesgirl.

God, you'd have thought she'd never seen an argument between a woman and her ex-spouse before, sheesh....

Of course, in the end, I won. But Blaine did throw one more verbal salvo as we left the good ole conservative Bass Pro Shops, hurling it towards me after several more green-shirted employees had gathered to see who would ultimately win the fight.

"That's IT," he announced ominously as we exited the building, walking pass the store's ubiquitous and gigantic fish tanks. A huge, wall-eyed bass eyeballed me from its wavering float in the middle of the tank's sparkling glass window. "I simply WILL NOT buy you any more shoes for a LONG, LONG time. So I hope you realize, young lady, that you are going to be STUCK, yes STUCK, wearing those stupid things EVERYWHERE---when you could have had some 'nice' shoes if you'd listened to me."

I didn't care. And so I wore them out that night.

But not before Blaine and I had one more skirmish before leaving the house. And I certainly hope our nice neighbors didn't hear him holler up the stairs something to the effect of "oh Good Lord JESUS! You are NOT going to TUCK YOUR JEANS into those things??!! At least wear them UNDER your jeans! Oh crap, I thought you had better TASTE than that!"

But I don't.

(Have better taste than that...)

And I did.

(Wear them with my jeans tucked into them....)

So off we went and I got to make my grand entrance into the IMAX theater holding my head high while wearing what I was satisfied is a perfectly good Saturday night theater ensemble---a pair of Walmart jeans, a tattered 12-year old Kansas City Chief's jacket--- and my brand new, beloved, waterproof rubber Pro Line knee-high rubber boots.

Don't worry--for good measure I had doused myself liberally with some "Heaven" perfume I had bought from the Gap.

Anyhoo, we saw a great movie in the brand new "rocker" IMAX seats where they serve you dinner while you're watching the movie. Blaine's lively sister, Lexie, and her husband had accompanied us and we two girls gabbed like magpies until our respective husbands sternly shushed us to "shut our yaps" during the movie.

"I think 'yap' is such a RUDE term!" I stage-whispered to the two guys.

"What do you want me to call it.....a pie-hole?" Blaine countered beligerantly.

I declined to pursue the matter and ordered my dinner from the lurking attendant.

I ordered the chicken penne pasta and peach cobbler. Lexie ordered the panini and the brownie thing.

There was only one other bad incident during the movie and that was because I simply forgot myself and my absent-minded habit of whistling. I was minding my own business watching the movie and whistling to myself when Blaine again leaned over and loudly whispered: "I prefer that you NOT whistle the tune to '76 Trombones In The Big Parade' during the movie, okay? Now is THAT polite enough for you?"

Okay, I do admit that I tend to whistle to myself absent-mindedly at the oddest occasions. But it's usually no big deal---maybe I do it while I'm strolling up and down the aisles at Walmart or else while filling up the truck's tank with gas.

Okay, okay.....once my mother got a little angry with me for whistling spiritedly to the hymn "Do Lord, Oh Do Lord" at a Baptist church during the music service, but that was a long time ago.

Oh....um ..... and alright, so I was also simultaneously vocalizing the "background harmony" of the "Do Lord" song---I think it's fun to do that---where you holler out "I've gotta home in Gloryland that's OUTSIDE THE SUN, EVERYBODY, I've gotta home in Gloryland!..."

Where was I? Oh yes, at the IMAX.

We all had our dinners and when the movie was over we all filed out to the beautiful theater lobby, where I noticed silly Blaine glancing around nervously to see if anybody was eyeballing my footwear with distaste. And then I noticed Blaine's sister's shoes.

She was wearing some elegant brown leather heels. They were a kind of classical, oxfordy style. (Is 'oxfordy' a word?)

"Those shoes are absolutely beautiful," I told her, admiring the shoes' soft, handsomely burnished leather.

"HUH! Too bad you are stuck with those idiotic fishing boots!" Blaine piped up.

"Thanks," Lexie replied as she and I ignored Blaine. "But I hate these shoes. They're brand new and way too tight. They were expensive but I'll never wear them again. In fact.... do you want them?"

I said I did.

So she took them off and handed them to me.

* * * *

Okay, I'm not going to describe the next unpleasant scene whereby Blaine, Lexie's husband, and Lexie's son flipped their respective lids in utter mortification as Lexie calmly took off the lovely oxfordy shoes and handed them to me---and then proceeded to walk out of the theater lobby into the freezing night in her stockinged feet.

Suffice it to say that they weren't pleased.

And I don't care. I couldn't care less that Blaine's very pissed off that I ended up getting my cake and eating it too---what with getting both the Pro Line boots AND some "nice" shoes afterall...

Uh.....which brings me to my sheepish plea:

Um.....well......could anybody who reads this please go to their local Bass Pro Shop and buy the dang Pro Line knee high rubber boots and then WEAR THEM EVERYWHERE, especially OVERLAND PARK, KANSAS---

....because...well, dang it...my next task is to be able to back up my white lie to Blaine that these boots are the "latest fashion" HEH!!!!!

(I mean, they only cost a respectable $16.99--- and one never knows when one is going to need footwear for the theater which doubles as fishing and rain gear, right?) *

Exit 95 on the Yellowbrick Road...

And then it hit me:

standin' outside of Heaven,

waiting for God to come and get me,

I'm too uncouth......

("Superstar", Lupe Fiasco)

Ahem???

I said, AHEM?

Well, this is your Message Goat speaking, long distance, from Texas. I say long distance because, unbelievably, Bo has returned to the world of the living. However..... umm.... there is a slight glitch.

And that glitch is that Bo is no longer in Texas.

Yes, that's what I said--- that Bo is no longer in Texas. She's in Kansas now! And it's all very complicated.

And, sadly, I will not be able to continue being your Message Goat as I cannot afford the long-distance costs--- and also the fact that I'll have no idea what in the hell she is doing up there in Kansas. However, I will check in periodically, as circumstances permit.

I guess she'll just have to get somebody else to be her messenger.... perhaps a friendly Tin Man or Scarecrow---somebody who can accompany her down The Yellowbrick Road, if you know what I mean?

Sigh.

Oh, the humanity......

(I've always wanted to say that: 'oh, the humanity'. That and the phrase 'meanwhile, back at the ranch'. But Bo got a chance to use 'meanwhile, back at the ranch' on here somewheres---some time way back a bit---maybe in 2006 but I'm not sure. Now, if only I could get a chance to use the phrase "Houston, we have a problem".....)

Where was I? Oh yes, Bo's in Kansas.

So anyway, Bo has assured me that she will be back online here very soon ---and that she will continue her chronicles as before--- just as soon as she can get settled-- or else perfect her raspberry-peach butterpie recipe, whichever comes first.

Thank you, that is all for now.