So maybe it doesn’t look like much, but I designed it, I bought the materials, I brought them home, I cut the wood, and I put it together. Tom didn’t lay a finger on it. He used that finger to point and laugh when the math made my head explode, and I used my finger to flip him off. And then he backpedalled frantically and flattered me shamefully to curry sexual favors. It worked.

Kizzle helped provide extra hands/muscle and strong moral support. She basically did what I told her to do, just like a good non-practicing lesbian lovah should.

p.s. I hate when people say “flick him off” instead of the correct usage “flip him off.” If you’re going to “flick him off,” you’re using your thumbnail and index fingernail to project mucus matter in his general direction, and ideally, make your target of the middle of his forehead successfully. Okay, NOW I’m done.

For most of my girly life (i.e. puberty) I have been on a quest for the perfect bag.

Ladies, I’m sure you can identify. We begin our love affair with purses and they must be small and cute and sequin-y, requiring only space for the cellie and your shiny pink lip gloss, and your teeny tiny wallet with only $17 cash in small bills from baby-sitting that little demon-spawn next door.

Once you begin dating and move into married life, your purse must be a tad larger to accommodate not only the requisite emergency feminine hygiene products, your planner/PDA, and both checkbooks, but the significant other’s sunglasses, etc. as well.

Then you spew offspring and even though they come with a diaper bag, your purse must grow exponentially to contain not only hubby’s rewetting drops and small screwdriver set, but also a couple different rattles and large plastic singing keys; later, a pound of legos and/or a full hotwheels track, a dozen matchbox cars, and three Goldenbooks.

Your bag must be the perfect balance of practicality and style, yet each contender is found wanting in one way or another. This one’s too wide; that one barely holds lipstick and a tampon; this one’s too sparkly; if only that one’s pockets were a little bigger; wait, didn’t Grandma have one similar? and the search marches on. Upscale department stores, garage sales, discount stores, consignment shops, hand-me-downs from tasteful sisters-in-law; each carries the distinct possibility that you may find your consummate handbag.

In my search for my holy grail of satchels, I finally came to the conclusion that I was going to have to make it myself. Ladies, I present to you: The Bag. It boasts 13 pockets outside and 9 pockets inside, and (bonus plan baby!) Dory graces the bag with her cheerful presence.

It’s not perfect, but it’s as close as I’ve ever come, and I consider it a work in progress. I’ve already made suggestions to myself as to improvements as it gets real-world practice. For instance, instead of button holes, grommets; so as to have the hand cord slide a little smoother. Obviously, it’s not exactly the bag you would pair with a cocktail dress to the Country Club, but for everyday use, it’s the best I’ve ever had. And considering I lack both a cocktail dress and a Country Club membership, I’m not exactly developing an ulcer.

So there’s a fine example of If You Want It Done Right, Do It Yourself.

And now my world has a little more order.

Amen.

Next project: a Pooh quilt for my niece to be. She’s still cookin’. She should be making her debut mid-March.

May take some pictures while I’m at it and show you how I make a quilt. We’ll see. If you’re good.

What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever carried in your purse?

Tawk *ahem* comment amungst comment *ahem* yawselves.

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dude. Hallelujah! Can I getta witness?!

So… I thought, what we need is a Holiday Family Quality Time Activity. I decided that we could make a double batch of Chex Mix together. Afterward, I thought, what I really needed is A Healthy Dose Of Reality. Because for a minute I forgot that we’re completely incapable of making poignant holiday Kodak moments. Oh, well. Witness the festive dysfunction.

Let me start out by saying, my point-and-shoot takes really fantastic pics. If by fantastic, you mean, taking pictures that look either like they were inside a deep bat infested cave or on the surface of the sun. Photoshop is my BFF. I don’t get out much. That said, let’s proceed with the merriment.

It all starts out very bright and shiny.
The table is clean, the boys are on their very best mediocre behavior,
and I haven’t cried or done any shots. Yet.
“Cheeeeeeeese!”

Let’s start out by putting the dry ingredients together.
Within one minute, Dino wandered off.
“Mom, why are we measuring? Why can’t we just dump it all into one big bowl?”
“Because… because I said so. Where did your brother go?”
“I don’t know.”
“Dino, get back in here, dammit!”

The battles begin.
“I want to put in the Chex.” “No, I want to put in the Chex!”
“No fair!” “Shut up!”
“I am going to take this box of Chex and
cram it right up your dookyhole
if you don’t quit fighting.”

Hunky reminds me that this is supposed to be fun and
we are making Wonderful Christmas Memories.
I clench my teeth behind the “smile”.
“Yeah, yeah; sure, sure; just take the friggin’ picture already.”

I blow my referee whistle and remind them that there is still time
to take all the presents back to the store.
The sudden quiet allows me to lay down the law.
“Ok, you can put in that Chex, and you can put in that Chex,
and you can put in the pretzels, and you can put in the nuts.”

The kitchen buzzes with activity. The war is in a temporary truce.
I inhale and exhale for the first time since we started.
“I’m trying to make Wonderful Christmas Memories for you here.
Let’s try to get along so we can make some
damn Wonderful Christmas Memories!”

I doggedly plod on and start putting the butter and spices together.
[buzz of busy activity]

I ask Hunky to shake it (the dry mix, not his pockets) like a
poloroid picture while I slowly pour the wet stuff in.
Hunky wisely wastes no time in obeying my every whim.
Rocky snatches up the abandoned camera and
captures the edge-of-your-seat action.
“Pour it slower.”
“Shake it faster.”
[Barry White voice] “Slower, baby.”
“I want you so much right now.”

I’ve poured the evidence of our weird family dynamics (i.e. the first batch)
into the pans and started on the second batch. Notice the natives have deserted.
[humming] “Gramma got run over by a reindeer…”

Oh, God help me, they’re back. And wired for sound. Notice Dino’s eyes.
That amount of energy in one child is quite the spectacle to behold.
[electrical buzzing of energy]

They start running around the house trying to test their theory
that if they run fast enough, the camera can’t catch them. True story.
[click]
“Was I a blur then?” “Can I see the picture?”
“Dang it, we have to try it again faster!”

This time I move fast enough the camera can’t catch me.
I go the cupboard for alcohol.
[racetrack sound fx]

I breathe for the second time since we started, in anticipation
of the holiday joy that is Eggnog with a Double Shot of Kahlua.
The boys continue to test their theory.
I stand oblivious; I’m gettin’ my holiday drink on, baby.
[zoooom... brakes screech]
“Was I a blur then?” “Can I see the picture?”
“Dang it, we have to try it again faster!”

Rocky buzzes with energy. He looks like he may be close to exploding, does he not?
I contemplate beaning him with the bottle, but that would be alcohol abuse.
“Don’t test me, boy. I can make another one just like you.”

Finally. It’s just me and my creamy, nutmeg-y, alcoholic friend.
[twisting cap breaks safety seal]

Dino continues the research for the “faster than the camera” theory.
“Back off, kid; Mom’s busy. Oh, yeah. Come to mama.”

Hunky enjoys eggnog sans Kahlua.
I’m having a difficult time fathoming the point of Kahlua-less eggnog.
“No, I will not smile. I’m very gruff and rugged and manly.”

Hunky gets Rocky to try eggnog. Will he like it?
[audience holds collective breath]

I think that’s a no.
“BLEK!”

Hunky breaks gruff and rugged and manly character.
“Now that’s funny, I don’t care who ya are!”

Now Hunky says Dino has to try eggnog.
He reassures him it is quite tasty; Dino remains a skeptic.
“Awwww, do I hafta?” “Yes, you certainly do.”

Dino employs an oft-attempted stalling tactic. It goes over like a fart in church.

“Yes. Down the hatch.”
“But this is my new Bionicle and his name is…”
“NOW.”

Dino sees the futility of the maneuver and reluctantly complies.
[audience holds collective breath]

Dino dittos Rocky’s vote. Hunky empathizes.
Final Tally: Boys, 2; Eggnog, 0.
“YUCK!” “Yuck.”

Dory actually finished something! And I didn’t even cheat by backdating even once. So here’s my version of the celebratory blog bling. Feel free to borrow if you like. Or just point and laugh. Whatever. I haven’t posted for a few days just because I didn’t hafta, but I totally kept up with everybody else that soldiered on and didn’t take a day off. I totally heart Google Reader. Did I learn anything from NaBloPoMo? Well, my awesome bullshitting powers can be used for good as well as evil. I don’t have to be intimidated by really awesome bloggers. I can choose to be inspired instead. Will I continue to update every day? Probably not. But I’ll post more than I did before. I’m not near as askeered of the blank white box. All in all, I’m glad I did it.

I put my last ASL assignment up on YouTube, I split it into two parts. So if you know ASL, check it out if you want. Or just point and laugh. Whatever. As you’re watching and murmuring, OMG WTF? what’s with this weird chick?, remember I’ve only been at this a little over a year. So if your comment makes me cry… well, I have no serious consequences, so bring it on.

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dude.

Ugh, I did yardwork today for about five hours, give or take a couple smoke breaks. Suck suck suckity suck. I can’t stop coughing up lungs-ful of crud. When I blew my nose, dirt, a couple twigs, and a baby squirrel came out. I actually had to take a couple hits on the inhaler tonight. It went a lot quicker than I thought it would though, because my girlfriend was nice enough to help me out. *waves at Mah Kizzle*

This crotchety old lady that lives next door to us is completely psycho about leaves. Well, she’s psycho in general, but let’s just dwell on this one aspect of her neuroses for a moment. One leaf lands in her yard and she waddles out there to scoop it up and deposit it in her yardy, and she thinks I should have the same crazy-ass tendencies about my dead tree poop. This gal is old… I mean old. Her and her husband are the only remaining original house owners in this section of town that went up in 1948. I’m pretty sure she was old then. Maybe she’s Gollum.

I grew up on the farm, and one nice thing about living in the country is we never had to rake leaves. Just let them be, right where God puts ‘em, I say. I did have to mow about a football field’s worth; at least it was a riding mower though. I made the boys help with leaf detail, and oh, you know their lives are soooo rough. Of course I was a mean ole slavedriver crackin’ a whip. Get ready for the When I Was Your Age Schpiel, because the boys had to hear it. When I was Rocky’s age, I was getting up at 5am to do chores in the barn, get ready for school, and then my bus came at 6:30am and I had an hour bus ride to school. In the winter, we had to break the ice in all the water buckets before we hauled fresh water in five gallon buckets to all the animals. I had to pitch horse crap, carry bales of hay and straw, carry a five gallon water bucket on each arm, help load up the truck with firewood and unload it back at the house, help put up and repair fence, and load and unload 50 pound sacks of grain. I even had to help Mom with the horse breeding. Boy, is that an experience! *chuckles*

Soooo, I worked until 6:15 and took like the quickest shower ever, and was back out the door at 6:40 to go to the hockey game. It was great; there were fights and blood on the ice — and bonus plan, baby — we won! I like me a little hockey with my violence.

Rip it. And stuff like that there.