Ho Ho Ho

It's Christmas, and this morning I experienced one of the best "your mammy" moments of my life. Here's how it happened:

Mom: The coffee cake just overflowed all over my oven! The house is going to reek of smoke all day!

Me: I told you it was a bad idea to leave out the baking powder.

Mom: Well, it's not like the grocery's open today. What was I supposed to do? Anyway, this bundt pan is too small for this cake... it overflows every year. Next year, I'm giving up and ordering a chocolate pan roll from Plehn's [bakery].

[Silence, as I attempt to scrape an edible bite of half-cooked dough out of the pan]

Mom: It's sticking something awful... I don't think I got the bundt greasy enough.

Me: Your mammy's bundt's not greasy enough!

It just doesn't get any better than that. Merry Christmas.

Your Mammy

For at least the past year (and possibly since childhood), I have found myself unable to discontinue use of the phrase "your mammy." (It is occasionally written as "yer mammy," though I prefer the more formal variation.) This phrase is constantly popping into my brain as a response to almost any item of conversation. For example:

Mom (with meaningful glance at brother lounging on sofa): I wish people would get off their butts and help me put away these dishes.
Me (gleefully): Your mammy wishes people would put away dishes!

Anonymous friend: I'm parched. Let's stop for Vitamin Waters.
Me: Your mammy needs a Vitamin Water!

Surprisingly, not everyone is amused by these exchanges, which often carry a slightly vulgar subtext.

Meanwhile, who agrees that the Pamela Anderson/Kid Rock breakup won't last? Those two are meant for each other. I saw them at a Derby party in 1999 and I could tell it was love.

A Temptation, a Prize and a Dispute

It is sapping every ounce of willpower I possess to refrain from buying the third season of The O.C. on DVD. If I were to do this, I would likely neglect my work, friends, family, bills, blog, etc. until all 25 episodes have been viewed. Oh, Seth and Summer. Oh, Marissa and Ryan. I miss you so.

Last night I was at a truck stop in Who-Knows-Where, Indiana, and I asked the clerk to check a Powerball ticket I've been carrying in my wallet since my birthday in September. Shockingly, I won $100. It was my biggest Lotto win to date and a thrilling moment, to be sure. Powerball tickets provide such endless entertainment during the long, flat drive up I-65. There are so many moneyed possibilities to consider.

I'm currently enmeshed in a dispute with my sister Claire over a pair of dangly gold earrings. A former boyfriend purchased them for her, and soon after the two parted ways I transferred the earrings to my own jewelry box and began wearing them regularly. That was several years ago, and the statute of limitations on borrowed accessories now renders me the rightful owner (don't you think?). Anyway, I believe Claire to be the perpetrator of a plot to regain possession. The earrings mysteriously vanished from my bedside table whilst I was visiting the homestead in Louisville this past weekend, and when I asked her if she'd seen them, she said: "You better not have lost those earrings, Emma!" Hmm. I searched her room to no avail, but I am still convinced MY earrings are in there somewhere.

The Fate of a Fish

One moment you're walking by the lake, watching dark clouds roll in and suffocate the skyline; the next moment there's a small flopping fish at your feet. It happened this morning when a fisherman accidentally tossed one of his bait fish onto the path in front of me at approximately 7:20AM. What a sucky start to the day for that fish--first, stabbed by a hook, then, tossed onto blacktop.

I am experiencing a surplus of umbrellas. There are two in my apartment--both compact and black, both from gift bags. At my desk there is the indestructible Wind-Pro Deluxe, with a system of strings underneath that causes it never to turn inside out (especially useful in the Windy City). In the trunk of my car there are three more: a silver umbrella with "Bloomingdale's" written all over it; a white one printed with comics from the Louisville Courier-Journal; and a faded red one with a curved wooden handle. Is that more umbrellas than a normal person needs? Severe weather be warned: I am armed.