Ten Thousand Things I've Forgotten to Post About (and by ten thousand I mean roughly six)

I have been shamelessly blog-dodging lately, so here's a long, multi-subject post to make up for my having missed a whole week. First, now that Blogger is working again, I can show you the tragic plight of my imprisoned amaryllis.

Look at how it yearns to be outside in the fresh air and sunshine. It is helpless even to move the curtain aside so that it can see out the window. It hangs its head dolorously and wishes it could speak. Sigh.

Fortunately its short life is now over and it has less to worry about. On to other things.

Ivan's post about her message in a bottle reminded me that I meant to blog about two things she gave me for my birthday which I think I've already shown everyone I know, but as we know nothing is real until it happens on the internet, so please allow me to re-introduce you to two prized possessions: my one-gallon can of omnipotence and my Viking odorant.

  

Ignoring the can's directions, and explicit warnings not to open it, I popped off the top and began storing mittens in it. I haven't noticed any increase in my ability to coerce the universe into doing my bidding, but after having been immersed in the can for some time, my mittens do seem to have grown strangely powerful . . .

The Viking odorant offers these benefits: "provides long-lasting odor," "dank, authentic stench," glides on smooth without flaking." It also cautions you not to apply to broken skin or axe wounds, and warns that it "may attract bears." Simon P., this is not the odorant for you. Unfortunately it is not the odorant for me, either. It smells a lot like Canadian Man Soap. I think I've had enough of smelling like a man for a while, but a Viking could do worse.

More recently, Ivan sent me a marvelous set of handwarmers, with a bonus neckwarmer, which is very impressive because she knitted them herself. Out of alpaca yarn. Let's compare Ivan's knitting abilities to my own.

Ivan's work. Note the delicate pattern and tasteful buttons.

And here is the scarf that took me so long to knit they stopped making that kind of yarn, hence the fact that it is half the length of a normal scarf. Like Cordelia, it is poorly made. It's full of mistakes, tight in some places, loose in others, and, it must be said, the color is definitely a shade that a thirteen-year-old girl would choose.

Let's not talk about it anymore. Next! I've been meaning to post about this item that my sister got me for Christmas. Prepare yourself. It's so adorable you might fall down.

Unbearable, is it not? It is the latest addition to a growing collection, of few more of which live here, next to my desk, fiercly guarding the Ivan's knitting and a postcard of which I am fond:

This postcard was left to me by my favorite former boss. Is It Just Me or Is Everything Shit? is the title of a book published in the UK by Little, Brown. I haven't read it, but the postcard got me through the end of the Bush administration and many a rough day at work. I have so much to thank the British for. Even if they were the root cause of a significant number of those rough days at work.

This has been a highly materialistic post. I plan to make up for this next time by writing at length about that noble art form called POETRY. That's right. It's National Poetry Month. More than a year ago I threatened to do a detailed post about W. H. Auden, and this seems like an appropriate time to follow through. Auden was a swell guy. I think you'll like him.