Steve and I are planning a post-Christmas trip to Las Vegas, along with some other fambly members.

I know you all would get despondent, so I’m leaving you with this reminder of us in all our, um, glory.

Eight years! And this is still my favorite picture of the two of us together. Yep, me with my smirk and him dressed like a giant elf.

I think that’s love.

And he gave me a monitor for Christmas. No, not a hall monitor. Not even a monitor lizard.

A Sony 17″ HS-Series Flat Panel LCD Display–SDM-HS75P!

I shall call it “HS-Series Flat Panel LCD Display” for short.

Because I’m creative that way.

When I posted my five weird habits, it was because I am an illiterate sap who didn’t read the full instructions. Yes, Rik posted five weird habits. I, however, was supposed to post about five weird hobbits. Only, well, as you now know, I didn’t.

But! I’ll fix it!

Thus:

The entire Pipefitter clan wouldn’t fit into the house, so Bink, Pone, Toeful, Fred, and Roundy decided to eat outside.

“There’s a rock digging in,” Pone said, feeling under his bottom.

“Rock’s in yer head,” Bink said with a mouthful of pie. The others agreed through their mouthfuls of pie, except Roundy who had two mouthfuls of pie and couldn’t do anything but quiver.

“It’s a ring,” Pone said, holding it up to the light. The others agreed and Roundy forgot his food and took it from Pone’s hand. He shoved it on his pinky and disappeared.

“Where’s Roundy?” Bink said with a start.

“Here,” said Roundy. But he wasn’t there. He was nowhere.

“There’s a note,” said Pone. “It says, ‘I’ve fooled them all ha ha ha ha ha…’ wait.” He stared at the paper for a minute. “Seventeen has in all. And signed ‘BB.'”

“But where’s Roundy?” Bink said again.

“I’m still here,” said Roundy, not there.

“We can’t see you.” Toeful poked his fork in Roundy’s direction. There was a yelp.

“I am here.”

“You’re invisible,” said Toeful.

“If I eat pie, will it be invisible, too?” Roundy asked. They all pondered.

“Only thing for it is to try,” said Pone as he handed over a nice wedge.

A bite appeared the pie, accompanied by chewing noises. “Ah,” said Roundy Pipefitter. “I like science.”

I don’t know what a meme is, so don’t ask me. All I know is I’ve been infected by it through the evil powers of Rik Roots, who should be poked with a sharp fork.

It is my task to tell you of five of my weird habits, which is difficult. Not that I don’t have weird habits. I’m sure I do. But how the hell do I know?

5. I say nonsense words to myself and often make up songs involving them. That’s right, there is a very noisy two-year-old living inside my noggin. She giggles.

4. I have to open computer programs in order. If the task bar does not show the programs in the correct order, I have to close down whichever programs are necessary to make it right. Only icq, which doesn’t use the task bar unless a window is open, is safe from this requirement.

3. I get a shot every three months and the nurse puts a band-aid on my arm. I can’t take off the band-aid. It has to fall off on its own. And for some reason, my skin on my bicep must be very adhesive, because that sucker might take days. They use those foam-backed bandages that could stick you to the wall if you aren’t careful.

2. If I’m expecting company and they don’t show up by the time I expect them, I assume they are dead. I have trained myself not to make pronouncements any more about said deaths, but I’m still absolutely convinced, each time, that they are dead. Last night: “Gee, Steve should have been back from the movie an hour ago. That’s it. He’s dead. The phone will ring any second, telling me of his death. This sucks. I wanted to go to Vegas.” Okay, I’ll admit that this reaction isn’t precisely the reaction I would have if I knew someone were dead, but this list is supposed to be about weird things, and I have a feeling this is weird.

1. I have a love of cauliflower that borders on pathological. I’ll take some chicken stock and cook a bag of frozen cauliflower in it and eat it from the pan. The sense of well-being I get from cauliflower cooked in chicken stock mustn’t be examined too closely else the power may fade away. Damn. Now I’m hungry.

I’m not going to tag anyone because most of the people I know have already been tagged or would resist tagification. But if anyone wants to play, I’ll put a leetle linkski right here so they’ll get readers who will laugh and point and mock them for their strange ways. Gabriel, I’m lookink at you.

Because I suck at it. Oh, you’ll regret reading further, you will.

Homecoming

My feet ache blue, like air over Homer.
There was a rumor yesterday of sunlight,
of creeping melt, but it burnt
only the ice’s skin to refreezing water
and bounced back blind
into the air.

There’s something in the air
more than air, a rocket by Homer
bursting up my sinuses. I am blind
from sneezing, not from sunlight,
or the dancing water
in my eyes that burnt

me saline. Burnt
like the aching blue air
that spills from gas. Like the water
blamed for the homers
when the ball slips fingers. Like the sunlight
dancing through the blinds.

The motes alight, the floaters leave me blind
with crippled retinas burnt
by twinkling sunlight.
This should be the melancholy air
of some new Homer
dreaming of the endless water,

of the ship floating on the water.
Sailors afraid and deaf and blind
or caught up like a platespinner, Homer
Laughlin’s fiesta blue song burnt
into the waving air.
They needed sunlight

bouncing from the waves, not sunlight
tucking its head under water,
denying the air
its blossomed warmth. I blind
myself in darkness, burnt
hollow to hold a homer

of sunlight, thick on the duck blind,
still as the water the heat burnt
away, a racing homer battening on air.

In my defense… no. I don’t have a defense. It was for a challenge by Rob Mackenzie, who is a sadist. Masochist. Oh, he’s something, that’s for sure!

In her blog, Cookala introduced me to a dangerous new idea: Artist Trading Cards.

From Wikipedia:

Artist trading cards, also known as ATCs, are 2 ½ x 3 ½ inch (64 x 89 mm) miniature works of art which artists trade with one another, similar to the way people trade sports cards. They can be any medium: pencil, watercolor, acrylic, oil, collage, scratch board, mixed media – anything the creative mind of the artist can think up. Artist Trading Cards are produced as originals, as limited editions, or as a series. ATCs are a relatively new art form which formally began in September 1996.

My mother is an artist, and when I heard about this I thought of her. When I mentioned it to her, she thought it sounded wonderful, so I’ve bought her a sampler of different papers and discovered that a nearby company hosts trading sessions.

My husband, who always thinks things I’m interested in are boring, even thought this was a cool idea. And after reading this site, I feel a new obsession coming on.

I have an incredible memory for things that don’t matter.

Things that do? Weeeeell, not so impressive.

January 11! 8:30! Orthopedic surgeon!

Let’s see if this works.

A fine local restaurant has a wine steward named Mr. Cork (he’s actually the owner, but if you ask about a wine, here comes Mr. Cork). That fills me with such glee as cannot be explained. But I don’t drink wine, so when I assess the meal I had the other night, I can’t bring the wine into it. I believe the table had a couple of bottles of a Pinot Noir from Cloudline. There was a general sense that this was a Very Good Choice.

I had the French Christmas dinner: pate, lobster bisque, rack of lamb, peas francais, with a slice of buche de noel for dessert.

What I didn’t realize until partway through my meal was that I had never had lamb before, aside from the odd gyro. I had to beg the waiter not to bring out the little ramekin of mint jelly–considering the Mintcident of my childhood–and he was gracious enough to agree. That didn’t stop my brother in law from minting up the place in a gleeful disregard of the mint sensitive among us.

The pate was wonderful, the buche de noel flavorful, and the lobster bisque to die for. I wasn’t sold on the peas, but that is probably due to my shocking lack of bacon love. They were more like bacon with peas than peas with bacon, and I could happily live my life without ever having bacon again.

But the star of the show? Lamb. It was is lovely, very pink and very tender. And the next morning I thought about it and said, “I ate Bambi!” only it was more like “I ate Lambi!” and I felt some guilt.

Food guilt. I’m not often prone to it, though I really can’t justify eating mammals to myself. I like meat, but I might like pillaging villages if I tried it. That wouldn’t make it an ethical choice.

I can eat lobsters without a qualm. Perhaps I should build my diet around shellfish. It’s workable so long as I never decide to become an observant Jew, but I figure the whole atheism thing I’ve got working will prevent that from happening.

And since I won’t be able to afford much, this could be the weightloss plan of the century. That’s what’s wrong with vegetarian diets. I can afford too damned much rice.

I have now officially been married for eight years. What, you may ask, is my husband smoking? I can’t answer.

I’m a pain. I can’t deny it and it would be unhealthy to try. On top of that, I forgot to get him a gift and had to scramble around at the last minute. Don’t cry for him, Argentina; he’s making out like a bandit.

Gabriel and I are going to argue fer and agin line-by-line critiquing over at WEE, for those who are interested.