Let it be known: I love me some Christmas lights.  Despite my intense hatred of cold, I kind of love winter and all the fantastic things it brings; to wit, Christmas lights, ice skating, sledding, and snow day road anarchy.  I even fancy a little snow, and wouldn’t mind going cross country skiing or snowshoeing if I didn’t think I’d die.

But, the point of this is Christmas lights.  I wanted to post about my idea of Christmas light -fail-, but believe it or not, I couldn’t find a single example in Rocketdog, Rocketpuppy, and Danger Kitty’s annual light night.  So I’ll have to describe it, which isn’t nearly as much fun as seeing it.  Actually, seeing it isn’t very fun either, so I guess describing is okay.

Christmas light FAIL is the house that half-assedly throws a string of lights on a tree.  One tree.  Perhaps they are hoping for some sort of Jackson Pollack-esque result, but in my eyes it is sad and pathetic.  This isn’t even a result of not heeding my life saying: Go big, or go home (Actually, it’s “If you’re going to go down, go down in flames,” but I feel that’s in poor taste when discussing Christmas decorations).  The single strand, single tree is even more pathetic than Charlie Brown’s tree.  Honestly, if that’s all you’re going to do, keep the lights in the box where they belong.

But this post would be nothing without examples of what I think are awesome light displays which typically fall into two categories.

Impressive:

Infamous house of the Reindeer Birthday Party

Sorry so shaky, all pictures from our night were taken from the car, without a tripod.  Since it was night photography, the shutter is open longer, making photos more prone to blurring.

The Reindeer Birthday party was a couple years ago.  This house is no longer nearly as impressive as it was then.  Apparently the economy has hit even the reindeer.  The story behind the name is that Rocketdog and I found our way into a neighborhood with “houses of distinction.”  As we got further down the road, we ran into tons of parked cars.  Then parked animal trailers.  I can’t remember if we actually saw reindeer, but I decided it had to be a reindeer birthday party, and it stuck.  That was also the year of the mausoleum-like life-sized crèche.  The recession has been bad for over-the-top celebrations.

And….

Houses that Vomited Christmas:

House that Vomited Christmas III

I decided to post House III first because it photographed the best.  That house had EVERYTHING, including dancing icicle lights.  These weren’t your standard strands that hang down to look like icicles… These were plastic-formed icicles with lights inside.  Amazing.  They had the lights set to move almost as if the icicles were dripping.  They also had a huge star somehow mounted a good 50 feet above their house.  It was probably in a tree, but I’m thinking it was actually an act of God. (Or a Christmas miracle, if you will)

The original House That Vomited Christmas (the reason we drove up to my neighborhood, anyway) is thus:

HTVC I

This house makes me eternally happy.  It was one of the first things I fell in love with in my neighborhood.  I love me some lights.  Yo.  They leave it up a really long time after Christmas too.

HTVC II

HTVC II photographed really poorly, so I will leave you with this:  They actually took the time to decorate their RV.  That’s dedication.  There’s also a flying santa above the RV.

HTVC IV

Then you’ve got your blow-up lawn schlock.  Which is sort of a cheating version of vomiting Christmas, but vomitous nonetheless.  Apparently either winter snow people are either fans of Tony Stewart, or this family got their blow-ups from Home Depot.  Either way, the pit crew in the background was adorable.

By now you’re probably wondering, “What the hell did she mean by glow-up‽  Glow-up isn’t even a word!”  Well, it wasn’t a word.  Not until I made it a word on the first night of Hanukkah (because we felt it fitting to go look at lights to kick off the festival of lights.  Which we do not celebrate).  Glow-up is my new name for those hard plastic lawn ornaments that glow.  Glow-up.  The only thing close to Christmas light fail we saw all night was a single glow-up snowman at the end of a driveway at one of the Houses of Distinction (Reindeer birthday party’s neighbor).  However, since you wouldn’t be able to see the house in the picture, it just wouldn’t have been effective.

My second to last picture doesn’t categorize well.  It’s not impressive, and it’s not vomitous.  It’s just a head-scratcher.

Sticks in a Bucket

This is one of Rocketdog’s neighbors.  Since the year she and BILOSORD moved in, this house has been known as “Sticks in a Bucket.”  Even during the summer.  There’s just no better name for the display or the house.  They are literally sticks.  In buckets.  They show up at Thanksgiving every year without fail.  It’s almost comforting.

Last, but not least, is the second-most impressive Christmas display I’ve ever seen.  I would have put it up top with the Impressives, but it deserved to be a finale.  It speaks for itself, I think, so I shall leave you now.  My bread is almost done baking.  Nom.

Because I read a lot, I can hardly say what my favorite book is. It’s even harder with movies, though I read more than I watch movies. I think, however, I may have narrowed it down to two: one fiction, one nonfiction. In the fiction corner, it’s Still Life with Woodpecker by Tom Robbins.  Many of Robbins’ books are among my top… oh… 20 or so due to their humor, but Still Life is number one.  I’m happy it was my first of Robbins’ books because it is undoubtedly the best in my mind, but it has made it hard for subsequent books to live up to the standard of Still Life.  (And a big thank you to Patrick at Milkweed Editions for recommending Robbins to me; I am forever indebted.)

In the nonfiction corner is, without a doubt (mostly because I’m not a huge nonfiction fan), Eats, Shoots, and Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation. There’s a few things I love about this book.  1. I get to read about punctuation in a humorous way, and understand that I’m not alone in caring. 2. I get to learn about the differences between British and American usage, and I find that infinitely interesting.  I will be the first to admit that I don’t get punctuation perfect–not in chat, and not in blog, but I try my damnedest when I write technically–but I definitely am a stickler for what I consider the very basics: comma usage and apostrophe usage.  I expect people to know the difference between “they’re,” “there,” and “their.”  I expect people not to write “I’m leaving home, and arriving there on Friday.”  And silly me, I expect them to know why.

However, the most awesome thing about Eats, Shoots, and Leaves–the #3 on my list of why I love the book–is that it introduced me to the interrobang.  “What is the interrobang,” you ask?  It’s something you use frequently without ever knowing what it was called.  To demonstrate interrobang usage, I invite you to rephrase your question.  Try “What the fuck is the interrobang?!”  There!  Did you see it?  That little twist in the sentence that signifies surprise as well as question.  But, did you know there is an actual symbol for the interrobang?  ‽ POW!  Wait, that didn’t have enough oomph….

‽

That, kids, is the interrobang.  And in hopefully just a few days, I will be the proud owner of these amazing interrobang earrings. And you can’t have them.  Neener.

When I was in 7th grade, I lost all my friends from 6th grade.  You know… new school, bigger, scarier…  Some of them moved to different parts of the state, some to different schools…  That old hat.  And I managed, with the help of my neighbors and a cassette called Not Just for Sundays Anymore, I found God.

And for three to four years I kept God.  Or, I should say, I kept Christianity.  It was a friend, somewhat, when I needed a friend.  It was something to think about in bed at night.  It was also a source of major contention within myself and, to some extent, with my parents.  For those three or four years, I also attended a week long camp called Summerfest.

The camp was a non-denominational Christian camp exactly like you’d expect a non-denominational Christian camp to be.  It was loads and loads of fun, with games, singing, dancing, classes, and college food (as it is always held on a college campus).   There was this band that always played during the singing/dancing portion of the shows, and this band had a drummer.

And the drummer’s name was Bobo.

Fast forward to a week ago.  I’m sitting in my sign language class, waiting for it to start, actually. A girl in my class explains to our teacher that she needs to have her cell phone on because her best friend is expected to die within the next couple of days.  She goes on to mention that is name is Bobo.

Eine minute bitte.

“I think I know him!” I say.  “Drummer?  Summerfest?” she says.  Yup.  I knew him.  And he was dying.  And die he did, Thursday evening.

Let’s go back a bunch of years.  Like nine.  Nine (and a half) years ago, I sat at camp during prayer time and did math in my head.  Sometime before that summer, I decided I didn’t believe in Christianity.  I realized I felt more guilty than anyone should because I didn’t pray enough, didn’t read the bible enough.  I thought it was stupid that someone would only get into heaven because they believed someone died on a cross for them.  So I became agnostic.  And there I’ve sat for the last decade.

So what does one do when someone that had a major hand in her past religious life is passing away?  I still believe there could be a god or gods.  So I wrote on his Caringbridge wall “God bless” (among other things).  At the time he was a huge inspiration.  If he were still available to talk to, I’m sure he would still be an inspiration.  But I don’t think I could ever be convinced back into Christianity.  Not that I have anything against Christians, it’s just no longer for me.

However, even though he was no longer a part of my life, I will miss Bobo now more than I ever did before (and I did often think back on him with nostalgia).  So, Bobo… Take us out one more time, and let me see you Boogaloo.

So…. John Allen Muhammad was executed on Tuesday (and all good killers go by their full name, natch).  Not a proponent of the death penalty, myself, but it brings up a lot of… stuff for me.  Not emotions, really.  I’m pretty much over the fact that I was living in VA during the DC Sniper incident and that two people were shot in the city I was living in (The Hippy reminds me that people are shot in the city I’m currently living in “all the time,” but I maintain there’s  difference).

Completely unrelated, I’ve been going through my iTunes in order to refresh the music on my ipods (yes, pods… whether I’ll change both of them or not is currently being internally debated).  In order to do this, I’ve been going through the list alphabetically and adding certain songs to an iPod folder.  I’ve been discovering songs I didn’t remember I had.  I’ve also been reminded of certain feelings that songs evoke for me.

It wasn’t until today that I realized why I feel uncomfortable when I listen to certain songs.  Certain songs that I used to love and used to listen to all the time.  Today I realized that there is a certain set of songs–songs I acquired roughly seven years ago–that sounds like fear.  These are the songs that I would escape to when I was safely back within my dorm, hoping my roommates wouldn’t turn on the news.  Some songs have been immune to this, either because I was listening to them long before the sniper incident (although there were two snipers, it’s ingrained to speak of them as a single) or because they are simply pure awesome.

They say that smells provoke the most memories, but I think for me it’s often music.

A couple weeks ago I had a dream.  It was kind of a crap ass dream, and I mentioned it on facebook.  A friend, who is far more of a writer than I am, told me it sounded like the basis for a great story.  I got to thinking she was quite right.  Then I realized November was only a few days away, and maybe I’d consider the NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month).

Then I realized that’s not at all possible.  At all.  For starters, I have a hard time focusing on anything.  Secondly, I’ve got a costume to make, because I’m suddenly obsessed with Steampunk, and it gives me a new excuse to make stuff.  But this story refuses to die, which is fine.  I’m not sure I’m the person to give it life, but I did dream it, so I figure I have to try.

Therefore, I’ve decided to rename November for myself: AtToWriSoMo: Attempt to write something month.  And so it begins.  Maybe.  If I can remember how to write.

(lyrics from Shine by Barry Privett/Carbon Leaf)

As a rule, I almost always sing the harmony line of whatever song is playing.  I don’t think doing this was a conscious decision.  I don’t know why I do it.  I tell myself it’s not because I’m like a music snob who has to be a show off.  It could be that.  I think, though, it’s mostly because it’s freaking fun.  I didn’t really think it was weird until a group of friends started singing a song, and I joined in, hitting the harmony at the appropriate moment.  And then I freaked out a little.  What if people thought I was showing off?  It’s certainly not my intention… It’s just the part I’m used to singing.

Photo: Carin Baer/FOX

As a soloist I was… Okay.  Not because of how I sing.  I sing great (not to too my horn…).  What’s missing from solos, for me, is the thrill of the chord.  The Chordgasm, if you will.  I’m a much happier singer in a group, and happier singers make for better songs.

I am forever slated for ensemble singing, and I’m perfectly okay with that.  I mean, ignoring the fact that I probably won’t do a whole heck of a lot of singing outside my truck, of course.  I don’t dream about time in the spotlight.  I do, however, dream about people I could duet with.

Entitled: Self Portrait for the Occasion

I have no clue how I ever manage to make friends.  Or work in retail.  Or function at all.  Because I am terrified of people.  I will sometimes find any excuse I can find not to be with people, even some of my very best friends.  This is pretty much how all my friendships that have ended ended.  Sometimes I’m strong, and I push myself, and I will be honest that that has led to many amazing things (Hi, Wench Posse).  But a lot of times, I am made of suck.

Like tonight.

The Hippy went out to smoke, because he’s gross like that.  I doubt I had even really noticed that he was gone (it happens so frequently…) when I received a text that he was across the alley.  He’s developed a friendship with the guy over there, which is awesome, because it’s nice to have allies…  A few minutes later, he sent another message that I should go over.  Excuse time.  “I just put in a movie.”  Which was, incidentally, true.  I’d just put in The Emperor’s New Groove because recent llama talk got me jonesin’.  But really, it’s a DVD.  I can watch it any time.  I just didn’t feel comfortable going over there.

Just a few minutes ago…  About 2.5 hours from the first time he told me to come out, he came in and told me to come out again.  Again I protested, this time telling him the truth.  He kept saying that the guy was really nice (I don’t doubt that, I’ve met him briefly, and The Hippy has always had good things to say about him).  And I kept saying that I feel really stupid because I never talk and that weirds people out.  It’s not easy to explain to people why I don’t talk.  It’s easier just to say that I’m a fabric ninja.  (As far as I know, there is no real “reason” why I don’t talk.  Mostly I never developed the small talk skill, but fabric ninja is cooler sounding than “I don’t know.”)

So now, I’m sitting in my living room, watching Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, feeling like an idiot.  I don’t really believe in medication… Something about ignoring underlying problems and just covering things up while poisoning the body….  (Remember, despite his nickname, I’m the hippie around here…)  However, I could go for some anxiety meds about now.

Friday was the first time I hit the Minnesota State Fair.  We had to be there by 10:30 to get seats to Tonic Sol-Fa. They’re a great a cappella group that hails from MN, and seats always fill up fast.  We managed to find seats in the second row, right on the end, which is important with a one year old in tow.  She was able to run, dance, sit without being in the way of too many people.  Mostly just my sister, who had to get up to chase her and dance with her.  Rocketdog actually lost her seat for awhile to a woman who pushed her bags into me and sat down.  It wasn’t until Rocketpuppy tried to come over to me that the woman realized she had taken someone’s seat.  And yet, she didn’t move until the show was over.  Thanks lady.

The rest of Friday was filled with good (great!) food, lots of walking, many jokes, and bad fashion bingo.  We made up cards to cross off whenever we saw such gems as: Tie Dye (a state fair must, apparently), animal print, pimp hats, and too short short shorts.  The too short short shorts prompted BILOSORD to mention that there are a lot of hungry butt cracks at the fair.  I will also never, ever live down saying “I just need camel toe to win!”

Saturday was the only day that brought doom to my birthday weekend.  It’s also the day I almost got The Hippy and myself killed.  I hadn’t slept much the night before, or even the night before that.  I was tired–TIRED–and had spent the entire day on the verge of tears.  Because that’s how I roll.  We had a long drive up to my parents’ cabin–someplace I’d only been once in the last ten years.  Frankly, I wasn’t 100% sure how to get there, but I trusted that my mother had given me good directions.  Which was, incidentally, stupid.  There was apparently a point that I needed to turn, but no one told me that.  The Hippy said he should have figured it out, because we were going west, not north, at that point, but it didn’t occur to him.  I finally said, “I feel like we should have gotten somewhere by now,” and he said, “Me too” and thumbed the map a bit.  And I started crying.  I didn’t know where to turn around, and I was feeling frustrated.  The Hippy, while able to think very quickly under pressure, doesn’t care to have resistance in making things happen.  And I was resisting.  So his voice was rising a little.  It was the classic ‘Yelling isn’t helping”  “I’m not yelling.  You’d know if I were yelling” situation.  So I kept crying.

We finally turned around, we knew where we needed to go, but at that point the crying was completely involuntary.  Also involuntary was my breathing, which kept getting shallower and shallower until I was hyperventilating.  When I couldn’t stop, I started getting really dizzy and thought I was going to black out.  At that point, The Hippy grabbed the wheel and told me to pull over, but I pulled over sooner and much more abruptly than he would have liked.  Much further off the side of the road, and we probably would have rolled.  He kept telling me to get out of the car so he could drive, but I was afraid to move.  The last thing I wanted after almost killing us was to pass out on the side of the highway.  I eventually made it to the passenger side of the truck, and by the time we met up with my parents my breathing was back to normal, but I was spent.  It took a long time to act like a human being, but I was able to pass it off as being overtired (which wasn’t a complete lie).

Sunday was the corn feed.  We ate corn.  It was yummy.  Enough said.

Monday was another day at the fair.  Because I love the fair.  For no good reason.  But I love it.  Before we went to the fair, The Hippy needed to do some homework.  We’d gone out to buy my present on Saturday before going up north (A Kitchen Aid mixer–SQUEE!), and he came groggily into the living room saying “Happy birthday….”  I thought maybe he was going to do a little cleaning up before starting his homework, because he grabbed a piece of brown paper that a framed print had been wrapped in and wandered into the kitchen.  Then he came back into the living room carrying my giant mixer box covered with the brown paper.  “Happy birthday; I got you a present.”  He set it on my lap, and I couldn’t stop laughing.  “Open it!  Open it!” he kept saying.  It was all very cute and sweet, and I actually started tearing up a little.

Since the hyperventilation incident didn’t happen on my birthday, I consider this the first birthday in possibly forever that didn’t suck.  It was actually really awesome.  The only thing I’m disappointed about was missing out on Australian Battered Potatoes at the fair.  But at least I got a crepe this year.  And falafel.  Yum.  I can guarantee I will be making those potatoes.  Yum.  Or num num for my tum tum, as the Hippy likes to say.

Since this is my day off, this is my weekend… Here’s your update:

~Annoying talkative neighbor is moving today.  So sad.  Now I won’t be scared to go out into my own yard!  I don’t like being talked to by people who aren’t my friends.  I don’t do the small talk thing.  I don’t know how I’ve ever actually made friends…

~I’m going to learn sign language.  I’ve wanted to learn ASL since I was a wee beastie, and now I’m finally making it happen.  This actually somewhat goes along with the first bullet.  I’ve always wished I could just sign “Sorry, I’m deaf” when I don’t want to talk to someone.  However, it runs the risk of actually hitting someone who knows sign who then wants to carry on a conversation in sign….  Highly unlikely, but you never know.  Also, I run into so many deaf people at work, that it would be amazing to actually be able to communicate with them effectively.

~My birthday is a week from today, and the closer it gets, the more I dread it.  Not because I’m getting one year older… Screw that.  For starters, I’m not that old.  Secondly, that’s not something anyone can help, so why bother fretting?  No, I’m dreading it because every year something sucktastic happens, no matter how much I try to plan what happens (or if I don’t plan it at all).  Therefore, I have to assume that will happen this year as well.  I’m planning on going to the Minnesota State Fair with The Hippy and perhaps a few friends.  This means it will possibly rain.  Or the Hippy will be sick (again).  Or my friends will decide they hate me.

~The neighbors on the other side are also moving.  I could care less.  They’re annoying, but it won’t be terribly different… Her sister is moving in instead.  Frankly, they don’t bother me as much as the talker.  While they’re noisy, lazy, jobless…. *ahem* They leave me alone.  And leaving me alone is important sometimes.

That is pretty much it.  Yawn.

My name is DK, and I’m addicted to corn.  I especially love corn on the cob, which makes this time of year almost dangerous.  I live in a house of two, yet I cannot buy just two ears of corn.  Not when corn is 6 ears for $2.  At least here in MN, you can’t go past a street corner, grocery store produce section, or farmers market without seeing sweet corn for sale at lovely prices. So, yeah, I end up buying lots and lots of corn.

Tonight I came home with six ears with the intention of blanching them and freezing them.  Apparently they were smaller or my instructions sucked or something because they cooked, not blanched.  Even after only a few short minutes.  No matter; I saved three in the fridge and froze the other three.  I can polish off the first three in no time flat.  In fact, I already ate one…

NOM NOM NOM

Seriously, kids.  I love corn so much that picture almost didn’t get taken.  It was getting between me and my corn.  And I wasn’t hungry.  But the three ears I let sit to cool before freezing them made the whole house (the whole house consists of only four rooms, really, so it’s not much of a stretch) smell like corn.  How could I resist?

I love the spiral pattern on that ear.  It made it a little awkward to eat though.  I’m kind of particular about how I eat my corn.  It must be eaten typewriter style.  I am comfortable biting through three or four rows, but any more or less and I start to feel weird.  Don’t get me wrong, I’ll still eat it…  I’ll just feel weird doing it.

Also, those cob holders up there?  Awesome.  I won them at a baby shower with my mad word finding skills.  From what I heard, most people were on the second or third word out of ten when I finished.  I rule at word finds and word scrambles (yet I suck at tapwords on my ipod…) so I knew I would win.  Here’s a close up of those puppies:

Photo from Amazon.com

These are the Zyliss Interlocking Corn Holders by name, but I like to call them corn holders from heaven.  It helped that they were free, but even if they hadn’t been, they’re cheap and totally worth the $6.  They lock together, so there aren’t a million little corn holders floating around my drawer or taking up a plastic baggy and poking it full of holes.  The size is on the bulky side, which is really comfortable in the hand.  The pokey bits are long and sort of spread apart, which I think makes it easier for them to hold onto the corn–even on the narrow end.  I always end up losing the holder on the narrow end with most cob holders.  I haven’t lost and ear yet with these, although I did once have one pokey bit poke through to where I was eating.  It was easily remedied, though.

One last thing about corn….  There’s only a mere 10 days before I get my hands on Minnesota State Fair roasted corn and other MNSF goodies.  I’m going on the 4th and the 7th, and I’m going to eat.  Tons.  Possibly more than tons.  I might need to be rolled home.  Both days.  Because my favorite thing in the entire world is the Minnesota State Fair.  I get teary-eyed when I drive by off-season.  I kid you not.  Ten days.