So what're you doin' for New Year's Eve?

So tell me you're somewhere having fun. Oh, I know. It's Amateur Night tonight with all the yupsters out drinking and running their brand-new 2008 hybrids up on the sidewalks, I know. Barfin' sunshine and Wet Willie's frozen daiquiris. But who cares? Don't let that spoil your fun. Tell everyone you've gone green and leave the car at home. Besides, it's beneficial for something-something about the ozone layer and not-melting things. Tell me you're having fun tonight somewhere because let's face it -- it's the New Year. And you know me, I'm psychic. And I'm here to tell you, this year is going to be a good one. Let's call it Año Ocho.

But if you insist on hanging out at home, I understand. Odds are, I'll be doing the same thing. But trust me, I'll be celebrating. So pass the Chex Mix and bourbon balls, kids. I have a few good links to keep us all company.

Get your Yeti or gnome fix at Yeti vs. gnome.com

I could spend a great deal of dogtime here at dogluvva.com

Need a good luck pork tenderloin with black-eyed peas recipe? Yeah. Me, too. So look it up at my new addiction -- cookingforengineers.com.

And that's about it for this year. See you in Año Ocho...

smelltergeist (n) an evil, swirling, odor-dervish that lives at my front door and punches everyone in the nose as they walk in (e.g., "If you smell burned popcorn and fried turkey bacon right inside, it's yesterday's smelltergeist that I can't exorcise.")


Yes, I do miss my apartment, even if it smells a little funny sometimes. So I'll be driving back, getting home to Memphis today. If anyone needs me, I'll be in the front room burning candles.


ps to disneyscott: yes, I will post photos of my new lair. tomorrow. promise.

Ta, chuck!!

Lady B! You have no idea how much I love the giftie you sent me. You know how I feel about pink, but how in the world did you know that my dad always gave me mini mag-lights to keep around the house, keep in the car, etc...? And what gets me is that I have been needing one for my keychain since it's impossible to see the lock on my apartment's back door at night.

Yes, for real! Spooky in that good spooky kind of way.

Thank you again, and expect a postie from me to come soon. xox - bny

Many Happy Jagshemesh, Sinta Klooz!

Well, Santa has passed over Kazakstan and dropped his load
and brought me back the Borat DVD plus free t-shirt,
and I got the book, too.
Now I won't have to sell my brother, Barrimooniloe,
into slavery. Yet.

So, we here at labmonkie wish you
a very Happy Christmas
full of love, peace and joy for everyone!


Unless we don't like you,
then why are you reading this?
Go check your stockings for lumps of coal.
Go on. Get! You know who y'are!

Well, it's officially Christmas now.

I have done something that I never ever do and have chosen to find it liberating instead of enslaving. I have actually been so pressed for time today that I had an entire phone conversation while on the toilet. Yes, I know some twisted people pay good money for that kind of phone conversation, but I'm a very modest person. So I neither announced nor revealed my multi-tasking super-prowess to the caller, but there you go. And now, so have I. So I have several people wondering, "No. Was it me she was talking to at that moment?" For the record, "Yes, it was, and I am a many-splendored thing."

And so are you. awwwwwwwwwwww. Sure you needed to know all this. Now get back to wrapping those presents, Mary and Gay!

Man. Remind me to pack lighter for the Taco Show next time.

I thought I'd NEVER get back and unpacked! Whew. Those Taco Shows can last a lot longer than I ever plan. But one thing is for sure -- I missed you guys (awwwwwwwwwwww). All four of you. God love ya, and so do I.

Well, what have I missed since I've been away? You have to email me and let me know. I can tell you what's been up with me, in no particular order, and for no particular reasons:

> I've walked/played with/cleaned up after/thrown tennis balls for many, many dogs.

> Been without a comfortable internet connection, but have it now.

> Found all of my (oops) computer cables.

> Not making jewelry like I intend to do all along, but hey.

> Vowed to make more jewelry and crank up the etsy store this week. No, really.

> Traveled three road trips, one being to Jackson last week for a stellar report from the doctor. Thank you, God. Literally and figuratively.

> Was thankful at Thanksgiving that I actually made it to another Thanksgiving because I finally realized that without the chemo and follow-up medicine, I literally wouldn't be here -- which brought up a whole bunch of philosophical questions for me to think about and to not think about at the same time.

> Felt like I should give this new chance at life a "Go big or go home" approach -- which is really how I used to be anyway. So that gave me more to think about, the last few years of my life anyway.

> Babbled, rambled, and started sentences backwards and not finishing. Sentences. Making me crazy, when I do that, I hate it. Y'see? Yeah.

> Been watching "Kids in the Hall" DVDs over and over. Been putting off watching the "Who Killed the Electric Car" documentary for no known reason. Gotta watch that. Tomorrow.

> Have been observing the what's and who's around me in this apartment complex, have become fascinated and am taking notes. I have three off-center people I am studying, not on purpose but just apparently. Yes, one is the directly-harmless Happy Hippie (who sadly took down his Christmas tree a few weeks ago. I know. Sad. We found a trail of crispy tree bits all the way across the parking lot to the dumpster where the ex-tree was laid to rest. But on the bright side, that tree was apparently a real tree that we all supposed must have been from last year, which made it a ten-month dried, crispy fire hazard for us all. But, his intentions were good, I believe, and it was beautiful to me anyway.). Then there's another guy who lives here who -- and I really need to get a good description of him for Cold Case Files -- will probably end up strangling a female student to death. I know, I know. Luckily, I am not a student, and knowing this, I can also steer any female students away from him.

> Have become really rusty around the edges with my scribblin's and words, and have made myself really nuts over-using the word "really" really.

> Waiting for Mamie to get out of grad school this semester so I can hang out with her and make cheese straws and spritz cookies.

> Snickerin' at the words "spritz" and "cookies" together. Ew. Grody.

> Making all-natural dog treats. In my opinion, they 're pretty tasty to me. But thankfully, we can all bank on dogs not being too particular at times, seeing that they'll eat their own barf if the mood strikes them, so anything I make them has to be tastier than dog barf. Always seeing the silver lining.

> Have decided that I need to plan a trip back to Europe -- Mamie's got me thinking about Galway and the Galway Arts Festival in June. That's one option. But I'm always thinking the "I See London, I See France" Tour option. I've done that twice so far, and twice just isn't enough.

> Dreading getting a passport photo taken.

> At some point, I've got to show you my old passport photo. Sheeeeesh, did I really wear Anne Klein door-knocker earrings?

> Washed my cellphone last night and spent this morning ye olde landline inquiring about new ones under 50 bucks before I go down to the store and get into a horrible infatuation with the $300 model I'd rather have.

Here's a fugitive thought: The cat likes to sit right behind me when I write at the computer. So in addition to his sparkling personality, that cat makes an excellent butt warmer.

So now that my butt is all warm, I guess I need to get to the Daily Errand List now before work at the doggy daycare. Dogs are the best therapy in the world. Lord knows after this last Taco Show, I could use plenty of good dogs.

Where'd I go?

I'm at the Taco Show. Back soon!

I know it's not "What Are You Doing" Wednesday yet, but.

I'm accidentally making myself nauseous at instructables.com. I'd ask you what you're doing, but obviously, you're doing the same thing now. And for that, I do apologize.

However, if you've never visited instructables.com yet, then go. You'll always find many truly extraordinary projects to do, like painting a snail.


Yes. Some days, I do have that kind of time but have yet to find the motivation or resources.

Honestly, people fascinate me, and then most of them make me feel like a true slacker. But that's where the B12 injections come in. Personally, I couldn't live properly without instructables.com. So be prepared to spend a few hours there. But don't worry. It's not slacking. It's Monday. And what's a Monday for anyway? If you don't ease into a Monday and fill the well for the rest of the week, you'll get the bends. I should post "How to Ease Into a Monday" up on instructables, but I can't. I'm too busy hunting snails instead.

In other news, I have only one Happy Hippie Sighting to report.

Note: At the risk of offending any hippies who may actually be reading this blog, I may cease referring to him as a "hippie" because even though it sounds like I may be using it as a derogatory label, quite frankly, with my love of long hair, world peace, regional goat cheese, flared pants and any such equivalent grooviness, I may proudly be part-hippie myself. One-sixteenth, I'm sure.

I spotted him briefly outside yesterday, looking fit and happy as usual, quietly surveying the courtyard, kicked back with his feet propped over on the railing of his porch and his french doors flung wide. Then at nightfall, what to my wondering eyes should appear but the fully-lit Christmas tree set electrically ablaze in the corner of the living room. Sadly, Happy was nowhere to be found.

I feel a Nancy Drew-style investigation coming on.

"I think he's a tree-hugger. Tree-huggers jog," my mom said with unshaken conviction. First of all, I hope no one ever taps into our phone conversations because they sound like something terrible -- exactly opposite of what they are intended to be. "Nothing at all. Observation. Shooting the breeze" is what they are intended to be.

Actually, I take it back: first of all, I haven't heard the term "tree-hugger" in forever, so I think I laughed. Then, secondly, I said, "Yeah. But 'tree-huggers' wear toques and organic clothes from patagonia and don't usually have long hair, do they?" I asked, continuing the thread of sweeping generalizations for my own cheap entertainment purposes. I'm not even sure Memphis has many tree-huggers if any -- not because most people don't care enough necessarily, but hopefully because there are no giant red sequoias here to protest and save. Hell. We go through pine trees like toothpicks. Probably for toothpicks. "Well, some do. Some have long hair," she replied, still unwavering.

I realize the absurdity of my labeling process. It's not something I do for any other reason but for identification and entertainment purposes only. Me, I label myself "simple" or "average" or "looks bored and tired like a 5th grade teacher around November." But again, I assure you that I'm not labeling anyone here in a derogatory way. Why would I? I'm part-misplaced tree-hugger, too. One-sixteenth, to be exact. And one-sixteenth hippie. And two-sixteenths amateur sociologist just trying to crack a nut.

Figuratively, not literally. Sheesh. I'm not calling anyone a nut.

Yet.

"I'm tellin' ya, he's a rocker. I bet if I talk to him, I bet I know him," Mamie said with her unshaken conviction.

I like talking to people who have their own brand of conviction.

As long as they aren't nuts. There. I said it. Nuts.

"When you say 'rocker', you don't think he listens to Kansas or anything, do you?" She laughed, said no. That's a relief. I can't imagine being happy listening to old Kansas albums. So I asked her if she'd strike up a conversation over his Christmas tree or something the next time she came over, and she said of course.

I must know his secret to happiness. It could be as simple as a dosage level, or painting snails, but I hope not.

"I'm not done and I won't be 'til my head falls off," says They Might Be Giants -- and me.

Not dead yet. Just digging out and digging it. Looks like I owe a month's worth of Scributes. Man. I have them. I do. But where did I put them...?

One month. Sheesh. Time flies when you sell a house and move. Except for the constant vacuuming and that staging business, the selling part was fairly simple enough. Despite the craptastical market, it sold in about a week of listing, and I got just about the price I listed it for which surprised my realtor. I owe all of my skills and superpowers to blind stupidity and child-like naivety.

But I can offer up three handy tips I used when selling a house:

Handy Tip 01 is to literally not give a flying damn whether you sell it or not. If you took good care of your house, then in my tiny, sparkly, happier world, the buyers will be lucky to get it. Don't let them walk away with it just because the market has gone softer than a middle-manager's waistline.

Handy Tip 02 is...well, don't be too confident. Come on. Nobody likes a cocky jerk. Superstition and Murphy's Law especially hate cocky jerks. So, in my opinion, it never hurts to bury a St. Joseph statue upside-down in your front yard. But don't let him stay out in the rain if he's old and made of ceramic otherwise his head will pop off when you dig him up. Oops.

Handy Tip 03 is to thank God in advance for helping you sell your house because, if you do sell, The Great Realtor obviously has something else in mind for you. And if you make it through the selling part, you'll need all the strength you can ask for from Big Daddy G to help you physically move all your crap.

To heft an entire house anywhere...to move a mountain of stuff you think you can't live without...it can make you feel stupid and very aware of yourself and all your Stuff. Don't get me wrong. I like Stuff. Sometimes, I downright love Stuff. But, I'm just suggesting there should be at least one 800 Help Me number you could call for therapy before and after a move. I moved and moved and moved and moved and moved. For days and days and weeks. On the last day, I stopped and cried three times and begged for it to be over or stricken dead of a heart attack at 4:00 in the morning. Then I tried bargaining. "Please, dear God, just three more trips. I'll never buy anything again." After a long pause, I heard my dad's voice in my head say, "Six." Then after six trips, I wailed, "Six! You said 'six!'" My dad said, "You're lucky it ain't more. Get goin'."

I hate clutter but cannot resist buying cute, tiny, happy things to adorn a shelf. I think after this move, I'm officially broken of that for a while. Well. At least for a month or two. I'm not made of stone, y'know.

"Unless you can eat it, bathe in it, burn it, or drink it" has been replaced with "Donate it" or trash it if it's totally 1993 and sad-looking, making time to ask yourself, "What were you thinking?" And you'll probably hear a sarcastic voice in your mind reply, "In 1993? Probably 'Crash Test Dummies' or 'Toad the Wet Sprocket'" or something equally as useless like that show with Jennifer Anniston and that guy who had the drug problems later.

Luckily, I found a very cool, old 1920's apartment that I really liked in midtown. Already I feel more at home here than being down by the river. Midtown can be sketchy in some areas, but "Welcome to Memphis." This neighborhood is in many ways to the one I just left so I'm constantly remembering and noting things forgot I loved. I love being back in a neighborhood with squirrels and birds and with the smells of old houses with basements and real stone and hardwoods, not pressed particle board and 2 x 4s. I forgot what a tree older than 5 years looked like, up close. The location is a short walk away from Labmonkie HQ, and too many fast food joints, and strong, hot coffee that I don't have to make myself in the mornings when I don't feel like it. Which is every day.

Older buildings with smaller designs are equalizers and tend to encourage a little more honesty as to what you take in versus what you need. They say a lot without words. Built before wars big and small enough to leave their marks, these buildings were designed and constructed way before the concepts of modern-day consumerism and Wal-Marts/Targets/Costcos. So they have smaller closets, less storage space, but more of everything else that lasts -- built-in sideboards, taller ceilings, intricate detail work around the windows, and the bigger, heavier doors. Plastic? What's plastic? Nothing is made of plastic. The floors don't just have the appearance of wood, they are wood. They creak, they expand, contract and breathe along with the weather. They don't just look like a photo in a Restoration Hardware catalog, they are Restoration Hardware. And the bathrooms have enormous bathtubs big enough to float in.

This building is older than anyone left in our family that I know. When I listen to an older building, it always asks the same thing, "So now, how much do you need to be happy?"

Creaky floors, a short walk to hot coffee, plus your very own resident mythical creature who has a Christmas tree fully-decorated and lit almost every day of the year? Yes. Already, I'm enjoying the new neighbors. I can't figure out this one guy in particular. I just call him wrongly and shamefully the Happy Hippie. He's very tall with long hair, rides a bike to the local grocery, has a tricked-out VW beetle original that he never drives yet I covet with a metallic yellow-to-orange psychedelic sunrise custom paint job. But I think what gets me most besides the fully-loaded Christmas tree is that he dons the skimpiest pair of running shorts and darts off into the neighborhood for a jog, iPod-less. Now, I'm not saying anything indecent about his shorts. I'm just sayin'. He's fascinating to me. Therefore, he must be a serial killer.

"What's the story with the Rocker?" Mamie asked me when she came over one day. "The Happy Hippie, y'mean," I said.

"Nah, he's a Rocker, I bet," she said.

"Well, I call him a Hippie, but I didn't think Hippies jogged much. He jogs a good bit. Got these little, tiny shorts he runs in. Looks like Sasquatch or some mythical being running off into the neighborhoods. He fascinates me," I said.

"Nah, I think he's a Rocker. I betcha anything. Strike up a conversation with him about The Stage Stop, and I bet he'll go off on it," she said.

"Oh, no. Not me. I don't strike up conversations," I said. She looked at me like I was nuts. Everybody always looks at me like that when I say that. I wouldn't call it nuts though. "You do it. You talk to him. Then tell me what he says."

So that's what I've been doing* for at least a month now. But for now, I have to get back to unpacking and squinting through the blinds at the neighbors. Next time, I'll post photos.

*Oh yeah, and also working at a dog daycare. And helping with a professional pet-sitting business. But that's two other stories. I'll see what I can do about photos on those, too...

This week's "Tuesday Morning's Scribute to 10am":