A Very Bootsy Clogmas!

Xmas eve eve...we celebrated Spbakt! with the tribe.

Tina and Tom made buttons and magnets:



Katy and Traci defied the "no gift" proclamation and got all crafty on our asses:

Traci made soap:



And Katy made these awesome reusable produce bags:



seriously awesome.

Xmas eve was spent working and then running around in cold rain, jumping over puddles and dodging other last minute shoppers to get Sage a copy of Veganomicon. Snatched the last copy at Broadside Books - ha ha! suckers!

I *was* going to make the Chocolate Bourbon Cake which I failed to make for Spbakt! but decided that Josh and Sage would probably prefer the Pumpkin Pie Brownie Tina had made for the Tribe Thanksgiving.

I was correct in this assessment. And luckily had all ingredients on hand. Even more luckily, enough ingredients on hand to completely redo the first bit after totally misreading and screwing up the recipe.



We opened gifts after dinner, because I love opening gifts on Xmas Eve.



Josh got me some Love and Rockets, per my request:



And he and Sage went in on this pair of clogs I'd been lusting after:



Sage! made! us! bowls!





There was other good stuff, too, but that's what I'm most excited about. Oh, and then Sage sent home some old Doc Martens for me. The next day, I transformed a gift certificate into a pair of Frye boots I'd coveted for years.




All in all, a very Bootsy Clogmas.

Narrowly avoiding disaster

Early morning. A couple enters their two car garage, where someone has left the door open.

Me: Why is the door open?
Josh: I must have left it open when I put out the trash last night.
Me: How could you?! Someone could have stolen our car!
Josh: How could someone steal the car? Did you leave your keys in it?
Me: No, but we left it unlocked. Someone could have hotwired it. You know, our elderly Polish neighbors and their mad hotwiring skills.
Josh: Someone could have come in and stolen your dad's old TV Guide collection.
Me: Someone could have stolen the pee chair.*
Josh: Oh, thank God the pee chair is safe.

The End

* The pee chair is our object lesson in thoroughly examining items for sale on Craigslist BEFORE handing over cash and driving off with said item.

Stupid for music

Three of my favorite songs in the universe are performed by Marshall Crenshaw: "Whenever You're on My Mind," "Cynical Girl," and "Someday, Someway." ("Mary Anne" is also incredibly awesome and catchy and actually stuck in my head at the moment, but for some reason I don't have the same emotional attachment that I have to the other songs) I got to see Marshall perform them all at the Iron Horse last night. Just him, with a guitar. Earlier in the day, I got to chat with him when he stopped by my radio station for a little chat. There's a picture somewhere, which I'll post when I get it.

It was lovely, taking a sonic bath in the music I love. But I take it a little too far. Because instead of coming home and going to sleep like a sane person, I have to stay up and listen to Roxy Music and the Cocteau Twins. I'm just stupid that way.

It's too late for me! Save yourselves!

I thought to myself, 'Why am I starting a blog? Isn't there enough mind-numbing nattering in the universe?' Tonight, my purpose became clear.

Josh and I have been mostly vegetarian for a few years now. Since moving back to Massachusetts, we have had some meat here and there, especially seafood. But lately I've been thinking of recommitting myself to a meatless existence (especially after that perfect storm of turkey reuben and stomach flu last month). To that end, I picked up the most recent issue of a certain vegetarian magazine, where I found a recipe for a vegetarian St. Patrick's Day dinner.

Now, I realize some of you are probably already shuddering with the inherent wrongness of such a meal. But I feel like some vegetarians - okay, me - have this eternal optimism/endless capacity for delusion that makes us - I mean me - think, "ooooh, this could be tasty."

And thus has my purpose on the blogosphere has made itself known to me:

Don't fall for it. It's like a vegetarian apocalypse. I fear that if others follow in my footsteps, we could evolve to a species without tastebuds - someday in the distant future, Charlton Heston will see a giant tongue emerging from the desert sands, and scream "You damn dirty vegetarians! You blew it all to hell! Damn you! Damn you all to hell!"

Lesson number two: mashed potatoes can make almost anything better. Which is the only reason I'm still alive to tell this cautionary tale.

Bird O'Clock

Our bedroom in Charlottesville was on the second floor, and level with our bedroom window was the tree which apparently served as the hip coffeeshop for all the neighborhood birds. Between 4 and 5 in the morning, they'd start their gossiping, and it sounded like they were in the room with us. I'd begrudgingly close the window to get another hour or so of sleep, cursing those birds for robbing me of a) sleep and b) a refreshing breeze.

We called that time "bird o'clock."

Now our bedroom is on the first floor, but there are still trees nearby, and shrubbery that goes right up to our front window - basically, right on the other side of the wall from our bed. This morning bird o'clock occurred sometime around 7:15. Thanks for sleeping in on the weekend, guys.

The Cadillac of Karmic Retributions

Late morning on a Saturday in lovely downtown Easthampton. Also known throughout the land as "errand time." Josh and I dutifully race to get to the bank, the post office, AND the vet (since our cats are all such delicate hothouse flowers they all require special veterinarian-crafted kibbles) before they collectively close at noon.

Preceding us into the bank drive-thru is one of those fideous new pickup trucks. The kind that looks like the offsping of a juiced up El Camino and a refrigerator. It's sparkling white, obviously never sullied by even a thought of off-roading. As we followed it in, I noticed the telltale logo on the back.

"A Cadillac pickup truck? Really?"

At this point, Cadillac would have lost my attention, if it weren't for the fact that it was blocking all three drive-thru lanes, trying to decide which one would move the quickest. It nearly backs over us making its final decision. We take our place behind the bumpersticker-bedecked progressive democrat Honda in another lane.

A few moments later, Cadillac second-guesses itself and nearly takes out a few other cars switching lanes.

Imagine my delight when the line Cadillac had abandoned suddenly shoots forward, while Cadillac's line remains stubbornly stationary. I didn't even mind that progressive democrat Honda is obviously marching to the beat of a different drive-thru lane, and not noticing that the cars ahead of her are no longer there. Josh wonders if she is playing hackeysack in her car. I muse on the possibility that her banking transactions, like her bumperstickers, include a request to impeach Bush and Cheney. This could take a while.

So long, in fact, that Cadillac has made it to the front of its line. As Josh struggles with the fact that his window is too far away from the pneumatic banking tube, I watch Cadillac exit the drive-thru. I silently pray that progressive democrat Honda will sideswipe Cadillac, but that's just too much karmic justice for one errand.