Treasure Hunt

Looking for necklaces is starting to turn into a treasure hunt. Eleanor is a little magpie, very interested in bright, shiny objects. She loves to rip my glasses right off my face when I'm not paying close enough attention. Adorable!

Luckily, I don't have pierced ears, so that's not a concern. But I do like to wear necklaces, and that's an issue. I've pretty much given up wearing them on a regular basis around the house, but I like to wear them to work. Remind myself what it was like to get up in the morning and choose a complete outfit, from shoes to accessories, take time to do my hair, eat breakfast .... but now all in the space of 10 minutes. Because these days Eleanor has a sixth sense that alerts her when I'm out of bed. I sneak out and down the hall to wash my face, brush my teeth .... and she starts crying for attention.

But I digress. I wore a necklace last Sunday, when we went to my parents' side of town for Easter. I also wore one on Tuesday when I was at work all day. Today I wore the silver one with a delicate turquoise shell hanging from it. As soon as I got home and held Eleanor, she started playing with it, entranced.

After a few minutes, when I was afraid she'd break (which has also happened to at least one necklace) I took it off and hung it on a kitchen cupboard door handle to keep it out of the way. There was already one hanging there. I think maybe it was the one I wore on Easter Sunday and must have taken off? I'm not sure. But my Mom was out for a visit today, so I'm guessing that's what happened.

That also reminded me that Tuesday's necklace ended up tossed into a large handbag in the dining room to avoid destruction at the hands of the baby. That bag is now on the floor of my closet. Which I can remember today, and probably will tomorrow .... but what about when I forget to retrieve the necklace in a timely manner. By next Thursday, will I remember that it's in the bag? Chances are slim.

But I suppose someday I'll go to use the bag, and find the necklace hiding in the bottom of it. And I'll be so excited to find it ... it will be like a new piece of jewelry all over again. I guess that's one way to keep down your personal spending; just keep losing and rediscovering your old jewelry/clothes/books over and over again!

Cinderella Shoes

The other day we went to a St. Patrick's Day potluck dinner. It was a very nice dinner, with good people and delicious food, but this story has nothing to do with all that.

Our hostess, Emily, complimented me on my shoes.

"Oh, there's a story behind these shoes," I laughed.

They are gorgeous shoes. Silver and beaded, they are shaped like a ballerina flat, but with a very small heel that makes a satisfying "click" whenever I walk in them. Wearing these shoes makes me feel a little taller, a little thinner, and a lot more confident.

It was May 2005. I was working at a job I hated, for a boss I couldn't stand. I would end up quitting in November, although the fact it took me that long is only a testament to my stubbornness, even in the face of complete misery.

But in May, I was still trying to make it work. I flew to Seattle for this big conference, where a web project I'd been working my fingers to the boneon was being unveiled. After the conference, I was going to hop on a plane for Boston, for one of my best friend's bachelorette party. I felt like a jet-setting career woman. I could have been an extra on "Sex and the City."

It should have been great! Instead, despite all of my efforts, the big project was still only limping along with poor usability. And the parts that did work? My loathsome boss took all the credit for, after doing little of the actual work. I was inside this huge conference center all day long, with barely any time for sightseeing. My two cohorts, who were in the boss's good graces, managed to slip off for more of the day for shopping, eating, etc.

By the final day in Seattle, I'd had enough. I took a short lunch break and ran out to a large department store nearby. I was going to find a souvenir, dammit. An extravagant purchase that I would never make back home. Something good would come of this trip!

I had to decide quickly. Time was of the essence, and there would be no time for waffling. And then, cruising around the first floor shoe department, I saw them. With almost a toothpaste commercial gleam to their slightly upturned toes. I grabbed a salesman, asked him to bring the two most likely sizes, tried them on and bought a pair.

I ran back to the hotel, threw the bag on the bed, and was back at the conference booth in time to hear my boss patting herself on the back once again for all of her hard work. But this time, it didn't bother me so much. The conference was nearly over, I would soon be headed across the country for a weekend of light-hearted revelry, and I had a fabulous new pair of shoes.

Of course, the trip to Boston was not smooth-sailing. There was a mix-up about whether I was getting into town on my own, or if someone was coming to pick me up. I found out I was expected to get there myself and got directions for public transport ... which were wrong.

After waiting a half-hour for the wrong bus, I found the right bus, which took me to the train, which took me to a stop a short walk from my destination. I was weighed down by a significant amount of luggage, particularly one large suitcase of work clothes that were, at this point, useless to me. That case, of course, got stuck in the turnstyle while leaving the train station, and I ended up twisting the handle to get it out, thereby making later retraction of the handle impossible.

But I got to the apartment. The one-bedroom apartment which would be housing over 10 women that weekend. I shoved my bags into one corner of the living room and pulled out my new shoes. It was time to break them in!

The bachelorette party weekend turned out to be fun and frustrating in equal measures. It was fantastic to see everyone—most of whom I hadn't seen in months. But it was Boston, and everything was expensive, and people always decide to just "split the check evenly" for the sake of ease, when you didn't order 2 glasses of wine and an appetizer, unlike some .... I insisted on wearing the shoes most of the weekend, even after they gave me blisters the first night when traipsing from dinner to club to another club back to the apartment.

When leaving the apartment for that first dinner, we passed another building resident out front. She stared at my mesmerizing shoes, turning to continue watching as we walked away.

"I love your shoes!" she called. "Where did you get them?"

I smiled. "Seattle!"

So whenever I wear those shoes, and particularly when I get compliments on them (which happens often), it makes me smile. To me, the shoes signify finding the silver lining and retaining the good memories long after the annoyance of the bad ones fades. I quit that horrible job and the awful boss is just a distant memory. The credit card statement for the financially disastrous Boston trip is long ago paid and filed. But the friendships and the shoes live on!

* Image courtesy of Charmed Silver Shoes.

One Hand in My Pocket

Why do baby clothes have pockets? Real, functional pockets?

And maternity clothes don't?!? Do clothing makers really think babies need pockets more than pregnant women do? What exactly are they going to put in there? Eleanor has jeans and hoodies with tiny, adorable little pockets. I ended up with three pairs of maternity pants with fake pockets. A line of stitching that suggests the presence of a useful pocket, which in actuality does not exist.

A pregnant woman may not be able to see her hips very well, but that doesn't mean she can't feel her way into a pocket for a tissue or some loose change for the vending machine.

But babies? Their hand coordination is terrible. They never remember where they put anything. And they're not even ALLOWED to touch anything that is small enough to fit into a baby pocket. What kind of crazy world are we living in?

Keepin' It Together

Do you know what I realized today? It's been a very long time since I've worn a belt. Really that was one of the first things to go, about this time last year, when I became pregnant. I could keep wearing my usual clothes for quite some time, but they didn't exactly need any help keeping them up.

Today I got "dressed up" for Eleanor's 4-month well doctor's visit. I wore the size jeans that I wore pre-baby, which was pretty exciting. And I even put on a belt!

The camera loves the kitten

Since getting the new camera, Keith has taken a million pictures of random items around our house, trying to get the depth of field, focus, lighting, etc., just right. He wants to get used to all of the features so that the first pictures of Little L come out perfect.

So far, I would say that the kitten has been his favorite subject, and the dog is a close second. Followed by inanimate objects within 2 inches of the lens (he really likes that short depth of field option), and then me.

Wednesday night was my last official writing group meeting before the baby arrives. I said I may show up in July or not .... it all depends on when Little L shows up. So my writing group members turned our meeting into a mini-shower and gave me all sorts of wonderful toys and clothes for the baby. When I got home, I showed the latest acquisitions to Keith and Gomez showed up to investigate. So the picture above is Gomez modeling a hand-crocheted frog hat from a girl in my writing group. Isn't it adorable?

The only problem is that Gomez seems to think all of the new goodies are for her. She's in for a rude awakening, but I don't have the heart to break it to her just yet.

Out of Pocket

Why do maternity pants not have pockets? It's already odd enough that they don't have a zipper or snap or a waist, really. But why do they insist of putting fake pockets on the front? They give the illusion of pockets, with seams to seal up holes that don't exist. That seems to be an awful lot of work for very little return.

Don't pregnant women need to carry things, too?

Clothes Recycling

For years, I've wondered what to do about clothes you don't wear anymore, that are too worn out to give to charity. We already have two drawers full of rags from old shirts, bathrobes, etc. The kitten has a lovely pillow made from an old work shirt with the sleeves cut off (not that she lays on it, but I can't be held responsible for the way a cat thinks).

And once again, it's time to clean out our closets. Normally we don't buy a lot of clothes, but since I'm purchasing a whole new maternity wardrobe, space has gotten tight and hangers in high demand. So the other night I went online, looking for something different from "make shirts into rags or a dog bed."

At first, I struck out. Then, on the faircompanies* community boards, I found a surprising answer:

While the smaller thrift stores don't usually take worn-out clothing, larger charities like Goodwill and Salvation Army do.

I spoke with Mauricio Hernandez, the Sr VP of Retail Sales for Goodwill NYC and Northern NJ, and he informed me that they will take any used clothing, no matter how worn. Basically, whatever they can't sell in their stores they will sell to salvage dealers who recycle the fibers for rags or insulation material and the wool for rugmaking. What they can't recycle they sell overseas.

To find locations in your area go to the websites for Goodwill and Salvation Army. Both have store locators.

I found it interesting—and reassuring—that we can continue to do what we've already done, in giving clothes to Goodwill. But now I'll be aware that I don't have to weed out the clothes that are unsuitable for resale. Now the final hurdle is actually finding the time to sort through the closet and actually take the old clothes to the drop-off point. In other words, completion of this task could still be a few weeks away;)

You'd think treads are a good thing

I've discovered a problem with my bright, shiny new running shoes.

When I'm wearing them around the house, and I see an ant, they are no good for squashing it. Since there's actual treads with space in between, he just kept slipping out. Twice! Twice I stepped on him, and still he made his escape.

Of course, if I actually wore the shoes to run in, this wouldn't be such a problem.

Cost of Distressed

When The Police opened the Grammys a few weeks ago, my sister and I were discussing the state of Sting's guitar.

Sting is a rich man. A very rich man, as anyone who's bought tickets to one of his concerts knows well. But the guitar he was using was completely beat-up. It was a mess, in a cool, rock star kinda way.

Amy and I wondered—could that be the actual guitar he played in The Police back in the day, that he's been saving for just such an occasion? How amazing, to think of the history that guitar has seen. How Sting has changed since that guitar was shiny and new.

But of course, we were wrong. Yesterday Amy sent me the following:

A beat-up guitar that Mr. Summers is playing isn't the one that toured the world with him in the early 1980s; it's an exact replica made by Fender, copying every nick, chip and scrape as well as the pickups (made by Fender's rival, Gibson) and custom electronics inside. It's part of a limited edition of 250 that sold out at $15,000 each - a measure of Mr. Summers's lasting reputation among musicians and guitar geeks.

-from a NY Times interview, 2007

It reminded me of the fad of "distressed jeans," taken to a whole new level. Instead of paying $50 for jeans that are torn and faded, you can pay $15k for a guitar that makes you look like you actually know how to play. Probably, you buy the guitar AND the jeans, because I think they'd have to appeal to the same people.

What, exactly, are you paying for? I think it's the aura of experience. You may be working a boring job, going home to the same place, same dinner, same TV shows every night. But when you wear those jeans and play that guitar (or just lovingly stroke it?), it hints at a life truly lived. You've seen things, been places, and have the wear and tear to prove it.

But is it really enough for people to just give the illusion of experience? Not that the majority of us are ever going to know what it's like to play the bass and sing to millions of screaming fans .... but if I don't have that experience, I think I'd rather just have my own shiny, relatively new bass. And unripped jeans.

Gap 14, Abercrombie 6

You have never seen that score anywhere in sports media. Do you know why? – BECAUSE GAP AND ABERCROMBIE DON’T HAVE SPORTS TEAMS.

Nor will they ever. And you look stupid wearing their shirts. But don’t take my word for it:

• 56% of clothes-wearers have an aversion towards rooting for anyone except their hometown losers (Cubs, Indians, Bears, Browns, etc. etc. etc.) and wear such shirts.
• Another 35% are primarily NASCAR fans and wear such shirts.
• 8% are primarily not sporty and know only enough to keep them from getting beat up in bars; they may wear sport shirts but do it only to blend in. They are more likely to be wearing a nice Paul Smith from Barneys.
• And 1% wear clothes to keep them warm, with no idea what their shirts say—they may only think the words and shapes are pretty.
  

It’s all true, I read it on the Internet.

You are in the last category of people if you wear fictional sports team shirts. Say hello to your fellow shirt segment friend:


So, I implore you – find something else to wear, root for a real team, watch NASCAR for Cripes sake or better yet, buy a nice button down from your local custom tailor. Just make sure you throw those Gap and Abercrombie sports shirts out.

And thank you, Megan, for offering me this space to slightly offend.

Submitted by Guest Blogger Extraordinaire, Todd. Thanks, Todd!

A Scottish Wedding

I have to say: I think my favorite part about the wedding was the hats. Along with the kilts. And the Franz Ferdinand.

I had known, from my last time in the UK, that it's traditional for women to wear hats to weddings. And not just any hat—ridiculous hats with feathers and flowers and all sorts. I was dying to get a hat for Elaine's wedding. But the hat selection in America wasn't what I would call "good." Plus, where could I pack a hat?!? So I went without.

Luckily, Elaine's Aunt Lorraine got me sorted. When she heard I wouldn't be wearing a hat and why, she said she had just the thing. So I got to wear the fabulous hat pictured above. And I didn't even have to fit it in my suitcase!

The wedding, other than the kilts and bagpiper, was pretty much a standard Catholic ceremony. For me, the biggest differences became apparent during the reception.

1. They fed us a LOT of food. The ceremony attendees were fed at the church hall while the wedding party took pictures. Then we were bussed to the hotel reception and fed a sit-down dinner. Later, during the dancing, a separate buffet was put out.


2. The traditional wedding cake is a fruit cake. Still the same fondant icing, but quite a surprise underneath! Rumor has it fruitcake keeps better, which should bode well if Elaine and David intend to follow the crazy tradition of saving some cake for their first anniversary.


3. Plenty of Scottish dancing. This actually falls into two categories: the kind of dancing that requires memorized steps and an ability to follow a partners, and then the modern dancing. Everyone was up and dancing to The Proclaimers and Franz Ferdinand. "Do You Want To," off FF's second album, will now always remind me of the wedding reception. Hearing it makes me smile.


4. I don't think I saw any presents at the reception. I think I heard that it was considered somewhat rude to bring a present to the reception because then you force the bride and groom or their families to find a way to take it home. Makes sense to me!

The wedding was absolutely wonderful, and Keith and I felt so lucky to be a part of it. We wish Elaine and David all the best!

What, Exactly, Counts as a Souvenir?

I know I already blogged about this once, before the trip, but I thought I could also report back on how the souvenir-buying went.

Pretty much, I went crazy in Glasgow. I bought a CD (of The Editors—a UK band), and loads of clothes for work. Then, in Doncaster, I bought a cute black purse, necklace, bracelet, wallet, and Christmas cards. (So some of you may be sharing in the bounty of my "souvenir" shopping;) I also twisted Keith's arm to get him to buy a zip-up.

In London, we did buy some touristy things. I bought a keychain with a red mailbox on it, but only because I actually did need a new keychain. We bought a Paperchase scrapbook ... only to see it yesterday in our local Cleveland-area Borders. But I know that it's from London!

All throughout the trip we bought postcards to add into the scrapbook. And, eating chocolate and drinking pints every day, I think I gained a few souvenir pounds of weight;)

I also have a hard time picking out souvenirs for other people. T-shirts are out, as I'm bad at picking sizes and I personally wouldn't want a cheesy souvenir t-shirt from someone else's vacation, so I refuse to do it to anyone else. I also wonder whether people want picture frames, magnets, etc. when they might not have ever been to this place.

Let's say I bought you a souvenir London keychain. Next time you're in line at the store, the person behind you says, "Oh! When were you in London? I love London at this time of year!"

And then you have to say, "Well actually, I've never been to London and have no desire to go. But my friend gave me this souvenir keychain" and shrug.

See, that's just awkward. Don't get me wrong—we still bought people such souvenirs as mentioned above. But I did wonder about the wisdom of the purchases, though.

Pants, Brollies, and the Like

Okay, both Cathy and Andrea voted for #5, so I'll do that one first.

One of my favorites things about living in England was not only learning the slang, but getting the opportunity to use it. Using foreign slang/phrasing is great because:

1. It's amusing. You use phrases like dirty weekend* or skiving.** It's like you're talking gibberish, but people are actually responding to it!

2. It helps communication. One phrase that kept coming up during my volunteer year and again on this trip is college vs. uni. In the U.S., you go to college and get a bachelor's degree. Saying uni or university would sound pretentious.

But in the UK, college means a junior college, where you would come away with an associate's 2-yr degree, and uni is where you'd go for a 4-year degree. And school is just secondary school--they would never use school/college/uni as interchangeable terms, like we do.

Once you realize the difference between these terms, it felt to me like I was being obstinate or obtuse if I didn't conform to their usage. And we all know I'm neither of those things, so I started using the UK terms. And they made me snicker, but it also made me feel a little more a part of the society, when I would say something British and I didn't get laughed out of the room.

Of course, one slips out of the habit after 5 or 6 years. One word I had particular problems with was pants. In America, it can be used interchangeably with trousers or slacks. In the UK, it is used interchangeably with underwear or panties.

You see the problem.

We got into Glasgow on Saturday morning. On Sunday, Keith and I spent the day in town, and I bought some clothes as souvenirs. (More on that topic later.) One of the items was a pair of gray trousers. Of course, whenever I was telling Elaine's family about shopping and what I bought, I always said pants instead. And they laughed.

To fit as much slang as possible into one (already lengthy) blog entry, I've written below a sample paragraph—once in American and once in British.

American Version
The wedding took place at one thirty in the afternoon. I thought about wearing nice pants and a dressy shirt, but I ended up wearing a dress instead. The weather was great, and everyone had a very good time. The next morning we were really tired, so we slept late and then called home in the afternoon. For lunch I had a Coke and a couple candy bars. It was great!

British Version
The wedding took place at half-one in the afternoon. I thought about wearing nice trousers and a dressy top, but at the end of the day, I wore a dress instead. The weather was gorgeous, and loads of people said the day was brilliant. The next morning we were knackered, so we had a long lie and then rung home in the afternoon. For lunch I had a ginger and some sweets. It was fab!

*I never actually had an opportunity to use this phrase.
**This phrase I used loads.

***Update from Keith on the picture: According to Wikipedia, it was used in the first Harry Potter movie. The place—not our actual picture.

Fall Activities

So once I'm properly attired in a chunky fall sweater, boots, and (of course!) a scarf, what are the best Fall activities?

Well, these actually need to be sorted into two categories: when it's raining, and when it's not. When it's not raining, it's things like going through a corn maze, hiking in the woods and admiring the leaves changing color, picking out a pumpkin and apple cider from a roadside market.

If it's rainy, however, that's perfect weather to sit inside and sip your apple cider while reading a scary book. Or watching Halloween movies. I love Halloween! This weekend I started a book about pirates—The Pirates! An Adventure with Scientists by Gideon Defoe. It's not particularly scary, but definitely hilarious. And they say "Garr!" a lot.

When I was a kid, I loved to rake leaves. But not in a helpful manner. I insisted that I be allowed to rake the front yard into a semblance of rooms and hallways, which I called Leafland. I maintained it religiously, cleaning up any stray leaves that fell into the " dining room" or the master bedroom. Don't you hate it when you have leaves on the table? Our yard is a lot smaller than my parents' ... I wonder if we even have a rake. Or whether Keith would be willing to indulge my whims.

Fall Clothes

Last week, my older sister and I were e-mailing about how Fall is our favorite season. There's so many reasons to love Fall. In fact, I could wax poetic about Fall at such extended length, I thought I could stretch it into several blog entries! So, my first theme in a while: The Splendiforousness of Fall

Fall Clothes
One of the reasons I wanted our wedding to be in the Fall is because the colors are so bold and deep. I love the oranges and reds. I like getting my bulky sweaters and sweatshirts off the top shelf and putting them on for the first time since last winter. I'm happy to wear bulky socks that keep my feet toasty warm. And scarves! I love scarves. Which would partially explain why I own probably 5 of them. (Also explained by the fact that, for several years, they were the only thing I knew how to knit.)

I like putting away the open-toed shoes and bringing my sexy black boots back into circulation. I like layers, lots of layers. And the scarves.

Incognito

Yesterday at lunch, for possibly the second time since I started working here over 4 months ago, there was a wait for the microwave. While I heated my soup, another employee waited patiently. He said, "I like your pants." I said, "Thanks." (They are quite nice pants, I must say--wide-legged khaki trousers from The Limited.) End of conversation, the microwave dinged! and I walked away.

This morning, I went back to the kitchen to get some hot water for my tea. This same employee (who I don't think I'd ever seen before yesterday) was there. I said "hi," somewhat familiarly, based on our acknowledgement of each other's presence yesterday. He greeted me in reply, but looked confused.

"Did I see you yesterday?" He asked.

I smiled. "Waiting for the microwave."

"With the pants," he confirmed. "You look different."

"Oh, my hair is down," I suggested.

"Were you wearing glasses?" He asked.

I thought about it. "That's right, I was!" I confirmed. (Today it's contacts, since I took the dog on his walk this morning.)

After a few more minutes of small talk, I walked away with my steaming mug of tea. I realized that I found the fact he wasn't sure if it was me from one day to the next quite pleasing. It made me feel more interesting, less predictable. Is she going to wear her glasses today? Who knows?!?

I will wear those pants again, though. With or without glasses, those are nice pants.

Croc-mania

Okay, what's up with these shoes? And why do I know they're called Crocs? I don't want to know their name, and I never want to see another pair again.

They're everywhere. We saw people wearing them while hiking (through snow) in Glacier National Park. We saw them when watching the Boston Pops at Blossom outdoor amphitheatre in Cleveland the other weekend. I shudder to think of how many pairs I might see at Cedar Point.

Can they really be so comfortable that people throw all sense of fashion to the wind and wear these clunky plastic shoes everywhere? I can definitely understand the argument about wearing them at work for nurses, teachers, etc.—people who are on their feet all day. Wear them to work! I don't care.

But the only time I've seen them is at social functions. I'm not saying that everyone needs to be wearing stiletto heels or anything ... but a nice-looking pair of flats or mules, maybe? Is that too much to ask? Well, how about some Skechers, then? Rumor has it you can be comfortable and fashionable at the very same time.

This picture is actually from The Superficial, and it's of Jared Leto out on the town. I get the feeling he thinks they're so ugly they're cool. But I'm not buying it.

Schizophrenic Sandals

What's the deal with the sandals? I know—we're all ready for Spring and warm weather. But just because you want it to be 70 doesn't mean you should ignore the fact that it's a cold and inhospitable 40 and wear sandals instead.

I can't pin down the exact day, but for the past two weeks or so, I've seen more and more sandals and flipflops appearing on people's feet. Usually women, but some guys, too.

These people must have decided that it's mind over matter. It had to be a conscious decision to wear inappropriate foot attire, right? Because the open-toed shoes should all have been pushed to the back of society's collective closet, waiting until the very first warm day to make an appearance, and then inexplicably to continue popping up over the next few weeks, when it's back to winter.

I don't think it's a fashion statement as much as a defiant stand against winter. I can admire the sentiment, but my feet get cold much too easily to join in the current toe exposure trend.

Who Dey Think Gonna Ask Them Prices?

Originally, I planned on writing a happy, joyous account of quirky Christmas traditions around the world. However, lately I've realized there are some rather annoying American Christmas traditions that must be addressed (which is more entertaining, anyway.)

I may have previously mentioned one or two things that annoy me about shopping. And you would think I was done. But no! It has been brought to my attention (Thanks, Carrie!) that clerks at a sports apparel store in Northern Kentucky have been *gasp* rude and unhelpful.

I know, I know—you're shocked. But I have corroborated my source's story, and I tell you it's true. An innocent shopper was trying to find an AFC North Champions item of apparel for a family member. She went to a store with a multitude of AFC North Champs apparel choices .... none of which were labeled with a price. Obviously, seeing as how the Bengals' status as AFC North Champs just became official last weekend, these items are brand spankin' new. How was she to know the price?

She went to the clerks to enquire, and they were seriously annoyed at having to talk to a customer about a price during work hours. Seriously, wasn't it enough that they stood there for eight hours, occasionally scanning in merchandise and swiping credit cards? Just yesterday, someone made them use the pole thing to get a sweatshirt from the 10-foot high row of hooks. God, the pressure! So much being asked of them!

So yes, point of the story: add items without prices and self-absorbed nitwit clerks to the list of shopping annoyances.

For me personally, we've been getting a lot of Christmas cards in the past week. Which is nice--spreading Christmas cheer is wonderful. Except, when they are addressed to "Mr. and Mrs. Keith", this does not make me cheerful. It makes me angry and twitchy. It gives me the uncontrollable urge to break something or drink a bottle of wine to take the edge off the burning inferno of rage.

This is not good for me. This is not something I would like to associate with Christmas. I am not merely Keith's chattel; I also have a name. My own name, which is just as easy to say as "Keith" but actually refers to me as an individual, instead of as my husband's property. So if you would like to send me a card or address me in any way, I would actually prefer it if you would address me.

I know I'm preaching to the choir, as it were, because if you know me well enough to be reading my blog, you know better than to make such an egregious error of judgment. But I still put it out there in case you may, perhaps, be visiting a mutual friend or family member who happens to be writing out holiday greetings.

Please, I beg of you, say something on the behalf of women everywhere and stop the madness. Spread the cheer. Write two names.

Ahem, now that you've finished your shopping and mailed your Christmas cards, have a Merry Christmas! (And if you haven't, Walgreens and Speedway welcome you with open arms.)

The Turquoise Lung

You may be familiar with Black Lung, a disease peculiar to coal miners. It’s known as an “occupational disease” because people mine coal for work, not fun.

As a hypochondriac, I have recently diagnosed myself with the recreational form of the disease: Turquoise Lung. About nine months ago, I spent a ridiculous amount of money on decorative yarns to knit a shawl. It would be fabulous—bright turquoise and whites and blues intermingled. Have I ever knitted a shawl before? Of course not! But why should that stop me?

So right up front, before even picking up a knitting needle (I had to go buy new ones of those, too, for this project), this was the most expensive craft project I’d ever done. Now that I have some extra time on my hands, I’ve finally gotten started on the shawl … and I’m afraid it may cost me my health.

Oh yes! I have developed Turquoise Lung. In working with these fluffy, flowing yarns, they have worked their way not only into the beginnings of a fabulous shawl, but also into my body. When I sneeze, I sneeze turquoise. My snot? Turquoise. It’s quite alarming.

I’m almost done with the shawl, which definitely is looking fabulous. I hope to wear it this weekend for Keith’s work party. So if you see me in it, be sure to compliment me on it. And turn discretely away as I cough and pay the price for my recreational activities.