Sunday Funday:

So of course I spent the better part of this weekend cleaning the apartment, since without fail I wake up on Saturday morning to the bleak realization that all week I have been throwing shit into the sink hoping that it will disintegrate and disappear down the drain so I don't have to deal with it and also haphazardly flinging my underwear onto every single surface I can find. For his part, Jeff is constantly cultivating a pile of urban compost made up of receipts, almost-empty gum packs, and loose pennies, which he moves from table to table around the house, trying to find the right ecosystem, I guess, in which it will thrive.

Anyway, I started on the dishes but was soon distracted by rearranging my closet. I've been keeping a straw hamper in the back that holds all of the junk I clean from other places in the house but that I inexplicably don't want to throw away. Today I decided to do an archeological excavation.

Here's a fun relic: a bag of freeze-dried flower petals and a veil that I bought for my wedding but never used. I don't even remember buying these, although this blog tells a different story.


I've never used ketamine, but I definitely fell into a bridal K-hole for, like, six months in which I ordered stencils and labels and eight different pairs of shoes online, basically without even realizing it.

Speaking of K-holes, I also found what I thought was an old gym bag stuffed at the bottom of the hamper. I opened it warily, fearing two year-old sweaty gym socks, but instead this is what I found:

-A lace garter with a tiny pouch attached
-Foundation
-Blush
-A paperback copy of Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential



Um, did I ho for cash to pay for my all my unused wedding accoutrements? I have no idea what I was doing with these things in one bag. That foundation's not even my color. Could the CIA have tapped me, Alias-style, to infiltrate a fancy restaurant that was really a cover for an international terrorist organization and seduce the sous chef while my partner, hopefully still played by Michael Vartan, collected computer files?

If you have any information, please email me immediately.

She Bangs

So my Around the Way Girl bangs from the Jessica Simpson fake hair collection finally arrived, two weeks after Halloween. WEAVE FAIL.

Here is how they look not attached to a head:


Here is how they look on a model:


And here is how they look on me:


Not so hot. Ignore the lemon-sucking look on my face; I am just looking at myself in the Photobooth window and realizing that I have SDS, or Shannen Doherty Syndrome, in which one's eyes are wildly asymmetrical. I'm not just being mean, either. Look.


I wouldn't be so worried except that side effects of SDS can include marrying and subsequently trying to run over a Hamilton. Anyway, at least the bangs come with payot!


If I wear my hair down, I can use them next year for a Joey Ramone costume!


To get my money's worth I'll have to find other uses for them. Maybe a dastardly mustache?


Or sexy chest hair?


I'm sure they'll come in handy sometime... Jeff and I own two mullet wigs, and let me tell you, they are so useful after we've had a few. MacGyver and Kate Gosselin really liven up a dinner party!

The Sassy Curmudgeon's Holiday Gift Guide, Part 4: Glass Half Full

Last Thanksgiving I drank a whole bottle of wine. Before you judge me, know that it was over a span of, like, seven hours and also it was Thanksgiving, a day on which we give thanks for lots of things but probably not for having to spend a whole day trapped in a kitchen with our relatives.

Sometime about 3/4 of the way through the bottle, my mom admonished me for refilling my glass yet again.

If I had had one of these babies, I would have been spared the scrutiny.


Trick yourself into thinking you don't have a problem this holiday season with a glass big enough to hold an entire 750ml bottle of your favorite wine. "But I only had the one glass!" you'll slur at the end of the night. And you know what? You'll be right.

Disclaimer: Does not make appropriate gift for alcoholics or children. While The Sassy Curmudgeon enjoys her wine, she does not condone driving, operating heavy machinery, or doing really anything other than eating too much cheese or watching TV while drunk. She's also not as think as you drunk she is.

The Breast Intentions?

So the New York Times apparently had some trend piece today about how breastfeeding helps women lose weight after a baby. Celebs like Rebecca Romijn said that breastfeeding was a great "diet."

Now, I am and always have been pro-breastfeeding. Also, obviously I haven't ever done it, not that Jeff doesn't try. In the interest of full disclosure, my mom is a childbirth educator who has always been a proponent of natural (i.e. vaginal, drug-free) birth and breastfeeding. It is a fact that babies who are breastfed have higher IQs, and I’m not just saying that because I was breastfed until I was almost old enough to take an IQ test. But the weight-loss angle strikes me as kind of hilarious.

"Lose weight now! Ask me how!"

It’s not that it’s not true; I’m sure it is. Apparently babies can suck up to like 500 calories a day from their mothers’ bodies, like little dieting Hoovers (although I am skeptical that all of the weight comes off without diet and exercise, too).

I just think it’s funny (and troubling) that the coverage almost makes it seem like a diet aid. I can see the ads now:

SLIM DOWN IN FIVE EASY STEPS!!!

1. Get knocked up.

2. Gain 25-40 pounds.

3. Labor for anywhere from 4 to 40 hours to get that sucker out.

4. Attach baby to nipple for a few hours a day for at least six months.

5. Watch the pounds melt away! (The pounds you gained from pregnancy, that is, and maybe not even all of them.)

The small print would read:

Note: Breastfeeding does not prevent stretch marks, hormonal imbalance, or colic in either mother or child. Breastfeeding’s side effects may include wet spots on blouses, sore nipples, and general bovine feeling. Baby is non-refundable.

Our culture is so obsessed with being thin that I wouldn't be surprised if more moms started breastfeeding for the weight-loss benefits, which would be good for babies but bad for the female psyche. Birth shouldn't be about vanity. As one commenter wrote, "I would much rather see an article that first and foremost deals with the health benefits to both mother and baby in breastfeeding."

Then again, this NYT article was in the Fashion & Style section, right next to articles on how to master a runway walk and how to get Blake Lively's dumpster-dive-chic hairstyle. I don't know why I'm so surprised that it's ridiculous.

No Socks, No Shoes, No Running

This Sunday I was walking around the park with my mom and my sister when Zoe said, "Have you ever seen people running barefoot? It's a thing now."

It was at that moment that I looked down and saw a pile of dog shit, the remnants of a broken windshield, and what looked to be a dismembered Barbie foot poking out of the autumn leaves.

"You mean, those weird sock-shoe things?" I asked, shuddering (I can't deal with socks that separate the toes. They creep me out. And these look like Crocs, which also creep me out. Double willies!)

"No," Zoe insisted. "Like, barefoot. No socks, no shoes, no nothing. Barefoot in the Park with George." Okay, so she didn't say that last line, but I wanted to.

Of course when I got home I had to Google this barefoot running nonsense, and indeed it is a thing. At least, according to this not totally official-looking website.

An excerpt:

"I stepped on a rock today.

Of course, I step on rocks every day. There was nothing special about this rock. In fact, I don't remember it at all; but it's safe to say that since I was running around the neighborhood, chances are I stepped on a rock today.

Even though I don't remember this rock, I can tell you what happened. As my foot landed on the ground, in the first few milliseconds it felt a protrusion. My brain sent the message back to my foot, "telling" it to relax and start bearing the weight of my body on some other part of the sole. Usually, if the rock is on the outside of my foot, my weight shifts a bit to the inside, and vice versa. If the rock is in the middle, my forefoot bears the weight and my heel never touches the ground for that step. And so one and so forth.

Part of the trick (and joy) to running barefoot is to be constantly mindful of your surroundings. Feeling the texture of the ground, using that steady flow of information to adjust running form accordingly."

Now before I go on, let the record state that I am not immune to stupid footwear. I have chronicled on this blog the purchase and subsequent wear of extreeeemley expensive shoes that make me look like... well, judge for yourselves:


I don't know about you, but this makes me think if the grandpa in Sixteen Candles when he's on the phone with the police looking for the missing Long Duck Dong: "What was he wearing? Well, uh, let's see, he was wearing a red argyle sweater, and tan trousers, and red shoes... No, he's not retarded."

HOWEVER.

At least they serve as a barrier between my skin and the outside world. [I do not run in them, just to be clear. Sometimes I wobble around trying to tone my glutes, but that's it.] I don't know where that guy lives, but in my neighborhood, stepping on a rock would be the least of my worries. Here's my imagined barefoot runner's log:

"Dear Diary,

I stepped on a rat today.

Of course, I step on rats every day. And pieces of hubcaps. And broken glass. And poop. I think I even stepped on a used condom last Wednesday. Of course, there was nothing special about that condom. It felt like a damp oak leaf. I don't remember it at all; but it's safe to say that since I was running around the neighborhood, chances are I stepped on something unpleasant today. Luckily my gangrene is so bad that I can't feel my stumps anymore.

Even though I don't remember this rat, or condom, or whatever it was I stepped on with my bare flesh, I can tell you what happened. As my foot landed on the ground, in the first few milliseconds it felt a terrible stabbing pain, followed by a squishy sensation. My brain sent the message back to my foot, "telling" it to get back on the fucking carpet or to maybe put on a shoe. Usually, if the shit or glass or what have you is on the outside of my foot, I start to limp and favor the inside, and vice versa. If whatever the fuck is in the middle, my forefoot bears the weight and then I fall forward and sometimes dry heave onto the curb."

I mean, right? Don't get me wrong--I get the idea. I get vegans and raw food devotees and people who live in trees. I also get that barefoot running is, in theory, healthy for joints and muscles (actually, the orthopedic-looking sneakers are called MBTs, which stands for "Mumbai barefoot technology"), but that's like, on a hypothetical dusty plain where no one throws used needles or Snapple caps.

I mean, am I crazy, or is this just so not a good idea?

Is this really a thing? Let's not let this be a thing.

Wheel of Misfortune

Well, I was ABOUT to post a smooshy story about Jeff and how, when he wakes up in the morning, he looks just like a character from Margaret Wise Brown's The Little Fur Family, but as I was trying to open Blogger I got the spinny ball of death, like, four times in the span of a minute.

Smug little piece of shit.

I hate the spinny ball of death. Probably everybody does, unless you're really high and then it just probably confuses you. (BTW, if you are high right now, go here. It's weird, man.)

I looked it up, and the spinny ball of death even has its own Wikipedia entry! According to Wikipedia, the spinny ball of death is also referred to as:

"The spinning wait cursor" — Literal, but not evocative enough of its evil.

"Hypnowheel" — No. That would suggest that I'd get sleepy, not filled with a roid rage-type affliction common to the LaMarche family that I will call wait-rage.

"Spinning starlight mint of doom" — A) Starlight mints are red and white, fool. B) I don't want to eat it; I want to kill it and watch it die.

"Pride swirl" — Gays, do not take this lying down. (That's what she said.)

"Spinning pizza" — Ditto above, except "pizza," not "gays."

"Spinning pinwheel" or "Pinwheel of death" —Pinwheels: Not round. Next!

"Colorful wheel of thought" — Um, no. It's not thinking. It's mocking you.

"Rainbow ball of doom" — Misfits : Jem and the Holograms :: Rainbow ball of doom : Rainbow Brite

"The Wheel of Misfortune" — Someone please make this into a show. I bet Pat and Vanna have nothing better to do. Tanks of hot oil should be involved somehow.

"The beach ball of hell" or "Spinning beach ball of death" — New obstacle on WipeOut???

"Marble of doom" — This has its own website, too. And the really freaky part? It's dated from my wedding day... Jeff, did you set this up as a metaphor for how I am slowly draining your will to live?

Anyway, no matter what you call it, this thing needs a facelift. Can someone make it self-aware? Can it at least get musical accompaniment? Like maybe "You Spin Me Round (Like a Record)" by Dead or Alive? Can it tell jokes? Like, as it starts to spin, a pop-up box asks "What do you call cheese that's not yours?" and when the spinny ball of death finally stops another box says "NACHO CHEESE!" Or maybe make it look like Clive Owen's face, and have him start talking about something—anything, really, he could even just read kindergarten-level vocabularly cards, and I'd never notice the time pass.

Come on, Apple. You can do it!

Can You Tell Me How To Get (Back) To (The Real) Sesame Street?

I get the New York Times delivered on the weekends (thanks, dad!), which means I get part of the Sunday paper (Arts & Leisure, Real Estate, the magazine, and a shitload of coupons) on Saturday and the rest (Front page and news sections, Styles, Metropolitan, Week in Review) on Sunday. I generally read the whole thing (and by "whole" I mean a cursory glance at the news, then a thorough read of Arts & Leisure, Styles, and Metropolitan sections, followed by op-eds if they're not boring and then flip through the magazine, after which I start the crossword) Sunday evening. If you know me, you should be impressed that I even get that far. Being a day behind on the news is actually above par for me.

Anyway, the Arts & Leisure section this week featured a cover story on Sesame Street's 40th anniversary. I haven't watched the show for 25 years or so, with the exception of nostalgic viewings of the kick-ass DVDs of the first few seasons, which my mom got me for Christmas a few years ago, as well as drunken YouTube searches with Jeff for trippy 70s animation that would make us feel more drunk, and also like we were four again. Which I guess means we wanted to feel like drunken toddlers--doesn't everybody? Obviously I've heard about Elmo and Zoe and some of the newer Muppets, but I wasn't aware of some of the other changes to the show... until today.

For instance, according to the Times, "the opening is no longer a realistic rendition of urban skyline but an animated, candy-colored chalk drawing of a pre-school Arcadia, with flowers and butterflies and stars." Oh, right, because there aren't enough animated butterflies on TV anymore. WTF, Sesame Street? You're supposed to be, um, street. Also: "The famous set, brownstones and garbage bins, has lost the messy graffiti and gritty smudges of city life over the years. Now there are green spaces, tofu and yoga." This just makes me sad. I know New York has been cleaned up and gentrified since my youth, but introducing the concepts of tofu and yoga to people who can't even talk yet seems wrong somehow. The best part about Sesame Street was that it was an incredibly diverse and generally low-income block. The whole idea was to provide educational TV for kids who came from poor families and who might not have access to decent pre-schools. I can't remember a single thing I learned at the Emanuel Midtown Y (under the watchful eye of John Travolta), but I remember Sesame Street.

I remember the loaf of bread, the container of milk, and the stick of butter.



I remember watching in awe at how crayons are made.



I remember how to say hola.



I get that kids today need different messages. I know our country is vastly overweight and that it's important to stress cookies as a "sometimes food" (although the thought of Cookie Monster munching on carrots? Sacrilege!). I know that Park Slope kids are taught about vegetarianism and Pilates at the same time they learn about fire trucks and worms. I know, in short, that every place, even Sesame Street, needs to change with the times.

I guess I just wish the times were simpler.

Related question: How much would it fuck up my future kids if I had them watch DVDs of classic 80s Sesame Street instead of the new version? (Leaving aside the fact that they would all want afros and bell bottoms and wouldn't recognize a computer.) Would it fuck them up more than plucking their unibrows while they slept? Because that's happening regardless...

Jeff Versus the Sea Cucumber, aka Alex's B'day

Last Sunday Jeff and I dragged ourselves out of the house to celebrate our friend Alex's birthday! Alex is a fellow film nerd whose short horror movie, Alice Jacobs is Dead, won top honors at this year's ComiCon.

Alex chose Congee Village, a lower Manhattan Chinese restaurant, for the proceedings. It serves Chinese Chinese food—not to be confused with American Chinese food—and the birthday boy decided to go whole hog and order a 10-dish banquet.

I've told you about Jeff's picky stomach. So you can imagine his reaction when the first dishes arrived bearing jellyfish, squid, and some kind of jellied pork and beef cut to resemble Haribo gummy watermelon slices.

Alex loooves jellyfish. Tastes like chicken... spaghetti.

Jeff refused to touch any of it, opting to get his calories in the form of Tsing Tao beer. Little did he know the best worst was yet to come...

This is a sea cucumber, alive:


This is a sea cucumber cooked to oozy perfection:


Jeff comes from a scatalogical family, so he had kind of a love-hate relationship with the sea cucumber. On the one hand, it was an affront to his delicate taste buds; on the other, it looked like a giant turd, which he would normally find delightful.

Of course he didn't eat it. If he had, I might have had to stand up and storm out, screaming "It's like I don't even know you anymore!"

Anyway. Here's a somewhat nausea-inducing video Jeff took of all of us sitting around the table. Happy birthday, A!

Scenes From a FUTURE Marriage: Long-Lost 2004 Blog

I've been keeping something from you. Once upon a time, before the birth of The Sassy Curmudgeon, I had another blog.

No, you can't read it.

It was a shared, private blog with my four college roommates that we created in January of 2004 after we realized that it's fucking hard to keep up with friends in the real world sometimes. We were far-flung and missing each other and so we wrote love letters to one another and kept each other posted about our jobs and boyfriends and hopes and dreams. It sounds cheesy, but reading over it now I get this amazing feeling of unconditional love washing over me. I think we're going to resurrect it, for old time's sake.

Me and the Loveland Ladies, circa 2002

Anyway. I found a post on that blog that I'd like to share with you. It has been edited for content, since I was apparently much less self-conscious in my youth.

The post was originally titled: "My Weekend With Jeff: Romance, Adventure, Urination" and was posted in two parts on September 20 and 21, 2004.

Part One: Subway Love

Jeff arrived on Tuesday night. I picked him up at the corner of Canal and Bowery and we hopped aboard the D train at Grand Street to go back to Brooklyn. Just as the train doors bing-bonged shut, the loudspeaker crackled. "This is to the two men having sex on the lower platform," said the conductor, in a oh-no-you-didn't female voice, "We can see you. We can ALL SEE YOU."

Hahahahaha.

Part Two: First Date

Wednesday I worked and Jeff played in the city with his Home Ave. housemates. That night we frolicked in the rain, had dinner with my Dad and Zoe and then rented "Coming to America". Thursday, though, I had off, and thus commenced one of the best days I have ever had. Here is our day, in convenient chart form:

11:00 am: Wake up

11:15 am: CENSORED BY PRUDISH 29-YEAR OLD SELF.

12:15 pm: Shower.

12:30 pm: CENSORED BY PRUDISH 29-YEAR OLD SELF.

1:00 pm: Shower again.

1:30 pm: Breakfast at diner

2:30 pm: Arrive Central Park. Lie in grass. I read David Sedaris aloud to Jeff.

3:00 pm: Impromptu photo shoot

3:30 pm: Rent a row boat, Jeff - in very manly fashion - rows me all around Central Park Lake. He says, "This would make a great first date." For the remainder of the ride, we pretend we are on a first date and crack ourselves up.

Pics from the actual day!

4:30 pm: Dock our row boat. Walk through park. Make out.

5:30 pm: Mosy over to 66th Street Barnes and Noble. Decide to make dinner. Search for sangria recipe.

7:30 pm: Serve a modest, totally improvised pasta dinner to Beth, Alex, Kabir, and Betsy.

9:00 pm: Jeff becomes hooked on The Apprentice. A BIG I told you so from me.

10:00 pm: Dressed to the nines, we make our way to the subway and ride into Manhattan

11:00 pm: Order bottle of wine at Village Vanguard. Listen to hour and a half of live jazz. Jeff becomes increasingly drunk.

12:30 pm: Stumble onto street, find cozy bar, proceed to get more tanked than any two people have any right to be.

2:30 pm: Cab home. Driver is more drunk than we are. Scariest cab ride of my life, but we make it to Brooklyn in under 10 minutes, tires screeching all the way.

Part Three: The Flood

Home at last, loaded and happy, we climb into bed. Jeff is Drunk with a capital D. I am only slightly less so, so I assume the role of nurse, filling up a measuring cup with water and force-feeding it to my boyfriend, who is happily jabbering away in a Punjabi accent. (This water will be featured prominently later, so don't forget it ..... (cue ominous music).

CENSORED BY PRUDISH 29-YEAR OLD SELF. (Side note: Damn, we had a lot of CENSORED back in the day! Then again, we were long-distance...)

In the middle of the night, I woke up to find Jeff sitting on the edge of the bed, naked and looking confused. "Jeff?" I said, "Baby, are you all right?" No response.

I thought he might be about to puke, so I put a hand on his back. "Jeff?" I said, "Are you OK?" He stood up. "Pee," he murmured. I rolled over.

And then, I heard him start to pee. I turned and looked and saw him standing, one hand against my dresser, peeing on my floor.

Ohmigod, I thought. He must be asleep. I've heard of this happening. I hope he's not peeing in my drawer! I thought that he might realize what he was doing and stop, or come to after her'd finished. I waited through the longest, most cascading pee I've ever heard (why oh why did I feed him 3 cups of water?), and then felt him climb back into bed and fall promptly asleep.

I'll tell him in the morning, I thought, and willed the sound of tinkling urine out of my head.

Part Four: The Morning After

The next morning Jeff showed no signs of knowing what he had done. You know me. I can't watch the fucking Olympics because I get so embarassed if the ice-skaters fall down. I can't watch strangers being humiliated on TV, so to embarass my boyfriend in the flesh is a tall order for a shy violet like me. I surreptitiously checked out the scene of the crime. It turned out that Jeff had, in fact, peed all over his own clothes (Hahahahaha) and also on my BoSox hat (Simone is the only one who is allowed to hahahaha over that). The area was dry and not stained at all. It didn't even smell. I concluded that the 3 cups of water I fed Jeff must have passed right through. I wondered, does he even have to know?

The answer, unfortunately, was yes. Later that day I told my roommate Betsy what had happened and she laughed before saying, "You have to tell him—you have to wash his clothes!" I hadn't thought of that, but it IS pretty nasty to make him wear peed-on clothes, even if it would spare him the humiliation of knowing that he mistook my dresser for a urinal.

Even so, I tried to be sneaky. "Baby," I cooed to the lump on the couch, engrossed in the Yankee-RedSox game, "I'm going to do some laundry. Can I, um, wash the stuff on the floor?"

"Sure." he shrugged.

"Um, can ties go in the wash?" His necktie had, it seemed, borne the brunt of the attack. It was a little bit warped and, I would imagine, traumatized.

"No, they have to be dry-cleaned," he said, "but don't worry about it - it's not like there's anything on it."

"I think there might be," I said, already starting to laugh. I had his attention.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Um, well, I think that maybe-" Vague! Be vague! "Maybe last night, I think you might have peed on the floor."

He was so embarassed. It didn't help that I laughed a lot. He helped me load his stuff into the wash and then turned to me, dejected.

"What, did I poop in your bed, too?" he asked.

"Yes," I deadpanned. "But I hid that in my sock drawer."

FIN.

The Sassy Curmudgeon's Holiday Gift Guide, Part 3: Vermont Made

A few years ago, I was looking to buy Jeff a Monchichi doll for Christmas (since that was his childhood nickname—seriously, he was born with a full pelt of fur head of hair), and I stumbled upon the website for The Vermont Country Store. Not only did I get the Monchichi, I also bought like six packages of delicious lebkuchen—German cookies that are like pillowy discs of chocolate-covered soft gingerbread. The site was weird and wonderful, selling everything from maple syrup to underwear to sock monkeys. And thanks to my purchase, I got on their mailing list.


Isn't it magical? I mean, look at that table of contents:

Apparel
Apothecary
Bedding
Food/Candy
Hosiery
Toys
Underwear

Move over, Wal-Mart!

Seriously, check out some of the insane goodies on sale:


I must disagree that nothing delights a young child like a Jack-in-the-box (nothing HORRIFIES a young child... well, me, anyway, more than the tinkling keys of Pop! Goes the Weasel as I wait for a freakish clown to spring into my face) but I can vouch that nothing delights an adult more than chocolate-covered booze!

They also sell my favorite cookies: The mealy, almond-flavored, neon-colored bars you are most likely to find rotting away on a dusty shelf in an Italian bakery. Yummy. (They age like fine wine; dust only adds to the flavor.)


While we're on the subject of old, musty candy, take a gander at this:


Skybar! Zagnut! Walnettos! If this isn't the cutest little country store I've ever seen, I'll eat...

Well, I'll eat this hat.


Um, a felt fedora with an attached burka? YES, PLEASE, SANTA.

Haven't left your house since the Ford administration? How about a record player, a cassette recorder, a handheld slide viewer, or a typewriter?


Watch your slides while you listen to Benny Goodman 45s and type an angry letter to the Beatles for wearing their goddamn hair so long and smoking too much reefer. Good times!

Another blast from the past:


Man, how much would someone make to do a remake of this for hipsters? I'd call it "Fuck! Your Hair Smells Like Magic." Potential investors may contact me in the comments.

You've got to love a store that sells cassette players, children's toys, cookies, and ...


Vibrators! Accompanied by a photo of a sexually robust Wilford Brimley doppelganger. He knows that you'd rather order your "German massager" along with your ribbon candy from a nice family establishment instead of "run down to Sex World or visit some uncomfortable website." And fucking how, dude.

Of course, who needs sex toys when you can wear scents like Woodhue, Tigress, and Ben Hur?


Rrrrowr. There's also one called "Persian Wood." Snicker.

Here's something you don't see everyday: a miniature cast iron stove!


Here's the best part of the description: The set "includes a miniature iron cooking pot, kettle, frying pan, spatula, griddle holder and coal bucket that you can arrange to taste." [Emphasis mine]. I like to imagine someone coming over to my house and seeing my miniature cast iron stove and going, "Oh...oh my GOD. What were you THINKING putting the kettle on the LEFT BURNER??? YOU DISGUST ME." and then storming out.

Anyway, yeah. The Vermont Country Store. I guarantee that you'll find something awesome—and hopefully kind of inappropriate—for your loved ones within its bizarre warehouse. I recommend a gift basket consisting of Ben Hur cologne, a package of Walnettos, a Hitachi Magic Wand, and a handheld slide viewer. Keep that special someone guessing this Christmas.