Stake It. Now.

Well, my non-participatory holiday plans were nixed by the intervention of my mother. I told her I was going to stay home alone. She began to cry. Excellent.

Instead I went to my aunt’s house. Had some food, some wine, some conversation. After that I dropped in at my friends’ open house—they took up the slack left by my unwillingness to have anything to do with Tree Day. They also had a much nicer affair than I have ever managed because, well, they are better hosts. C’est la vie.

This weekend I finally get to put a stake in the heart of 2006, a year notable for its marked downturn in the second half. The year started out in such a lovely, promising way. Now, on the other side of 12 months, I am left with a feeling I would liken to that of someone who has just been the victim of a long and clumsy ass-kicking.

2007? Not holding out a great deal of hope, really.

I don’t really go in for resolutions. I disappoint myself and others often enough without going through the unnecessary fuss of a formal declaration of what will, undoubtedly, be an upcoming failure. I figure there are 365 days a year to let down self and others. No sense in trying to make one day feel all special in its good intentions that will, certainly, come to naught.

Declining Christmas

It is, I find, rather difficult to maintain a blog without online access at home. During the evening hours, when I am most likely to blather nonsensically about myself, I have to leave my house and go somewhere to get online. Because it is winter, it is all I can do to force myself out of the house to walk the Beasties. To go from Beastie walking to home to back out in the cold is entirely contrary to my nature and inclination. Hence, sporadic posting.

As to why I am not online at home, I refer you to my earlier discussion involving yard work, with an added note about the idjits at Charter Communications. In order to get online at home, the cable company thinks they need to run a new wire. Rather, the doofus who drove the van to my house claims that. In order for a new wire to be run, I have to declare a Tree Armageddon. Frankly, I'm just too lazy. Further, I think the aforementioned doofus was just making things up.

Winter is not my time of year. The shortness of the days combined with the monotone grayness of the trees and ground and sky inspire me to nothing but sleep. Additionally, I hate the cold. It pains me and makes me feel fragile. Blah blah blah, ick, kvetch.

In addition, this year I am declining Christmas. Most years, I am a reasonably festive sort. I get a tree. I throw a party. I wrap some presents. I make a Merry Christmousse. This year? No. Broke, disinterested, and worn out from the year, I just can’t bring myself to participate. Except for an obligatory visit to my grandmother’s on the high holy day itself, I’m doing my part to pretend the entire holiday is simply . . . not. My plan is to eat bad-for-me food and experience a good old-fashioned solo drunk on Christmas Eve, and then get up and visit my grandma on Christmas before going to work that night (yes, I have to work on Christmas Night. One of the many perks of being a pink-collar slavey).

Beaver Riots and Malevolent Ponies or, a Sunday Wasted

I had intended to do yard work today, as right now my property looks much like the site of an angry beaver riot. I decided against it, though, as no small part of the work that needs doing requires a chain saw.

Anyone who knows me at all knows that the idea of me wielding a chainsaw is simultaneously 1. ridiculous and 2. terrifying. Especially if one were to add, say, a ladder into the mix.

I bought a house because I felt I had something to prove. Finally at 30 I'm beginning to recognize that my need to prove things results, more often than not, in really fucking stupid choices on my part. Emotionally trying and frequently expensive, my "proofs" are what one might call "follies" in someone who was not as stubborn as I. And, you know, if you were the kind of person to use the word "folly" at all. Which I am. Clearly.

Anyway, so now I'm stuck with a house with a really big yard with many trees and their attendant leaves, gumballs, fallen sticks, etc. The only upshot is the squirrels and birds. The leaves I don't mind. I figure if god didn't intend for leaves to lie on the ground, s/he in his/her infinite wisdom would have solved the problem by now. As for the rest of it, I am torn between my natural loathing for outdoor labor and my desire not to have the white trash house on the block. If the weather doesn't completely go to shit, I might just go a-chainsawing next Sunday, Christmas Eve for those of you who keep track of those things. Since I am declining Christmas this year, I'll have the day free. Plus, I will probably have some hositility brewing anyway. What better way to express dissatisfaction than with power tools?

Yes. I should have bought a condo. Next time.

So instead of righting the various wrongs of my yard, I cleaned my car instead.

There are people in this world who, for various reasons, love their cars. Mandy and The Baby, for instance. Then there are the people who treat their car with a certain reverance, as an extenstion of themselves and the image they want to project. My ex-husband. Then, there are the vast majority of people who treat their cars as functional tools. These people regard their cars with a large measure of indifference tempered by a bit of respect or affection. They expect their vehicles to work in a predictable way, and they are usually not disappointed.

Then there are the people like me.

I regard my car in much the same way I expect a carter 200 years ago would have regarded a malevolent pony. I keep waiting for the miserable beast to bite me. Again. My relationship with my car is one of mutual wariness and distrust. I am always waiting for the fucker to randomly stop working. The "Service Engine Soon" light has been on for months. Because earlier this year the bitch spent about a month in and out of the shop in an ultimately futile effort to determine the bit of engine that needed servicing, I am ignoring the light. I figure the only thing that needs servicing is that light, and my proposed solution involves wire snips.

However, the bitchin' Sentra had devolved to the point that even my habitual comfort with a certain amount of chaos and automotive filth was exceeded. It was a serious disaster. And now it is clean. So I feel I accomplished something with my weekend.

Anyway, tonight my friends over at the Tin Ceiling are doing their last night of Flu Season. Wish I could have seen it, guys. I'm sure it was lovely.

On (sub)Standard English Usage

Once upon a time, I said exactly what I thought without saying at all what I meant. When forced by circumstance to extract my food from my mouth and . . . correct . . . the outrageously stupid words I had actually used, I labeled the entirety of my side of the conversation as (sub)Standard English Usage.

Looking back, that describes many events and exchanges in my life with terrific aptness.

Here's to hoping that in writing this down, I do a better job of keep my big feet out of it.