I'm finally getting my hair colored this afternoon. It's needed it since November, but I'm trying to be financially prudent -- that and I was curious as to how much grey I have. Now that I have my answer . . .

I need to figure out what exactly I want my hair to say this time around. My hairdresser specializes in hair that "drips with urban sex appeal" but I live in the suburbs and I'm somebody's mother. I need my hair to be an accurate representative of where I am in my life.

For instance, a couple years ago I asked for my hair to exclaim "Take me seriously, motherfucker!" and recently "I'm gorgeous and you will never have me so go suck on a watermelon."

That was a pretty cute hairdo.

This time I'm thinking something along the lines of transcendence: "I have walked through the fire and will sear your soul with a single glance."

I wonder what that would look like.

Gideon as a Michael Dumanis Book

Maybe the World

isn't full of assholes.

Maybe those we call assholes are really angels put on Earth to challenge us to become better people poets?

The thing about angels, everyone has one.

I'm thinking about sweethearts, thanks for that Anne.

Intern Kurt's First Interview

with Craig Morgan Teicher is up at No Tells.

This Week at No Tell

Kathleen Rooney can't hear the goddamn Berlioz this week at No Tell Motel.

"I Am an Asshole" by Lynn Behrendt

. . . I love you. I'm an asshole.
I believe you. I'm an asshole.
I want to listen to you and put my head on your chest
and hear you breathe and talk. I
am an asshole. It is frightening just how much
of an asshole I can be. . .

A is the First Letter of the Alphabet

Would I want any asshole to perform brain surgery on me?

No, I'd want the asshole with the M.D. and experience doing brain surgery.

Last month during my visits to museums in Amsterdam I came across a Rembrandt painting of a doctor pulling a brain out of a cadaver's skull.

I thought well, this is how we progress.

Do I find all poetry commentary valuable and worthwhile? Of course not. Statistically, the chances of my thinking "what an asshole" after reading someone's thoughts on poetry is rather high. This is regardless of where the commentary appears.

Assholes enjoy comfort and privilege in every level of society.

Sometimes assholes are incredibly popular and carry a great deal of influence.

Sometimes I'm bothered by the attention or acclaim that certain assholes receive.

Well, the assholes need their mouthpiece assholes, don't they?

Sometimes I think someone's an asshole even when I agree with the asshole.

I hate that!

That's when I start to stress, because if I agree with the asshole, does that make me the asshole too?

Asshole is how we distinguish ourselves from one another.

I see it differently and I am correct, therefore you are an asshole.

When I yell "Hey asshole!" at the guy who cuts me off on the highway, I'm saying he's a worse driver than me -- even though I've given several examples on this blog of past poor driving on my part.

Labeling someone an asshole is the way I don't have to acknowledge his weaknesses and faults in myself.

I reject you and everything you stand for, asshole!

Ten years ago a woman lived in my town. She self-published a poetry book written in greeting card style, every poem centered, each line ending with . . . (dot dot dot). The title was A Potpourri of Love. Everybody knew who she was. They called her the Poet of Reston. When people learned I was in graduate school studying poetry, they offered to introduce me to her. She had a book. Maybe she could help me. Teach me a few things. It took all my self-control not to scream: Hey, I'm getting my MFA, do you know what that means? I'm not some asshole writing crappy love poems, I'm a trained, real, serious poet!

Never actually said that to any of those well-meaning assholes. I'd say it afterward to Chris. He was always very amused. He still is. Often I update him on the latest controversy in poetryland and he laughs and laughs.

He thinks you're all a bunch of assholes.

Don't take that too personally, he's the asshole who always says the most inappropriate thing at the worst possible time.

Yet somehow we manage to go on.

Clarification

My post yesterday about the internets ruining poetry was not a response to Rebecca Loudon's recent statement on her poetry blog:

"I think the Internet is the worst thing that has happened to poetry since they opened Robert Schumann’s casket and found his head gone missing."

Now of course I disagree with the literal interpretation of that statement, especially considering that I came to know both Rebecca and her poetry via the internet.

But I believe that to be the single most beautiful sentence ever posted on a poetry blog.

And I never challenge Rebecca, unless it involves the Superbowl, and that's just a regional/tribal thing. I don't give a crap about competitive sports.

Speaking of the Superbowl, if you're a Steelers fan, my cousin Christopher designed these shirts and so far he's sold about a trillion.

I hope he becomes very wealthy and uses the money to save poetry.

Poems in Denver Syntax

I have three poems in the latest issue of Denver Syntax along with Puma Perl, Jim Chandler, John Dorsey, Lisa Gordon, Barton Smock, Luc Simonic, Paul Adrian Mabelis, Amy King and Ron Androla

And while I inhabit this disturbed state, let me say that I've lost my patience with poets blaming the internet for destroying poetry or discourse. Like we don't come across uninformed assholes in print, on TV, radio, etc on a daily basis. It's like having to listen to some old coot go on about how great the 1950's were and how we've lost our way since then. Sure the Beav was awfully sweet, Dennis a lovable scamp and who doesn't pine for a malt that only costs a nickel? But I hardly think I need to point out that a lot was fucked-up back then. Or wait, maybe I do.

I planned to stay quiet on the inaugural poem and wait for the nasty discussion to simmer down, but I'm disturbed. What is wrong with people? First of all, the inauguration wasn't about poetry, prayers, Yo Yo Ma or Aretha's big ass bow, it was about setting the new tone for the incoming administration and our country. Second, commissioned art is never the height of artistic achievement. There are parameters that each artistic contribution needed to fall into -- parameters in cases like these override the art itself. Every participant in the ceremony played his/her role in furthering the incoming administration's message. Each participant was selected because Obama knew their work and envisioned them demonstrating a part to symbolize this message. Each played a supporting role in this ceremony to celebrate this change of power. Ceremonies symbolize.

So who cares if he didn't pick your poet. Or that the poet he did pick didn't write a poem in your preferred style. Or that poem or the presentation wasn't "dazzling" enough or didn't rhyme or was too plain or included a cliche or whatever your personal beef. I understand the dismay against the selection of Rick Warren, he's (very recently) hurt people, played an active role in the removal of people's rights. That selection was both a contradiction (everyone being equal) and example (including everyone, even those you disagree with) of the administration's message. At the very least, I can understand how some would be personally wounded and feel betrayed by that selection. My initial reaction upon hearing of Warren's selection was "well, that's a dick move." I later softened and figured hey, let the open hypocrite participate too, he'll be exposed and maybe humbled and maybe this is small step towards unifying and entering tolerance into the collective consciousness. I'm not trying to convince anyone one way or the other on that -- if you're hurt and offended, I empathize and am not suggesting you feel any other way.

But where is this personal venom coming from against our inaugural poet and poem? Are people in the music industry bitching that Obama should have picked Patti Labelle or Faith Hill or that guy from Coldplay? Are they up in arms at the selection of Yo Yo Ma? I kinda doubt it. This grotesque pettiness goes back to poets fighting over that tiny crumb of a pie. Poets, forget the fucking pie already! I promise you, it's stale and flavorless. If you ever get a bite, you'll still be as empty as your are now.

As for all this nonsense about this being Poetry's big chance -- um, no it wasn't, it wasn't supposed to be and get over your self-centered, personal profiteering selves. Elizabeth Alexander did not go up there to be a representative of poets. She accepted an invitation, a daunting and frightening honor that I cannot conceive of having the bravery to accept. Putting oneself and one's poem out there, knowing full well the scrutiny both you and your poem will endure, most would shirk. When Alexander took the podium, momentarily paused before she read, when she looked out at that massive (departing) crowd, I wanted nothing more that to jump into my television and give her a hug.

I heard several different poets bemoan "Oh gee, now everyone is going to think that contemporary poetry is boring." Well I hate to break it to you, everybody already thinks that and no poem or poet, no million dollar poetry foundation or advertisement in Good Housekeeping is ever going to change general opinion. People come to poetry, not the other way around. If you want to reach more people, study filmmaking or write TV sitcom scripts. When Diane Feinstein announced that next up was a poem, 1.5 million of the 2 million audience started high stepping it out of there, before Alexander spoke a single word. If the classical music came after the swearing in, most of those same people would have left then too. More probably would have stuck around to hear Aretha, cause she's a celebrity and she sings songs you can dance to.

I understand why poets are interested in discussing the poem aspect of the inauguration. I am too. What I don't understand where the animosity is stemming. Seems like the whole point of the ceremony was completely lost on some. How quickly and readily some are willing to piss all over the place, even a brand new, long-awaited place.

Reb & Gideon's Inaugural Lunch Menu

Popcorn

Toasted Cheese Sandwiches with Cucumbers

Hope Iced Cookies

This Week at No Tell

Joanna Ruocco brings her wives in fuzzy mittens this week at No Tell Motel.

Spent a blissfuly lazy family weekend, mostly in our pajamas. Watched Return of the Jedi and the first Harry Potter. We planned on going into DC on Tuesday, but our only way is the metro and they're expecting nonstop "crushing" crowds and we just don't feel like it's a good idea with our almost-four year old. It's a disappointment to not be there, but if Gideon got stepped-on or hurt, we'd feel terrible. So this evening I purchased some Obama Hope cookies (cause we already ate the Obama face ones). Gideon and I will watch from home and have a cookie party.

Intrigued with Anne's recent post and the ensuing discussion in the comment field. Not that I'm jonesing for gloom and doom, but I don't see a bounce back to the way things have been on a poetry distribution or national level. In response to some comments here, I love the idea of a poet being part of the inaugural ceremony and think Obama's choice of Elizabeth Alexander is a fine one. I don't want to diminish the significance and I'm sure that will boost both her profile and Graywolf's sales, but I don't see a trickle down effect for other poets and presses. And I don't see any easy fixes to our country's predicament. So I think it's important for poets to consider and be more creative with how we get our work out there. That is if you're interested in having any readers at all.

Appreciated this excerpt by Ann Lauterbach posted up at Harriet. Hardly enjoying the ensuing discussion in the comment field. So much talk of the power and fame of poetry. What a curious tool to use to achieve such things. What a curious thing to insist and dismiss on.

One thing I did a little work on this weekend was attempt to answer this interview question by Tom Beckett: "Your Ten Favorite Words is funny and sexy, but it's not just that. It's also angry and a kind of sustained investigation of "the feminine" (if I'm reading it correctly), or maybe I should say of "feminine-masculine relations?"

Last night I wrote a big long answer, but it felt off so I'm going to try again tonight. This is tricky for me. I mean yes, the poems most certainly are investigations of "feminine-masculine relations." But what else should I say about that? That's what I'm struggling with tonight.

Every year I order my Vedic astrology report -- I just received 2009 and for the third year in a row my initial response is regret. Oh great, another crap year, so glad I paid for that news. But I knew that before I received my 2009 predictions -- while there are things I'm really looking forward to this year, like a new government, there's so much more work that needs to be done and much of it won't be pleasant or easy. But pleasant and easy isn't always what we need. I am sorry to hear about all the folks who posted or backchanneled about their presses struggling. It sucks, no doubt about it. Anne B. in the comment field of the last post is quite right. We should embrace our recession poetry predicament and see where it can take us. What it forces us to consider, to do and become. I'm going to try to do that as much as possible in as many parts of my life as I can. I'm just hoping it doesn't force me to become a cannibal or something.


Mmm, hope for a brighter future -- in good time.

Recession Poetry

As you may of heard by now, The Dodge Foundation announced it won't be holding its bi-annual festival as "we know it" -- meaning it will be scaling back on all of its poetry initiatives for at least the next two years. It mentioned a 30% decline in its assets (honestly, 30% doesn't sound so bad, I can only wish for a mere 30% loss in assets). As one of the better financed poetry organizations out there, this should be the final wake-up call to anyone still not getting it: Some, perhaps many, of your favorite poetry endeavors are going to change dramatically or go away completely. Now I've been to a few Dodge Festivals and it's not my idea of a good time, I found it rather painful to endure, but this announcement makes me sad nonetheless. This is a popular, well-attended, high profile poetry event and that's not enough right now.

Expect to receive many pleas for donations, more contests and higher reading fees. Funding and sponsorships are drying up, sales and subscriptions are down, universities are slashing budgets, investments are wiped out, advertising is down and some people who uses proceeds from their money jobs to support their projects have lost (or will) those money jobs. The big corporate for-profit presses are cutting and reorganizing and guess what's being dropped with no thought at all? Everything that's not making a big profit.

The only poetry projects that are going to get out of this unscathed are the ones with very low overheads. I don't worry about how I'm going to continue No Tell Motel, but I do worry about No Tell Books. Even though I keep the overhead pretty low for publishing a book, coming up with $1000 per book is a lot different now than it was 2 years ago. Especially when sales are dropping. I'm publishing fewer books, not reading any new manuscripts (why accept a book if I'm not sure I can actually publish it?), and will likely try to find some new corners to cut, such as sending out fewer review copies to save on the short run and postage. I'm also not offering consignment for most bookstores (unless they've demonstrated in the past that they will indeed pay). I have lost too much money dealing with bookstores not honoring agreements or not even bothering to respond to invoices and inquiries. I can't do it anyone. They're not the only one's struggling. I want to be able to publish at least one book a year. Eating the cost of 25 unpaid books and having 8 returned in damaged, unsellable condition is not something the press can endure in 2009.

A couple months ago I received an e-mail from an online magazine asking for donations to raise 10k for a redesign and new software to cut down on html programming. This is ridiculous. There are free and inexpensive softwares to do this. Asking people at a time like this for money towards an unnecessary, poorly-considered project doesn't seem like the way to go. Find a smarter way to update and redesign your online magazine. Somebody is taking advantage of these editor's ignorance. Now is not the time editors and publishers can afford to be ignorant.

And many editors and publishers are being smart. What you may not realize is that your favorite press has quietly switched to print-on-demand, or changed to a hybrid model where they do a small first run and all copies after that are POD. More print magazines are transitioning to online. Or printing fewer pages on on lighter stock.

And of course, expect to see more contests and higher reading fees. My aunt once told me that if she had to do it all over again, she'd start a business that sold cigarettes, liquor and lottery tickets because no matter what the economic times are, people always find money for those things. Some presses and magazines will squeak through the recession not by selling poetry, but by making money from people's desire to be published. Can you blame them?

If there's a print magazine that you really love and would hate to see go away, subscribe to it. If you're already subscribed to it, get a subscription for a friend. Ask your library to get a subscription. If you can afford to buy books, now is the time to buy them, especially from small presses. If you teach, incorporate more small press titles into your reading lists. Review and talk about books you love to help get the word out. Small gestures like this do make a difference to small presses and magazines.

This is not going to be a situation where the "cream will rise" or only the best will be left standing. It's going to be which ones can figure out how best to adapt to financially tight circumstances. On the upside, I believe this will spur more innovation in distributing poetry to an audience. We need that. It'll be too expensive to stay stuck in outdated models. Legitimacy will leave you standing on a street corner wearing a barrel as you compete with dancing monkeys for pocket change.

LOC Interview

Grace Cavalieri's interviews of Richard McCann and myself at the Library of Congress are available online. (Scroll down to the M section)

What Passes for Naptime in this House

And warning, just because markers are labeled "washable" doesn't mean they wash away with soap, water and scrubbing.

This Week at No Tell

Jill Beauchesne is enclosed in some pang this week at No Tell Motel.

What Kind of Asshole Poet?

Regarding the comment section at the bottom of the article. This is something that bothers me most about a certain type of ego-malfunctioning (and in my opinion, wannabe) poet. The article is one editor's selections for "Top Poetry Books of 2009." Whether one cares for these types of lists or agrees with the selections made, it's one guy writing about poetry. One guy trying to introduce new readers to these books. There's all kinds of responses one could come up with towards such an article, supportive or critical.

But what does "Sally" find worthy of pointing out? That the press this editor works for published his own book. Not that "Sally" bothered to share any criticism about this editor's book. I bet "she" never read it. Don't you know, poetry is all about how you get your poetry out there, not the stoopid poetry itself. I mean, geez, what kind of asshole reads and has anything to say about contemporary poetry these days?

It's way more important to write lengthy letters speculating whether or not John Ashbery and W.H. Auden had a little winkie winkie going on 50+ years ago, than to appreciate the tens of books and thousand of poems Ashbery created. The fact that John Ashbery still has to defend himself against accusations like this is particularly repulsive. Yes, I'm sure we'd all be reading poems by this (still) disgruntled poet who didn't win Yale -- if only Auden was able to resist Ashbery's oh-so "soft-spine". If Ashbery is not a poet worthy of being read, the letter writer should make that argument instead of stewing over a poem-making tramp stealing his contest judge.

In fact, that is what I'd like to see a lot more of -- instead of going after the modes of how a poet gets work out there, why don't these jilted poets instead explain what it is exactly about the work that lacks merit. Tell me why I shouldn't waste my time reading these poems. Cause you know, when I read a poem, the last thing that crosses my mind is who knows who -- and the last quality I desire from a poet is conventionality and rule-following. I yearn for the days when poets were poets and poems were _______.

High Quality Guest Checks into No Tell, There Goes the Neighborhood

Meet Craig Teicher: Best American

Who says bitching on a poetry blog doesn't change the world? Take note Pushcart! No Tell Motel doesn't just publish good poetry, we publish the best. Or so they tell us.

MASSIVE enough to cook a turkey, you know it

Ryan Call interviews me at HTML GIANT.

This Week at No Tell

Fritz Ward has eleven hours left till the end of Memorialist Day this week at No Tell Motel.

Reconfigured Bunny Feet

Recent discussions purporting to be about poetry have been nothing short of painful to read. I try to ignore it in the this too shall pass vein, but now that I'm 36 years old, I see this shit will never die.

I don't want to join the discussion. I find much of it at best annoying and the rest completely repulsive. So I'm recording my own discussion, right here, perfectly aware that it won't be considered to be the same level of discourse as others' cookie cutting paradigms. If I was a Christmas cookie, what shape would I be?

Delicious, that's what.

Poetry was born at the moment of consciousness as a mosaic. Nobody is quite sure who originally put together this original mosaic and whenever we're not sure who did something, we just say G(g)od(s). Sometime afterwards that mosaic was shattered into more pieces than you or I could ever count. One can try to take these pieces and reassemble a new mosaic. There's nothing wrong with doing that. In fact amazing creations can come from just a few pieces. But know that it will never include all the pieces, know that many pieces are elsewhere, carried away by the wind, on the backs of insects, some have been eaten by cats and cycled into sand dunes. Realize that the majority of the pieces have been done away by critics and poets themselves, the self-appointed categorizers -- those who deem what is inconsequential and to be swept away with the trash, what gets put on the mantle, what is shuffled away in a drawer, taken out only for holidays, regifted for someone they hardly know and aren't interested in getting to know.

So poets take some pieces, the pieces that they're most drawn to, not ever fully understanding how these pieces were previously used, their potential or what their role played in the original mosaic and earlier reassembled mosaics. It's not required that poets know this. Usually what they think they know is completely wrong. In some instances ignorance is preferable, one can make something new, occasionally making something really spectacular, when there are no pre-conceived ideas. Sometimes poets take what they created and smash it apart again or chuck them away completely taking a few different pieces that catch their eyes. Sometimes they go back to something discarded and try again. Occasionally a poet will be fishing, consumed by more pressing concerns than poetry when she catches a putrid minnow that she probably should throw back, but she's starving . . . probably because she's a poet. So she keeps it and upon gutting it unexpectedly finds a sparkly sliver of the mosaic. Maybe it takes years before she recognizes what is the sliver. If she's a ninny she'll think she herself discovered a new piece of poetry -- that her noticing created it. Maybe she'll name it after herself or her favorite NKOTB member. In this case she's not a ninny, she knows that this new piece is only new to her, and maybe her tribe, but it's existed far longer than either. She realizes that she has no idea how that sliver got in that fish's belly or where it was before or how it fit into the original mosaic. She knows (the) G(g)od(s) never intended a diagram, map or ranking system for POETRY.

This is where I'll write my aside, I'll number it for organizational purposes to help you follow along my complicated concept:

1. As a child I was given a rabbit's foot for luck. Kind of ghastly in hindsight, but I loved it. Even at 4 years old I knew I wasn't carrying around an entire rabbit, I knew it wasn't the soul or spirit of the rabbit, it was only the foot.

2. What I may not have realized was that the foot was reconfigured in certain ways, parts were removed, things were added, it was changed -- else it would have rotted -- nature would have taken its course. But somebody stopped nature and somebody decided a foot was a lucky thing to carry around, not the ears or the whiskers or the heart or the belly, but the foot. Then somebody decided a severed, chemically treated rabbit foot would be a great gift for a four year old girl -- and she was right!

3. Around the same time I found a dead rabbit in the yard.

4. I remember wanting to touch and pet it. I was extremely curious.

5. I also remember being told by my grandfather, quite sternly and in no uncertain terms, to get away from it, to NOT touch it, not even the feet. My grandfather took a shovel, put it into the trash and I assume trash collectors took it away and it eventually decomposed in a landfill.

6. Or maybe a hyena ate it. I don't really know, in fact, I can't even affirm that I'm remembering any of this right and I can't check with my grandfather

7. because he's dead and

8. there was no outside historian around to preserve the moment or explain where it fits into my consciousness.

9. And even if there was a historian, he wouldn't have ascertained my motive for wanting to touch the rabbit, or I how I felt when I wasn't allowed. Would any of that even occurred to him? What value could he have ascribed it? It was important to me.

10. And there's somebody reading this right now who's thinking why the fuck is she regaling us with this stoooooopid tale about an idiot little girl who wanted to make friends with a bunny corpse? Some idiot little girl who lisped and didn't even know how to tie her shoe. An idiot little girl who onetime managed to get a quarter stuck in her mouth.

(End of numbers)

And that somebody will never see any value in my part of the mosaic, my pieces will never be on his mantle, his drawer or even regifted. In his house, my pieces will be quickly swept into the trash and taken to the landfill, mixing it up with the bunny guts. That's OK, nobody has a mantle or even an attic big enough to keep all the pieces of the mosaic. It was broken for a reason, so an individual could appreciate, dare I suggest digest it, which can only be done is small pieces. As long as this somebody has an awareness and consciousness of how tiny his mantle really is, there's no offense or insult. He speaks of his mantle, knowing it's his personal mantle.



So I'm a poet, and I read a fair bit of poetry, or at least I try -- and this discussion that I'm trying so hard to follow, when my brain isn't barfing into its cranium, rarely brings up any of the poets who have ever informed me. Am I uninformed? Am I a minor league poetry reader? When others (who I notice are rarely linked or responded to in this "conversation" say, hey, there's a lot of erasing happening here), I wonder if poems can be both erased and discarded at the same time. Can one be erased, but kept around or vice versa? Is there an island for misfit poems? Or are these limiting categories the tiny island and the misfits everywhere else? Why are these people tryiing reinvent or manage something like POETRY? What is their motivation, if not some form of cleaning up? What are they trying to tidy and straighten? If this process was for cataloguing purposes, wouldn't one enter every poem with the assumption that one knows nothing about it, open to the possibility it might be in a realm all its very own as opposed to figuring out how it fits in 2 or 3 or even 20 categories? Or that the poem fits within many realms or in a place we can't yet fathom? Show me the guy smarter than a poem. I have yet to meet him.

I had this dream last night. One can never exhaust the possible interpretations a dream offers. Kinda like a poem. Dreams are part of us and they're wiser than us. Kinda like poems. At first I interpreted this dream on a personal level, which I believe is a valid interpretation, but I read this dream as that and more. I won't share my interpretations with you, you can make your own:

I'm someplace that's part-way to hell -- a level before. It's a wasteland. I'm H.D. I came here voluntarily to help my once friend, Ezra Pound, do research. But things have changed. I want to leave but he controls this realm. I get his revolver and try to shoot him. The bullet heads straight for his chest, but an invisible force changes the bullet's path and it ricochets, almost hitting me. It's terrifying to know that he's invincible and so evil. We discuss the situation and I am resigned that I can't take him down. I make a comment that where we're at now is parallel to being in purgatory waiting to get into heaven. He's not amused by my observation.

I go back to my dorm room that I share with my boyfriend (who is also unhappy being in this part-way to hell realm). I tell him that we have to figure out a way to escape. Then a little girl comes in, it's Ezra's daughter. She and some other folks have just arrived in the realm to do research. She tells me that her father decided we can leave and go back into world. I know there's a catch, that we're only being sent back because it's time to play our roles in his plan -- which involves involuntary visions and prophecies. We have 30 minutes to pack everything, which we do hastily. I take a variety of rocks, including a bright red one. There are five stones that Chris says go together, but I'm not concerned about keeping them together. I'm in a rush to leave.

I'm back at home in my office. There's a bunch of books and texts -- some of which I don't want to put back in my library because they're Ezra's and so disturbingly twisted -- although I do want to keep the mystical stuff.

In with the new

We bought a new refrigerator today. Our current one is 20 years old. I've never been able to open the door all way (tight, cramped space) and take out all the drawers to clean it completely. Most importantly, we can't seem to impress upon Gideon how very important it is for him not to "adjust" the controls. We decided it's time.

The new fridge has french doors that we will be able to be opened completely and the temperature controls are at the top, (hopefully) out of reach. I figure this purchase will pay for itself in non-spoiled food savings.

In between price comparison shopping, we ate lunch at a restaurant across the street from Sears. The waitress asked if it was our first time there and it was, so the manager came by with a box of muffins to show their appreciation. We're going to eat them for breakfast tomorrow. I'm not a religious scholar, but think there's a passage in the bible about God helping those who purchase a new kitchen appliance.

More Out with the Old

Unbeknownst to Chris and me, either last night or early this morning Gideon TURNED OFF the refrigerator. Apparently he's not taking his New Year's resolution too seriously. He drew on the kitchen counter too. We were out most of the day, didn't notice until this evening when Chris went to make himself a snack. Nothing like tossing out 6 garbage bags of stinking food. I had no idea we had so much stuff in there. It always felt so empty -- but condiments, frozen foods, cheeses, juice, it all adds up. We kept the champagne, soda, wine, mustard, maple syrup, butter and vodka (Chris likes to keep it in the freezer). Do you think any of that will give us food poisoning?

I'm not too upset actually, I feel lighter, less crap to weigh us down. We weren't using half that stuff anyway. Well, the eggs were new, I'll miss those.

Happy New Year

This year, try not to lop off your cheek!