I take my twist with a shout.

Many a belated event to blog about today. Which I'm sure all of you are on tenterhooks about.

Numero Uno.

Many Happy (meh, belated) Returns of the Day, Mum!

Look at this saucy photo I got of her from her oldest bro's wedding. What a dish! I'll claim those genetics anyday, yes ma'am!

If I turn out 49% as wonderful as she is, I'll be one lucky lady. My sister Merzy put it very accurately and eloquently when she said, "People ask me if there is any fault to be found with my Mom. The only fault I can find is that she has the tendency to occasionally burn a pot of broccoli. Beyond that, she really is perfect."

To which I would add, "But even when she burns broccoli, she does it without error."

Happy Birthday Momsy Pie, from one of your kittens.

Numero Dos: Valentine's Day.

A mish-mash surprise of Stake Conference, Chinese food, and the all-too-eager-to-commercialize-off-a-Catholic-holiday-flick, "Valentine's Day" (yes, we joined the herd, and mooed in unison).

It was, altogether, delicious. Harry bought me a gargantuan Diet Coke and shared his nachos with me.

On the actual February 14, we concocted our newest domestic masterpiece: Sichuan Pork with noodles.

An explosion of porkiness. In all connotations.

Then we topped it off with

Homemade Vanilla Pudding with blackberries and a smattering of crumbled graham cracker crust.

All is going fine and dandy in our corner of the US. The one and only real recent fly in the ointment occurred this past Thursday, and it has prompted a letter to spring forth from my keyboard.

Dear Coworker X:

Thursday’s insult was not the first. But I decided afterwards, that if your demeaning and patronizing words are good enough to be spoken aloud while I’m doing YOUR dishes in the kitchen, they are good enough to be posted on the internet. Immortalized, even.

As much as you think I want you to yell at me because of things like the coffee machine not being clean enough or the printer being out of paper (things that you yourself are capable to fixing when the need arises because you DO have functioning limbs and my desk is on the opposite side of the office), I find it a most rotten aspect of this job.

To put a cherry on top of all of these humiliating episodes, on Thursday you cornered me in the midst of my sudsing your sullied flatware, pinched my hip, and said, “Is it getting to you?”

“Is what getting to me?” I replied.

“The food here. I can tell you’ve put on weight. I can see your muffin tops when you sit.”

I don’t think I responded, but the shock was no doubt written all over my face. You continued to say, “You know, there’s a lot of food here, and some people just don’t have any willpower. But look at me. I only eat one piece of chocolate for dessert and I don’t feel like I’m sacrificing.”

I don’t remember saying anything other than, “Okay.”

Before you turned on your heel and left, you did say, “Just thought you ought to know.”

Ooooh. There are many things that you ought to know yourself, Coworker X. After all of the demoralizing things you’ve said to me, and the fact I’ve never ever done anything in retaliation except smile back at you and say, “Sure, thanks for letting me know,” I find it so stymieing that you find it necessary to twist the knife.

Twist and shout indeed.

I have a friend for you to hang out with. I call him/her the Cretin. He/she steals purses and Bibles. I’m sure HE/SHE could benefit from the things you have to say. And they way you choose to say them.

Most sincerely,

SAR

Happy Saturday, one and all!

It really WAS.

Regardless of the previous post's heinous news, we really did have a wonderful Christmas. More pictures to come. But since I wanted to reassure all you hoards and hoards of people who hang on this blog's every word that we DID in fact have a delightful and perfect Christmas, I thought I'd post the proof.

Christmas poppers and crowns.

The latest and greatest en-gagged couple in the fam.

Post-roast-beast.

Full tummies and glazed eyes and spiking blood sugar.

For a little bit of Christmas Closure, I thought I'd add a wee post script to my friend, the Cretin.

Dear Cretin,

Hey. C'est moi. One of your recent burglarees. Or is it burglee? Either way, hey, howsabout we put this little misfortune behind us and engage in a virtual handshake of truce? I mean, it IS New Year's Eve and I suppose your no doubt lengthy list of resolutions is going to be put into effect within the next 24 hours. And I more than FULLY support the amending of your ways. I'm sure you've spent the days since your selfish swipings reflecting on your deep feelings of shame and remorse. I bet you've even created a personalized 12-step program to ensure your self-improvement goal's realizations. So, Cretin, you have my moral support, one hundred percent. I hope 2010 is a successful one, far away from illegality and desperation.

Your friend,

Le Burglee

Dear hapless Cretin who stole my purse and all it's contents:

Now that it's been about eight hours since I realized you made off with my belongings without being able to claim ANY ownership over them, I've considerably mellowed out from this morning's state-- a state which, to be honest (which you my friend are NOT), consisted of fragile composure and a long and bountiful string of screeching expletives and almost-expletives in my mind and steam emitting from my ears.

I think I went through the Kübler-Ross model of the 5 stages of grief today at learning what you'd done.

Denial as I frantically looked everywhere for my purse including places I hadn't even set foot the whole time I'd been there.

Anger as my mind engaged in aforementioned expletive stream.

Bargaining as I hoped you weren't really the culprit in the mysterious disappearance of my purse and that I had actually left it in my sister's car who was at work at the time.

Depression when, obviously and sadly, it wasn't in her car.

Acceptance when... I realized that on top of stealing my purse/wallet/CD/jump drive/keys/other valuables, you had also broken into my next door neighbor's car. The sad and pathetic truth came to light. You really did it-- and after I'd given you the benefit of the doubt.

Incidentally, you've also stolen my Mom's scriptures. Her BIBLE.

Oh the irony. It's so thick in here I could cut it with a spork.

I mean, if realizing you've stolen THAT doesn't fill you with amaranthine and staggering guilt, then you might in fact not be a person at all. You may in fact be some other creature that's incapable of feeling remorse. You may in fact be a cat.

Here's the point.

I'm really REALLY disappointed in you. 90% of the things you stole won't do you any good. The keys don't go to anything you can find or use. The bank cards have been frozen. The only thing you can REALLY use is the $50 card to Bed Bath and Beyond and the $6 I had in cash. And, Cretin, you didn't need to violate the law to get $6. It's called working. For less than an hour at minimum wage, at that. As for the gift card (which was, by the way, a wedding present)... are you the type of person/cat who shops at Bed Bath and Beyond? If you are, hey, I recommend the Pyrex tupperware set. It might help you preserve what shred of dignity you think you have left in life.

Ultimately, it's up to me to get over it and move on. I can replace almost all the things you stole. Maybe you were facing a desperate situation and felt like you had no choice. Maybe that $6 and gift card saved you from some unthinkable fate. That $6 may have been the difference between life and death. In a way, I hope it was.

Happy New Year, Cretin.