Holiday Ho Ho Whoa

Hey all! How have your holidays been so far? Great, I hope! Here we are on New Year's Eve. Is it just me or as we get older, do they seem closer and closer together?

We're kind of confused and irritated here at the ranch because we didn't get to have Christmas with our families this year. Well, we had every intention to but here is how it went down:

Everything was going perfectly and Christmas was busting out all over! The halls were decked and festooned and fa-la-la'd:

The Mister and I dressed up in our holiday finest and went Christmas shopping:

Here I am in my cute red skirt suit that's just perfect for Christmas. Yes, I've had some work done.



Mr. Kitsch started wearing his pants really, really high. 

I made this kitschy little snowman out of a bleach bottle.

The tissue paper was flowing like rivers!

It even snowed! It was a holiday miracle!

The world rejoiced…..

And then THIS happened: 

 

 Mister Kitsch injured his back and ended up at the hospital. Whomp. Whomp. 

Okay, so if you've never been to the emergency room, you simply must at some point - but only to visit, I assure you. The waiting room is usually quite the petri dish of both interesting characters and well, life threatening flesh eating germs. There's usually  at least one small child eating Cheetos and licking their fingers after touching the nasty plastic chairs that have been sat in by thousands of people. If you go to the bathroom, you're going to find that someone before you has taken the time to craft a giant toilet paper nest upon the top of the toilet seat and then finding it unworthy, peed in the floor instead. And you're going to get at least three people who want to stare into your eyes even though emergency room waiting room protocol strongly advises against it. 

 We learned that around the final week of the year, the number of patients coming through the ER pretty much doubles because people want to get things done under their insurance before those copays start fresh. Great. Let's just say that it was two seconds short of a mob scene. People coughing on each other and cursing the nurses. The well-stocked "Sneeze Station" sat untouched. It was simply too far to walk and we were all going to die anyway. The lady across from us was clutching a barf bag as if it was her final dollar and waved it around way too loosely for those around her who weren't quite sure if it was empty or full. Every time that she stood up and careened around, I just *knew* that I was going to end my 2013 with a complete stranger's barf on my head. If it can happen to anyone, it will happen to me. Trust.  

 Somewhere about halfway through, a very suave looking gentleman came in with a beautiful rockabilly coif of dark hair and pencil legged trousers, starched shirt and vest. Since it was Nashville, he also brought his guitar case. He looked like he'd stepped right out of Johnny Cash's backup band from long ago in the day. And then all of a sudden, he cut loose talking to himself - I mean really, really talking to himself - and half of what he must have been saying were jokes because he was cracking himself up. Then he launched into song, right there in the middle of the slithering snake pit of a waiting room. He sang and sang at the top of his lungs and giggled between verses. The two quite-possible gangbangers next to him looked way perturbed and nervously scratched the prison tats on their necks. With the exception of the lady next to me who was nearly sleeping on my shoulder, everyone seemed perched to see what would happen next.  

 Suddenly, a hispanic man stumbled into the room behind a sweaty, sick brow and collapsed into a chair and squeezed shut his bloodshot eyes. This was all that the songbird needed and just like a needle had been dropped on a record, he began to wail "Noche de Paz" in the best Jose Feliciano impression ever. I sat up like the air had been suddenly starched and wanted to yelp with joy but instead, I stared at the partly full urine sample cup that rolled back and forth beneath the facing row of chairs. Mister Kitsch unexpectedly jolted from time while wailing in pain as if he was in the electric chair. Nobody even noticed. As time wore on, I wondered why the sneeze station wasn't instead a cyanide station. I also wondered what stomach bug I'd have to thank the room for later. The news anchor on TV acted way too excited over her guest's hummingbird cake creation.  Grasping at any straw that resembled the outside world, I took out my phone and made a note that said "Make Hummingbird Cake". 

 About seven hours later, we finally gasped out into the streets and swore that we'd die in our home before we'd ever go back to that place.  

The Mister has been in some monster pain, let me tell you. There will be no long distance traveling for Christmas this year. We scheduled the trip twice and canceled it twice and are just now starting to resolve ourselves that we won't get to see our family this year. Boy, are we bummed! To ease the pain, we've eaten monster amounts of queso dip. As you can expect, queso dip is not an adequate substitute for the hugs and laughter of family.  We spent Christmas day saying, "It just doesn't feel like Christmas…" and it didn't. I watched stupid Lifetime movies and the Mister enjoyed the effects of strong meds and just like that, Christmas was done. 

 But let me tell you, we are really whooping it up for New Year's Eve! I went out and bought myself some fancy treats:

My first bottle of wrinkle cream. Sparkling Grape Juice. Three new pairs of socks.

I also bought this really stupid "As Seen on TV" twenty dollar cat toy that my kitties would rather pee on than to discuss. 

Ain't no party like an Eartha Kitsch party 'cause an Eartha Kitsch party don't stop. 

I want to wish every one of you a great New Year's Eve. Be safe and have fun and above all, be reflective of what this year has been - be it good or bad. On top of those wishes, I hope that 2014 is the best year yet for you. 

If you'd like something peppy to wash away the slow agony that was this post, be sure and go on over to "No Pattern Required" and see my column today on decorating your New Year's Eve party with tinfoil.

Yep. 

Until next time,

x's and o's,

Eartha 

Like Buttah

By the looks of the butter stock in the fridge, it's either holiday baking season here at the ranch or someone is on a suicide mission.




Either way, I'm being monitored. 
What are you all up to? 

Six weeks of "Hey Now"

How have you all been since I saw you last? Super fine, I hope! I haven't blogged in six weeks. Holy moly. Thank you to those of you who left kind notes and sent emails trying to find out if I'd fallen into a hole. I'm still kickin' but so much has happened around here. We did finally put our gasping house search out of its misery and Fall has given way to dead-on Winter sooner than it's really supposed to. The nights are so cold at the ranch and now I'm wondering why I poo-pooed the houses with brand new energy efficient windows. Vintage-schmintage! Who should have to wear a coat in the house!?

I was in the hospital for a little while for a heart procedure and that was the worst. Uggh. I can't even let myself go over it in my mind because it sucked so badly. Here is a photo of me in the hospital:

Okay, not really but I'm sure I looked just like that. The only good things that came from the experience were:

 1.) They did verify that I actually have a heart.

 2.) It appears that they fixed what was glitchy in there and

 3.) I died for a bit and went over to see Jesus. No, you silly...I really did!

Now, I don't know if everyone's Heaven is the same so don't hold me to this if you get over there and yours is different, but in my Heaven there were a lot of grassy green hills and beautiful Autumn trees and thousands of dogs running and playing as far as the eye could see. It strikes me now that along with Heaven being stunning, it is also an allergy sufferer's worst nightmare! My Heaven looked like a Claritin commercial.

Mr. Kitsch made this super cute photo collage of me arriving in Heaven.

Hee! Less Teletubbies and more puppies - just the way that I like it. 

I also go to experience firsthand the warm, soothing light that all near-deathers seem to talk about. I'll never forget the experience as long as I live. I remember being really upset when I got jerked back to the living world and had to leave. I had always hoped and guessed that pets get to go with us to the other side but you know, it was good to actually get to see a preview with my own eyes. Mr. Kitsch said that I also told him while I was coming out of the drugged state in recovery that I got to spend time with my kitties who had passed away throughout the years. I don't remember that part but it makes me pretty happy to know that I did.  Someone remind me of these perks when those medical bills start rolling in!

While recovering, I've had to be on strict bed rest which I accomplish about like I would swimming the English Channel. I am ridiculously cranky and I'm really not sure how my nurse (Mr. Kitsch) has put up with me. I've watched more Lifetime holiday themed movies than I care to admit. Sometimes when I'm feeling really drained in the head, they comfort me. That's the only way that I can explain it. I can totally predict the plots in the first ten minutes but I always seem to stay on board anyway. I like how during the holidays, the network switches gears from their usual two formats (women who fall in love with men who turn bad and try to kill them - and - teenagers who do the sex) and offer lighter fare with pleasant holiday music and usually a female lead who has been hurt in the past but learns to love again at Christmas. Call me a romantic. Or a simpleton. It's up to you.

I also did several hours with "The Pioneer Woman" who irks me to no end. Mister Kitsch has been exposed to my exasperated groans and finally asked me why I watch her show if she disturbs me so much. The only way that I can explain it is that I like to yell at her from across the room as she grins and cooks in her boho smocks. I don't know if you've ever watched her show but yesterday, she said, "We like to call meringue 'calf slobber' here at the ranch." It's those kinds of moments that keep me hanging on. Those and the montages where they'll go from footage of her making a big pot of chili to that of her husband and kids wrestling cows to the ground to cut their balls off. You're leaning towards calling me a "romantic"now, aren't you? I thought so.

The Pioneer Woman is way more romantic than me though. Yesterday, she made a fancy lunch so that they could have a light repast while watching themselves burn down their own barn.

Oh! I have to tell you this because I'll forget and never do it. Before I went into the hospital, I was at the grocery store one morning. I usually try to go super early before it gets packed but that day, I had forgotten that it was Senior Citizen Day. The store was completely jammed. Now, I am a nut for senior citizens so I was pretty okay with it, even though on that morning I had already been there two hours and still wasn't done. Senior citizens like to block aisles and think about the products that they purchase. So it goes. We'll all get old one day. Anyway, I was standing there with my cart and there was a little lady in front of me with hers. She was taking her own sweet time and as I do, I pretended to stare at something on the shelf in front of me so that she wouldn't know that I wanted to pass. I don't like to rush the seniors. So, she turns and looks at me and I smiled nicely. She then screeched, "WHY DON'T YOU JUST RUN ALL OVER ME!?!?" and I said, "Oh, don't worry. I won't." I was puzzled at her volume but figured that she might be hard of hearing. She then screamed even louder, "YOU JUST DID! YOU RAN OVER MY HEELS TWICE ALREADY! GET AWAY FROM ME!!"

So, okay. I was literally parked a few feet behind her and had gone nowhere near close enough to hit her and besides, the way that the carts are made, it's virtually impossible to run over someone's heels unless they've fallen on the floor and rolled prone under the cart's wheels. I was stumped and mortified. All around me, other senior citizens had stopped to gape at me and were giving me that look that says, "You young people today are trash!"

Oh my God, y'all...it was AWFUL. And I was trapped there because she was in front of me, screaming bloody murder and behind me, a logjam had occurred because everyone wanted to see the monster who was running down Granny Apple Pucker. So, I had to just stand there, feeling their accusatory eyes upon me until she was done with her product picking so that I could escape the aisle and my public shaming. Then once I did, I later passed her in the fancy cheeses aisle and would you know, she tried to start up with me again?! It took everything that I had not to yell out what I was thinking. Okay, or to sucker punch her.

I think that was my worst grocery store experience ever to date. I called Mr. Kitsch from the parking lot and told him that I was never grocery shopping again. I think I also went into some profanity laced spiel about how nobody has respect for anyone in this world anymore. I felt like my world had flipped upside down. I try to have old timey approaches to things and am guilty of sometimes saying, "Once senior citizens die, nobody will have respect for anyone anymore" and this little lady had just done me in. If you can't trust the little old ladies of the world, who can you trust? I sat there for a while, eating brown and serve rolls raw from their package and waiting for the heat to leave my face.

Also, I found a bunch of abandoned kittens in a park. See!


Some a-hole left them in the freezing cold in a milk crate. I mean...really. And no, I didn't get to keep one. Saaaaad! I always forget how kittens make that amazing rumble jumble purr when you hold them close. Oh, kittens.

Aaaaaaand, I think that catches us up to date! I'll catch y'all later on the flip side and heavens to Betsy, I hope to read up on some of your blogs as well when I can. I don't know what anyone is doing besides me and the Pioneer Woman and well, that ain't pretty.

Until next time,
x's and o's,
Eartha

The Therapeutic Nuances of Granny Crafts and Baking

How have you all been? Great, I'm hoping! It seems like forever and a day since I've been able to sit down at Ranch Dressing. I've missed it. Life has been bazonkers and I've had one hell of a week. Yesterday, I woke up on top of my bed covers,  in my street clothes after pulling a near-all-nighter (animal rescue...not doing beer bongs, I assure you) and soon found myself in the kitchen, eating straight out of the breadbox while saying out loud to nobody at all "I love ciabatta bread...desperately."

It's when you're romantically talking to a hunk of bread torn straight from the loaf while standing in yesterday's rumpled clothes and smeared makeup that a person realizes that it's time for a little "me time".  I had seriously burned out....simply crashed and exploded. Thankfully, Mister Kitsch took me out for a little kindness that included tomato soup and a fat grilled cheese and then the great suggestion that we stop at a church rummage and bake sale. I'm usually up for anything that goes down near grannies but I was so tired that I resisted a little at first. It was soooo worth pushing through the exhaustion though. The yard sale wasn't much but as we were walking away, a woman said to us, "There are little ladies selling large pies downstairs."

The next thing I knew, we were in the basement of the church, completely flanked by senior citizens.  A whole recreation hall full of them. Hello, Heaven. We bought a ginormous homemade apple pie and then stepped over to the craft table. At first, I thought that maybe the children of the church had made the items which would have made them precious enough - but then I learned that the senior lady manning the booth had made them herself. A woman after my own heart! She had pinecone turkeys with pipe cleaner gobblers and googly eyes as well as yo-yos made out of painted balloons filled with water. Bookmarks made out of felt and rick-rack and several other similar old-school crafts filled her table, each one more precious than the next - and each a buck apiece. Even puffy paint was represented. Who remembers puffy paint? Sigh. She had it in spades.

It took me a few minutes to choose but I decided upon a clucking chicken made out of a Solo cup with a felt beak and pom-pom rooster comb on top. The lady had affixed a string and a moist square of sponge onto the cup and she delighted us by making the cup cluck. I was all in. "Give me a hundred and fifty of them!" I wanted to shout. Instead, I left with one. He's now on display in the glass craft cabinet, beside the little googly eyed owl that my friend Rosy made for me from a toilet paper tube. They will be fast friends, no doubt and perhaps may find that they have relatives in common.

We bypassed the door prize registration booth as we reasoned that it was only a clever ruse to get our phone number and that deacons would call us every week to invite us to church. Not that it would be a bad thing, but having grown up Southern Baptist in a church where they guilt-called everyone like crazy on a Monday for missing a single Sunday, I don't want to go back there. I'm not handing out my phone number - even for the promise of winning a free hand-detailed car wash and wax. Even if that church is bringing Solo cup chickens and apple pie. Even if a large percentage of the ladies in the congregation smell nostalgically like lavender powder and Final Net hairspray.

As we were leaving the sale, Mister Kitsch noticed an old faux woodgrain answering machine on the edge of the yard sale section (so heavy that it took two hands to pick it up - "a bludgeoner" I'd call it) and once he saw that it had the cassette tapes still in it, he decided to buy it for two bucks just on the oft chance that there were still messages recorded on them.  That's the kind of thing that we live for -  snippets of anonymous folks' lives. We hit pay-dirt too. There were several messages on the machine.

The first was from a debt collection company (saaaaad) but the next several in a row were from a little old lady who sounded increasingly nervous that her calls were being left unanswered.  I told Mr. Kitsch that we should plug the machine in and play it every time that we come home so that we'll feel like our grandmothers are still around, just clamoring to talk to us. I can remember getting messages like those back during the good ole answering machine days. Those were the pre-cellphone decades so callers didn't expect a person to answer instantaneously.  I don't know if you all remember but back then, we left our phones at home when we left the house. I know! Crazy, right? I wish that I'd kept the old tapes with my grandparents' messages on them. Those would be soooo sweet to have.

I'll leave you with a video of Mr. Solo Cup Chicken. I know that you're probably totally riveted.




I hope that the rest of your weekend goes great! "The Walking Dead" starts back tonight! Eeeeee! 


Until next time,
x's and o's,
Eartha