PASS THE TYLENOL

I awoke Saturday morning to the grim realization that the pod of elves I'd hired to restore order around here had apparently gotten lost and was probably sipping Appletinis in a cozy bar someplace.

(Do elves even come in a pod? What do you call a group of elves. A gaggle? A herd?)

(Note to self: must look up the proper word for situations in which more than one elf is required.)

There is absolutely no plausible explanation for the mess that I can create as one single solitary spinster, so I am thoroughly convinced that a large party of frat boys comes into my house every night and has at it while I'm asleep.

(Spinsters and elves and frat boys...oh my!)

Anywhoose....I spent the better part of Saturday cleaning the garage to within an inch of its life, and yesterday got some crazypants idea that I could do the same thing inside.

Today I can't life my arms.

This, of course, is the explanation of why I didn't finish a ton of stitching over the weekend, but I'm thinking that this cold and rainy Monday will be the perfect opportunity to do so. I did manage to get all of the border finished on Friday night while Stewey and I were hanging out with Aunt Chrissy at her place.

(Which, by the way, always looks spectacular and never requires any elves at all.)

So here is the progress thus far on Prairie Schooler's Thanksgiving Comes Again:

I've received a ton of questions about my reactions and opinions regarding the outfits that the Notre Dame football team sported on Saturday evening. While most of the things that I have to say aren't fit for prime time TeeVee, I did want to say this to all of the Maryland fans who think that their outfits are hideous: Hello, dear Maryland fans who think your football outfits are hideous! Do you know what the best part of Saturday's game was? Well, it was the fact the you've finally managed to find an opponent whose outfits were more hideous than yours.

You're welcome.

Finally, can I just say this about the whole "Notre Dame is going to hell in a handbasket" thing? It's not about the helmets. Really. It's not. The helmets are just a simple (and tacky -- let's not forget tacky) representation of the decline of a place that I loved from the time that I was in utero. It's kinda like watching an aging movie star slap on too much bad cologne and a leisure suit and then go out and troll the bars for a twenty-something year old bombshell that has no intention of being seen with a smelly old dinosaur that once was somebody special.

I'll get over my heartbreak eventually, but in the meantime the ring stays off.

Now if we could just do something about that leprechaun tattoo....