Socks Set the Tone For the Whole Day

Every single morning I hit my alarm seven or eight times, throw my phone, hide under my pillow, and an hour and a half later I rocket out of bed because I'm late for work.

Open the blinds. Fuck. Feel the window. Walk over to the porch door, swing it open. Breathe.

Pick out my socks. Socks set the tone for the whole day. They are the most important thing in my wardrobe.

Every morning, in that order.

This morning there was snow. I could smell it coming, so I knew, but mostly I knew because everyone told me that there would be snow. I never check the forecast. Half the fun of weather is surprise.

In three days I will be in Mexico, and there won't be snow, and I won't need to check the weather. I'm excited, I can't wait, but it's December and this will be my first time leaving the winter during the winter and I prolly won't need socks.

This is weird for me.

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All Up For Some Business

Apparently, someone nominated me for "ugliest blog", which I learned from stalking the hell out of my Sitemeter. This is fucking awesome.

I mean, I don't know any of the regular bloggers that are all up in there at Grant Miller Media, and now I like need to know who nominated me for that so I can remain emotionally aloof and learn a crooked pageant wave.

Seriously.

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I Am A Blood Traitor

My sister, as it turns out, is extremely upset with me for misquoting her in my previous blog entry. She didn't read it, of course, because I refuse to let her read this site at all - but I repeated a phrase to her and she sharply corrected me and demanded I print a correction, exclaiming - and this is verbatim - "You cannot write defaming and libelous things about me on your shitty blog! Blood traitor!" and then she made me write it down on the back of an Extra Value Liquors receipt.

So I've decided to post up a conglomerate of brilliant things my sister has said to me over the years.

"I loathe mayonnaise. It is my least favorite thing after asymmetry and cheese that is not powdered."

You read that correctly. Katsisch was adamant that I properly modify my former declaration and the appropriate distinctions be made, because, "Nacho cheese Doritos are not parmesan, duh" and "I eat Smartfood, too" which is probably where she learns all of those big words. Katsisch is a big fan of faux cheese flavor and Kraft parmesan, not blocks of actual cheese. She's disgusted by the thought of it, in fact.

She orders cheese pizza and tosses the cheese, like mozzarella is just protective covering for the sauce. "It only cooks properly if there's cheese," she explains, "and it only tastes good without it."

We are very different.

"I love my Dearfoam slippers. Without them the ground is cold and unyielding."

I repeat this often and shamelessly pawn "cold and unyielding" as my own.

"Brevity and ridicule are the panacea of our lives."

Which is a direct quote from when my aunt died from liver cancer years ago.

"Are you talking about the Civil War? That is my very favorite war!"

So I'm explaining to my dad how I had to get rid of a favorite shirt because of unfortunately-placed stains. I have big boobs and poor hand-eye coordination, which is why I am not a fucking surgeon.

Anyway, I said my shirt looked like "Spotsyvlania" and Katsisch thought I was referencing one of her favorite Civil War battles, and she literally runs and slides into the room to shanghai our conversation. Apparently she likes a good face-off between Grant and Lee. Previously unaware that Spotsylvania even existed, I wikipedied it while Katsisch yelled and called me "unpatriotic" and "a dirty cheat engaged in lies and trickery" while she blasted the American public for being unfamiliar with their country's history.

Normally I would say something like, "Dude, can you name every battle in every war this country has fought?" but that would be redundant, because I'm sure she can spout them off chronologically up until the end of World War II, just like she can name every primary presidential candidate, their political affiliation and the historical and social significance of each election. Bitch. Is. Crazy.

Then again, you know, that's what I'm like with movies, sooooo....whatever.

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Pilgrims are Gangsta.

I am quilting my ass off right now. Drunk.

Not really. I am in my brain.

Yeah. Quilting. This year, everyone's getting a fucking quilt. And they're gonna fucking like it. Probably just my dad. Whatever. I think I'm going to cut up one of Poppy's old suits and use that fabric. At least I want to, but I don't know how well that's going to work. We'll see.

I've never made a quilt before. This is some intricate shit. It's harder than that one time I made a New York Times-ish crossword puzzle about M.E. for her birthday, and that took weeks. Everyone was all pissed off. Jesus, Rass, why did you make it so hard? Shut up Sallies and deal with it, I can't help it if I'm a way awesomer present-giver ergo friend than all you guys.

Thanksgiving is a good day for white russians. Much like the day the spetznaz beat the green berets. Also: turkey exists, and that's pretty cool. So thanks.

Other things that I am thankful for: my dog, the "Be a Man" song from Mulan, my parents' washer and dryer, alcohol, and my Double Dare sweatpants. Best Thanksgiving ever. Oh, and you guys. Don't you be thinkin I forgot.

By the way, my cousin's wife strolled on into my parents house with a diamond necklace, and I was all drunk and , "Bitch, where'd you get that platinum chain with them diamonds in it?" and she just looked confused and said that it wasn't a real diamond and it wasn't platinum, and I tried explaining to her that me and MoLinder have been listening to a lo-hot of Ludacris lately and she was like, "Ohhhhh, I get it." But I'm pretty sure that was just so she could eventually segway into something far more relevant, like cornacopias or organic turkey something, neither of which are disrespectful to women nor straight up gangsta. Pilgrims are gangsta, though, because they will get all up in your shit and steal the fuck out of your land.

So after a delicious dinner of turkey, stuffing, and that green bean shit with all the crunchy business on top of it (I fucking love that green bean shit with crunchy business) me and the sisters were talking about how Katsisch's least favorite thing in the world was iPhones, right after asymmetry and cheese that is not parmesan. And I hate long fingernails and pretentious fucks who snootily say the name of a city in the accent that is local to that particular city ("Have you been to Pareee? We stopped through there on our way to Moon-chen, which is of course Deutsch for Munich." Really, skunkface? You smell like day-after-Thanksgiving toilet.)

And my Uncle Dick folded his arms and was like, "You girls should go on television. You all talk like those kids on TV, you know, the ones that you watch and you think, 'No one talks like that.' But you DO. You girls really do. This is wild."

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Guess what song has been playing in my head all day.

From now on, I think, I'm going to imagine I have my own a capella background singers. Like my own Pips lurking off to the side, just out of the corner of my eye, echoing every declaration I make with smooth harmonies (Woo-hoo smoo-hooth).

And then whenever I say something particularly hilarious (funny) they'll do a little grapevine sidestep punctuated by knee lifts and locomotion arm circles - that would be the shit (I know it would)

Inevitably people would get annoyed with that, because I am frequently hilarious (funny all the time)

I don't even know if the Pips could keep up with my lightning-quick quips (quips).

My Pips (pips) will have crazy good muscle control and talk like the Micro Machines guy (if it don't say Micro Machines) just to keep up (then, oh then, it's not the real thing)

They should probably be able to hold their breath for over a minute just in case I'm on a roll.
Like astronauts (space)
and spelunkers (caves)
and magicians' assistants (oh yeah - fucking magic!)

And then they could offer me advice in barbershop harmonies (chill the hell out) when I'm deep in thought, leaning on iron-wrought vine railings (railings) which happens far less often than I ever thought it would. I used to think that iron railings were like everywhere, what with all those people leaning on them and singing at the moon or something (dreams don't always come true, uh uh. No. Uh uh).

After all, it's impossible to think very deeply without leaning (leaning).

And my Pips agree. Don't you, boys?

(You know we do)

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People Have Their Preferences

Like so many other people, I spent a large portion of my childhood watching Swiss Family Robinson, reading Walter Farley books, and building Robin Hood pirate fort dude ranches out of Legos.

Now this is important, because my goal was not necessarily to build Robin Hood pirate fort dude ranches, but my Lego options were limited to just that. Eldorado Fortress. Google it. It's the only Lego set I remember by name, because with that set...I wasn't playing Legos. I was playing Eldorado Fucking Fortress. And I was mixing it with the stable and the Sherwood Forest shit (I totally don't remember its name but the Lego men were all Robin Hoody and lived in a fucking tree and they had a vine they used to swing across the two inch river).

Are you aware that my Eldorado Fortress had a horse trainer? Totally. She was a young woman with brown Lego hair who snuck into Eldorado on a rowboat under the guise of a punk soldier after getting shipwrecked on a nearby island, where wild ponies and merry men ran free. True story. And after earning the respect of the most honored horsemen within the mighty ocean fortress she revealed herself to be - ah ha! A girl! And her boyfriend was Robin Hood! And then they took over the Eldorado Fortress and made it their private sea fort, and lived in days of relaxation and wonder, exploring the neighboring island, building extravagant treehouses and befriending all of the wild ponies, and their children grew up to be presidents because they were raised with the perfect blend of freedom and regulation!

Seriously, did you know about all the shit going down at Eldorado Fortress?

So I decided, officially, that childhood interests are destructive. Watching Swiss Family Robinson is horrible for young girls, because I still want that. Robin Hood isn't real and Fritz isn't real and the Black Stallion isn't real, and no one steals from the rich and rides zebras in the Kentucky Derby and throws coconut bombs at angry Asian pirates. Horseshit.

And then I read this back to myself, this list of things that I identified with as a child that completely influenced my behavior and interests as an adult. Not like, OMG robinhoodpirateponies yar or anything like that, but the mindset, the characters' perceptions and goals and how they related to each other - I wanted to be on the fringe, forced to prove myself in some way because extreme circumstances demanded it for my survival. Obviously, that never happened.

Then again, why couldn't it happen? Why sit around and wait for it to happen? Why shouldn't I just live like it is happening, right now? I'm not saying I should dress up like a naval officer and sneak into a sea fort and tell people I'm Robin Hood's girlfriend, but that character - I wanted to be her. So, I should try to be like her.

And then I made a list of characteristics that defined her, the girl I wanted to be, and I realized that I basically am her already but outside of the circumstances of my fantasy, and that's kind of neat.

AND THEN, my sister sent me this article, saying, "I feel like this interview with Umberto Eco justifies your whole life. Particularly this quote: 'I like lists for the same reason other people like football or pedophilia. People have their preferences.'"

This is the first time she has ever shown any interest in my life without antagonistic ridicule. I nearly cried.

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