News bulletins from the brain of K:

You can call broccoli and cauliflower a "great alternative to French fries," Giada, but that does not make it so.

J, you see that thing over the fence that you're barking at with such fierce determination? That's what we call an "8-year-old." It does not present a life threat or cause for alarm. Usually.

I'm a little bit cold and a little bit hungry, but a lot too lazy to do anything about either.

The crooked puglet enjoys licking the gray dog's nose tumor. This is either rather sweet, or terribly strange.

Yes, I am at the mother's abode, pup- and housesitting whilst she cruises with rock bands for the weekend. I have a Jack Russell terrier on my hip, a puggie at my feet, a gray mutt skulking around downstairs, and Cricket, the aforementioned crooked one, galloping around the den with J at her heels. He is overjoyed that someone actually wants to play with him. I think they're joined at the low IQ.

If you've perused the Woodside for more than a few posts, you're aware that dogs figure heavily into the equation. Christmas, as you may have noticed, was no different. After a morning at mom's, we zip over to TFin and JBSH's house.



That's S. Those eyes get her out of a lot of trouble.



She's a mess, but she gets J all hot and bothered.



Martin went to pick up his lovely ladies, while TFin and LSis had a long philosophical conversation with the chicken.



Turns out she's a big proponent of same-sex marriage, gun control, and the public option.



But her bias is mostly for grandpas in red sweaters.



When Martin returned with E and A and T, the holiday fun began. Christmas tunes played softly on the radio, the customary Wisconsin cheese plate was devoured with unnerving speed, and all of the traditions were honored, from stockings hung by the chimney with care



to that Christmas classic, freeze-dried squid.



Gifts were gleefully given and received.



Santa's elves made a lot of technological advances this year.



And in the end all of the waiting was worth it.



Because A made this face. (I can't be certain, but I'm pretty sure the ribbons from LSis' Williams-Sonoma box were her favorite gift.)



Stop. Growing. Right this second.

No one was hungry, but we sat down to dinner anyway, letting the being together whet our appetites for a truly impressive feast.



JBSH had cooked all day, making the universally beloved green bean casserole,



rich macaroni and cheese oozing with exotic dairy and topped with crispy crumbs,



and an insane duck hash, luxe with shredded duck and velvety potatoes, and topped with a perfect egg.



This is a sense-memory sort of meal, the kind that the mere mention of can instantly conjure every taste and texture. Drool factor: infinity.

In the waning hours of the day, bellies full of warm food and glossy wine, we pulled out the girls' new Mind Flex game.



And I took a picture of the chandelier. Because I was not the least bit tipsy, no I was not.

Mind Flex is terrific because you have to move the blue ball using only the power of your mind.



You'll note there are no pictures of me completing this activity. I was abjectly wretched at the exercise, which I'm sure has no implications for the strength of my brain.



There are plenty of pictures of OTHER people flexing their minds, however, because absolutely everyone looks ridiculous with something on their heads.



And when you have something ridiculous on your head, that moment by rights must be preserved and published on the worldwide Web.



In the end, we all came away with a sense of our particular cerebral prowess (K = not much), bruises on our foreheads, and the knowledge that some people have more impressive skills than others. Right JBSH?



Wacky wonderment!



More fun was had, dishes were washed, and tails were wagged than have been in recent memory. And we were reminded of a very important universal truth:



Using your brain is exhausting.

Good morning, boys and girls! Today's lesson is sponsored by GET OVER YOURSELF. GET OVER YOURSELF is an effective treatment for angry, incoherent e-mail missives, patronizing Facebook messages, myopic whining, and delusions of grandeur of all kinds. Side effects of GET OVER YOURSELF may include stopping to breathe, sheepish atonement, and vague regret. Sudden bouts of compassion, empathy, and human decency have occurred in some cases. GET OVER YOURSELF should not be used by the clinically insane or terminally self-absorbed. Talk to your doctor, beleaguered colleague, or genuinely suffering fellow man about GET OVER YOURSELF today. Operators are standing by.

This message brought to you by People Who Have Too Much Time on Their Hands But Not Enough to Learn How to Navigate This Crazy Universe They Call "The Internet." Thank you, each of you, for screaming into our voicemails. You make the cocktails that much sweeter.

Last night I arrived home from a particularly long day at work to find two messages on my answering machine—one from my bank and one from Southeast Toyota Finance. This morning I smoothed out those messes, plus an additional one from my insurance company, then arrived to another particularly long day at work to find that my e-mail doesn't work and the toggle button on my mouse will only scroll UP.

I've looked everywhere for a place to return my grownup card, but it keeps coming back nonrefundable. (Though I'll admit, while I have managed to skate my way into my 30th year with a continued distaste for talking on the phone to strangers and tackling the small details, it's the inability to scroll DOWN that's really twitch-making.)

And so I dwell on the happy holiday memories, when the days were filled with sleep and the calories didn't count. (This is an opinion my reflection in the cubicle window does not support.)

We spend Christmas morning at my mom's, LSis, BiL, the grandmadre, S&M, and I. The names have changed, but the mimosas remain the same. This year we invited the chicken to join us, and she was impressed.



We gave gifts



(earrings, in M's case. Isn't she lovely?) and received gifts



(the entire set, which my grandmother has been lovingly, and amazingly, collecting for each of us for nigh these 12 long years) and, in some cases, glanced askance at gifts



(M: It's a hose! Endorsed by the National Arthritis Foundation! G: I asked for a hose reel).

The pups watched the festivities from behind bars, skittering and whining in consternation.



Except for the chosen people, of course.



This is how a pug gloats.



Lots of people say lots of schmaltzy things during the holidays, about how it's not about the food that you eat or the lawnmowers that you get but about the family.



The time spent with loved ones in the glow of the early morning light and the twinkling strands on the tree.



The laughter exchanged and the misty moments recalled, combined with a stunning sense that there are things this Christmas that didn't even seem possible at the last one.



I have no idea what those people are talking about.

Happy New Year! It's 2010, people, and you know what that means: time for quiet reflection on a year gone by, a wistful nod to the good times and a sheepishly gleeful farewell to the foolish ones, a careful study of 365 days of accomplishments and struggles so that one can wisely learn what to take into January and what to leave firmly behind in December.



Or you could just stay up too late watching episodes of Roseanne that you've seen before and didn't enjoy the first time, wondering where people find the energy to do things like running marathons and washing a load of laundry when you can't even find the energy to resolve to do those things.



I adore resolution-making, in theory. It's terrific, the miniature thrill of making a contract with oneself, the promise of boundaries and goals and achievements, the vision of a healthier, saner, more productive, better K. Problem is, I can't keep—or even remember—a proposed lifestyle change for longer than 10 minutes. Then I find that lovely, fragile resolution shattered into a thousand pieces and I feel like an ass.



It's a setup for failure, and frankly I have a very busy schedule of self-sabotage to manage already, thankyouverymuch.



The problem may be that my resolutions are either too vague ("I will take better care of myself. Meh, that sounds hard.") or too restrictive ("I will not so much as LOOK at a carbohydrate. Ooh! Bagels!").



So most years I don't resolve to do anything at all. Which, I fear, is how we reached the corner of Struggling to Pay the Mortgage and Who Is That Person There in the Mirror; She Looks Rough.



I think for 2010, I shall be resolute. Right here, in front of god and the Interwebs, I make this solemn vow: Starting today, I will get more sleep. I will stop watching TV shows I've already seen or don't care about, and start reading things that I haven't and do. I will exercise accidentally.



I will use my camera. I will use my kitchen. I will use my brain.



I will follow fearlessly anything that makes me laugh, and I will, with practice, confront the things that make me most afraid. I will talk to my grandma more. I will work harder and earn things and spend every possible moment with my nieces. I will eat three pieces of pizza instead of four. I will treat myself less harshly and blog every day and be less competitive. I will not give my BiL a hard time.

But, just to be on the safe side, I will start with getting more sleep.

You should see me right now.

No really, you should. I'm the personification of cliché, and I need witnesses. I am in front of my sagging laptop, glaring down my own reflection in the window in front of which it sits. (Note to self: Downgrade desk lamp wattage.) Hair in a geisha knot, last of the day's mascara flecking down my face, just enough to keep the under-eye smudge from being entirely holy-shit-this-is-what-30-does-to-you? Not one but two dirty plates alongside, testament to Triscuit and frozen burrito diet. To the right, freelance project atop often opened but rarely carefully studied camera manual; to the left, dog snoring in my bed, which he has overtaken on the basic principle of "my feet are dirty and therefore mucking up your sheets," an opening gambit to which I have no recourse. (Touché, mutt.)

Yet there's a creepy sort of contentment to it, a warmth I don't generally entertain, born out of radio Christmas carols and gift giving and twinkly lights and, at least in part, to Sex and the City.

I KNOW.

But I've been re-watching it for ... let's just say Not The First Time, with a patient friend, and I'm struck by how it's different from the last time I embarked on a marathon viewing, curled up on the sofa with LSis, blithely letting the hours pass in our pajamas, hair in geisha knots, last of two days ago's mascara obliterated—rubbed onto shirt sleeves and into pillowcases—making midday runs to the convenience store for cigarettes because Carrie made it look so effortlessly cool.

Frankly, she still does.

Only now I know better. I know that smoking is effortlessly cool, and that it makes you wake up feeling like you swept the chimney with your tongue. I know that the show's conceit—four women, each supposedly a caricature of what exists inside all of our doubled-up x chromosomes—is heavy-handed, and that cosmopolitans are some sort of cosmic joke, a pinkifying of a perfectly good martini. I know that rent-controlled is a myth and that there is no such thing as "having sex like a man," even for men. I know that shoes and babies will always be uniters.

Because the theme of that show seems to be loneliness—how long we must endure it, how to survive it, and the many many ways in which we must be constantly at the ready should life decide to benevolently divest us of it.

I'm a quarter of the way through season five for the frillionth time, and I still have no idea what makes us less lonely. (Studies show it's not Cheez-its and cherry vodka.)



But I gotta say, with its demanded kindness and forced slow-down and sense that (even should one have chosen a career in a wheezing industry and/or have blindly driven one's car into a guardrail) there is something around the corner, Christmas sure do take the edge off.

Why do I feel so exhausted? And WHOA what is with the swoopy lightheadedness?



Oh yeah. I forgot to take my meds this morning.

But I've been told that if I have to head home anyway, I might as well just stay there.



ROCK.

Half of my Christmas presents have not yet arrived, which FedEx chirps cheerfully into my inbox on a semi-regular schedule. "Now we're in PORTLAND!" Well I'm glad you're so all-fired excited about it; my giftee resides in THE 'HAM.

I neglected to even contemplate sending holiday cards; I haven't cooked or baked a single warm, nostalgic, or spirited item; and I have spent zero minutes curled up on the sofa with marshmallow-studded hot chocolate in hand, rocking my kicky light-up Santa headband and sneaking sips of the peppermint schnapps whilst crowing along to "Dominic the Italian Christmas Donkey."



So when this appeared on my desk this morning, lovingly wrapped in brown paper and sweet buttons and tied with a red bow, I was a little blown away.



I can turn snickerdoodles into hockey pucks, but there's no way I could pull this off.



I mean that looks like it requires patience and level-headedness and hand-eye coordination. I swore at a squirrel this morning because I tripped over the crack in my own sidewalk.



It's a good thing I'm so adorable.



Or, you know, baffled about where the shutter-release is.

What a week.



It's only Wednesday?



Pass the jin, Yoko.

I suspect posts will be sporadic and lame (see above) until the new year, or at whatever point we manage to get this issue out, I finish the last freelance project of the year, and Christmas presents just walk on out and buy themselves.

But I do miss ranting in this forum, and the relative sanity it provides.

Dear week:

Should you not provide me with the opportunity to vent into the void, I will implode. This strikes me as messy, and possibly dangerous to passersby.

Coping skills being as they are, at a stunning nadir, I may also be forced to find alternate routes to calmness, including but not limited to pilfering untold amounts of Tootsie Roll Pops from office candy bowls and crafting sartorial solutions to workplace frigidity that consist entirely of "if you're cold in one dress, wear two."

So I beg of you, week, please back off. Or pretty soon there's not going to be enough therapy in all the land.

Cheers!

K

I don't know what's happening to me lately, what's sucking every sprightly molecule from my soul and making the thought of having to create something—anything—feel like a Herculean effort.

Though if I had to guess, I'd probably blame it on that pesky job o' mine, with all its "duties" and "tasks" and "expectations of productivity."

I do know that I am lucky to have a job, any job, pesky or otherwise, and I can't in good conscience overlook its perks: I haven't purchased a cosmetics item in the seven years I've worked here, preferring to greedily pocket all sundry giveaways of eyeshadows, nail polishes, and face cleansers. This means sometimes settling for DayGlo shades better suited to '80s costume parties or '90s raves, but I prefer to approach the world with an aggressive "What? It's a statement" rather than actually spend money on makeup.

I also tote home weird crap, which I generally dump on TFin and JBSH with a self-satisfied grin and the hopes that they'll forgive my randomness in favor of my great generosity. I'm all, "Look! An oyster shucker!" and they pat me on my head and shove the sharp object into the darkest recesses of the nearest junk drawer.

Today, though, there were cupcakes. Possible fodder for an upcoming story on coconut, I believe. And though I am not an avid coconut eater, nor an avid sweets eater, nor an avid frosting lover, I ate the damned thing because it was pretty. This is unrelated to the numbers on my scale, I feel comfortably certain.



Isn't that delovely? It was even nicer in person, for the 10 minutes it lasted before I hoovered it. Like a glossy hill sprinkled with snowdrifts by a heavy hand. Just right for the season.

You know, on the Woodside. Where it's currently 68 degrees and foggy.

Because when TFin and JBSH put their tree up before Thanksgiving, they had no worries that it would dry out.



Santa sails into Alabama on a wave of 94% humidity.

I fear this is becoming a pattern of sorts, falling off the Interwebs for days on end, only to resurface and create a distraction in the hopes that no one will notice my carefully honed slacking skills.

Look! Shiny things! Or! In the absence of same, deranged dog!



It's Friday, people. That is quite literally all I got.

Send. Help.

An ode to writing laziness: images from the holiday weekend.



Turkey and trimmings.



The body language says, "oh I'm just loungin'," but the eyes say, "yes I did eat all of those pillows, and I'd do it again."



"But maybe not for a little while. Destroying the dining room muntins has me plum tuckered out."



Buffalo chicken, won't you come out tonight?



One of the great things about being a total photography amateur is shots like this. What's in focus? Why his hind foot, of course. I meant to do that.



No, I wasn't bored. Why do you ask?

My apologies for the slapdash nature of this, gentle readers. I blame the darkening, brooding weather outside and some physical ailments that I'll spare you the details of because a lady doesn't talk about how her UTERUS IS TRYING TO KILL HER.

It's unseemly.