martinimade

Most of these have been stolen from other places, yet I no longer remember where. Oh, my poor memory.

Pimp your Nutcracker. I especially like the Afro.

Cheney/Rumsfeld slash fiction. I can't even bring myself to read it. There would not be enough steel wool in the world to scrub the image from my mind.

The images at Cute Overload, however, almost soothe any scarring that the above link may cause. Especially this bunny.

Finally, and again, the writers of Barney's Blog are having too much fun. The New Year's invite to B's party is simply, refreshingly, genius-ly idiotic. In a delightfully wrong kind of way. Be sure to check out the evite.

Now, to the bathrooms. My life is full of glamour.

So that I can finally stop having these in my bookmark folder, some links, most of which are about fiber:

Some call Mi-Yi Sung's work art. I call it freakish and disturbing, which doesn't mean it isn't art (and in fact might prove that it is) but it isn't something that you should glance at if you're at work or near little, curious people who like to point and ask questions. Trust me.

When Oneonta folk start finding cozies on their cars, they should not assume that I'm responsible. I would never, ever consider doing this. Never. Not even for a second. Nope. Look away. These aren't the Droids you're looking for.

Wendy sums up how most knitters get stuff done. It's not that we have large amounts of time to devote to it, just that we have quite a few small amounts of time and portable projects. She also offers nifty advice for those who are learning the craft.

My baby needs a Naked Chicken Viking Hat. And the direction are refreshingly honest. I quote: skill level: main hat is simple; drumsticks are tedious and complicated.

And, finally, the non-fiber bit.

While Get Fuzzy can be hit or miss, like any good creative endeavor can be, this week's strip has left me with the giggles. I think it's because of the plunger. And the fact that I can so easily picture Mooch doing this to Trout.

And the lagniappe --

Scott watched a bit of Project Runway last night (yes, he is very secure in his masculinity, thanks) and finally figured out who Santino reminded us of. Say it with me now: "Kneel Before Zod!"

Name that baby!

Note to self -- write on the back of each photo which kid it contains, otherwise I'll have no idea in a few short months.

Note to other Allegheny grads. Is it wrong that this holiday card got me a little choked up, even though I know it is designed to get me to send the alma mater more money?

This weekend, I made the cookie of my people. In hindsight, these bad boys need to be dipped in chocolate. Not that they weren't tasty as is, but they would be so much tastier with chocolate.

I've been meaning to do this for awhile, but finally remembered to bring my camera. My office at Hartwick has the best view one could have of Oneonta. While the below picture doesn't quite do it justice, you get the general idea.

The toys/kitsch on the window ledge are an odd conglomeration of office mates past and present. I know Carol's having a bad day when the William Shakespeare action figure is hanging from the cord to the blinds.

A better shot, from the hallway between the new building and the old building, also on campus.

As you can tell, the Hartwick campus is better suited to mountain goats, but it is quite lovely regardless.

Some random links while I ponder what Christmas project to tackle next...

This story needs a follow-up because some questions remain unanswered. For example: Did the man feel that he had to gouge out his own eyes?

While I'm not a huge student of the French Revolution, I still find myself inexplicably drawn to this action figure from Archie McPhee. I think it needs to go on the office knick-knack shelf.

Since Thursday night, the Diva has been up in Rochester with her grandmother and grandfathers. (Um, that sounds kind of ... wrong. They don't all live in the same house.)

Scott and I have just had the boy for the last few days and, while it feels like a vacation to just have the one, it also just feels wrong. It does mean that we frequently turn on the TV and immediately flip to Noggin, then realize we can be like real adults and watch anything else in the universe that our cable company carries. We are giddy.

We've also taken this time to introduce the boy to solid food. Pictures will follow. Short version -- he was uncertain at first but now demands more and more and more with each feeding. He is a hungry bird.

And, no, it hasn't improved his sleep habits. But with the Diva away, we're only getting up with one of them, which is quite nice. I actually got seven consecutive hours of shut-eye last night. I'm King Of The World!

Two quick links:

I am no fan of our current Asshat-in-Chief, but I have to agree with Scalzi right now. Dubya needs a hug.

Also, another tale of historic Cormacs. This one starts in Norway and features a minor player named Frodi. If we were planning another kid (which we are not), Frodi would have been on my list of names, regardless of gender. Perhaps it's best that we're not having another one. That's the sort of name that gets one beaten up a lot.

Is it just me or does Abilify sound like a totally made up anti-psychotic? Like a drug name the Onion would invent? It is just me, right?

And, because this still cracks me up, the Miserable Little Ovoid. Be sure to stick around for the side effects.

My SUCO classes are now out of the way. Finals have been taken. Grades have been calculated. Paperwork has been completed. Ah.

Apparently the stress of finals (and, perhaps, the fact that it is so very cold up here right now) is getting to some of the faculty. This morning, shortly after I parked in a faculty lot where I took the last space, a little man in a little car felt compelled to give a lecture on how those spaces are reserved for faculty and how pissed he is that students keep taking them and that I had to move my car. By the time I managed to get a word or three in -- which were "I teach here" -- he was almost frothing. His response to being wrong? Not one word. He just drove away. Schmuck.

Frankly, this happens to me a lot. Not the irate little men, but folks reminding me that students can't park in faculty spaces. I don't know why I am singled out for this honor. I don't look like a 20-year-old, nor do I dress like one, nor do most of them drive minivans. Eh. Whatever.

For your holiday shopping pleasure, a cool-ass iPod case. I'd get one, but I don't have an iPod to put in it. Still, they are funky.

Other Daily Show fans may have wondered what was up with last night's Moment of Zen. The full, sad story is here.

In not so serious news, Adam's entry today made me giggle like a schoolgirl.

Seth Stevenson, whose writing I love, takes a road trip through Baja for Slate.

In other news, I continue to grade. I went to yoga this morning for the first time in quite some time. I have also cleaned the first layer of debris off of my desk. And those are the highlights.

This is Trout.

Trout, we believe, is a Maine Coon. We do not know this for certain, since we got the Trout at a shelter in Lancaster, PA, but he certainly seems rather Maine Coonish to us. And if you look at the picture on that site, you will also notice a striking resemblance.

Note the size of Trout.

Somewhere behind him is one of those big printer/scanner/copier things.

He fits the breed description quite well in terms of appearance. He is a "muscular, big-boned cat; males commonly reach 13 to 18 pounds, with females normally weighing about 9 to 12 pounds. Add to that two or three inches of winter coat, and people will swear that they're looking at one big cat."

And, personality-wise, he mostly fits the standard. He is "people-oriented." He likes to "hang-out and investigat[e] whatever activity you're involved in and 'helping' when they can."

However, this bit is a load of crap, when it comes to the Trout: "Most Maine Coons will stay close by, probably occupying the chair next to yours instead [of your lap]."

Here is why I can't get anything done at the computer anymore, now that he has realized that the house is cold and the computer is warm.

Underneath Trout's head is my mouse hand. Underneath Trout's body is the rest of my laptop. A typical morning goes like this.

"Yes, Trout, you're very sweet."

*Thud* (the *thud* is me plunking the Trout onto the floor.)

"No, really, Trout, I need this."

*Thud*

"Cat. Stop it."

*Thud*

"Dammit cat."

*Thud*

"I'm going to make you into a rug."

*THUD*

"Yearrrrrrg!"

*THUD!*

Now image 15 minutes of this, with me flinging and Trout immediately jumping back up. Cats. What a fine idea.

Today marks the official end of classes at both of the colleges. While there are still finals and grading and paperwork to attend to, my life has suddenly become much more flexible, which means I can now focus on cookies and pressies and knitting. This is good.

I have no good segue for this -- The Book now has an Amazon placeholder page. I still want to throw up a little bit.

On that note, a picture that explains why the Grill Master and the Dude get along so well. See, when the GMs own boy was a baby and the GM was a househusband, he spent a great deal of time dressing the baby in silly hats. This is completely understandable. When you spend a lot of time around babies, you need to do something to break the boredom.

So the other night when the kids and I were at their place for dinner, the GM took the Dude for a bottle and a spot of football-watching while the Pie Goddess and I wrangle the girls into the tub. And this is the result:

I suppose I should be thankful that the GM's daughter dressed as a pink Power Ranger on Halloween and not something more sinister...