You may recall that I was going to give my grandmother rum for Christmas. This is the follow-up.

A few weeks ago, Rob and I had dinner with my grandparents. And at this dinner, she served rum cake. As in cake, made with rum. My jaw dropped when she brought it to the table. "Grandma, this is rum cake?!"

"It is," she said with a laugh.

"But...how did you get the rum?"

"I went to the store and bought it," she announced proudly. And then she told us the story.

She had wanted to make more fruitcakes before Christmas, and she had set her mind to making them with rum. So she told Granddad to drive her to the liquor store. He did, and then sat in the car and waited while she went in. She had never been in a liquor store before. She roamed the aisles (with her walker), looking for rum. An employee asked if she needed help. "Yes, young man," she said. "I'm making fruitcakes and need some rum. Can you find it for me?"

He did, and then carried it to the checkout counter for her. The cashier rang it up and Grandma got out her checkbook. "Ma'am, I'm sorry," the cashier told her, "but we don't take checks."

My grandma didn't have any other way to pay, so she told the cashier to wait while she went to the car for cash. When she got to the car, my grandfather asked what had happened and, leaning on her walker, she replied, "They said I was too young to buy alcohol." They both got a good laugh out of that. And then she went back in with a wad of cash and bought her rum.

Upon hearing this tale, I told my grandma that I was quite proud of her, but also a bit disappointed because I had been planning to give her rum for Christmas. I told her how I'd envisioned that she'd open it in front of the entire family, and that it would be hilarious, if a bit scandalous. She seemed entirely amused by this, and insisted that I could still give it to her. She swore she'd act surprised. "And maybe I'll even take a little swig!"

We were all laughing hard at this point, and acting a bit giddy in general, as if the rum cake was going to our heads. "What we should do," Rob suggested, "is fill an empty rum bottle with water. That's the one we could wrap, and then you could really take a big gulp!"

We laughed again at this. "I'll do it," she said conspiratorially, her eyes sparkling.

This past Saturday, Rob and I drove to my grandparents' house for Christmas with all the family, our presents placed carefully on the backseat. When we were almost there, Rob asked, "Did you bring rum?"

"Yeah."

"Did you put water in the empty bottle?"

"No. I'd actually forgotten all about that."

"Well you'd better tell your grandma before she unwraps it."

"Nah, she won't remember. I mean, if I didn't, she won't."

After lunch, we all gathered in the living room as the gifts were handed out. When my gift bag was given to my grandma, she carefully peeked into it and then looked at me and grinned. I grinned back, figuring that, once we all began opening gifts, she wouldn't actually have the nerve to unwrap it in front of everyone.

The truth is, when the kids and everyone began tearing into their presents, I got distracted and didn't even see Grandma lift the rum out of our gift bag. I didn't notice until Rob, sitting beside me, nudged me and pointed urgently toward my grandmother. And I turned my head just in time to see her raise the rum to her lips and take a big swig.

There was sudden silence in the room, with the exception of a gasp or two. Her eyes widened. "Whoooo! " she exclaimed as she lowered the bottle. "That's not water!" And then she looked at me and whispered, "But it's pretty good."

When I get to hell, it will have been so totally worth it.

Over the break Rob did some updates to my blog, which isn't necessarily worth mentioning (although very important for geek-genius reasons) except that I also took this opportunity to change the look of things around here. Which I suppose also does not need mentioning since it's sorta, well, obvious. Very Extreme Makeover: Blog Edition or something.

As always, many thanks to Rob for the hours and hours of work that went into this. He always makes it look so effortless, although it can be rather intense. And I'm not much of an assistant, other than one time when I sat on the sofa next to him and fed him forkfuls of breakfast as he typed away. (Hoping to find a more accurate word than "typed," I just now asked Rob to describe, in a verb, what he has been doing at the keyboard, to the blog. He replied: "Banged. Wrangled." So um, there you go. He has apparently been making sexy time with klog.)

I'm quite pleased to have a new look for the new year. And now that we've renovated this place, we totally need to focus our energies on our fucking kitchen.

(ps - Some of you have requested a comment rss, which is now available here.)

been reading: The Emperor's Children by Claire Messud

Our Christmas has lasted an entire week, from the first family event last Saturday to the final one yesterday. We've had some sort of family get-together every day in between (and on some days, several), some consuming the entire day and others only hours. Both of our families are local, and so this is what happens. Everyone feels the need to get together in the small space of the week that surrounds the actual day of celebration. It's a nice thing, of course. And yet every year afterwards, I find myself slightly irritable and considering a trip (to anywhere) next year that just happens to coincide with Christmas.

I had the week off from work, and Rob took off; this has been the first time in a long time that we've had a week of vacation in which we didn't go anywhere. Except the myriad houses of relatives, of course. We've also had a decent amount (although, in my grinchy opinion, not nearly enough) of downtime at home. Time to work on projects. Time to waste. Time to read.

On several occasions this week I've had the luxury of reading for hours. I'll curl up on the sofa, my head propped on the cushioned arm, and read from the moment we finish breakfast until the rumblings in my stomach announce that lunch is long overdue. Bridget comes and goes, curling on my lap for an hour at a time, only to stand and stretch and roam the house and then return again. Last evening I read for several hours until bedtime, and then read some more in bed. I have done little else that's leisurely - have even only turned on my computer once or twice until today - except read. I'd forgotten what a reprieve reading can be.

The book to which I've been so devoted is The Emperor's Children, a novel I began in October and liked immediately but have had little time to give to until now. It's the story of three early-30-something friends who live in New York, the story of their lives from March-November of 2001. It's the first novel I've read that discusses the events of 9/11/01. And yet in no way does this novel revolve around that day or exist only to lead up to a description of the impact of that day. It is handled, frankly, as just a fact of life - albeit a fact that changes everything. What the novel is about is how these three people, and the people who both tower and cower around them, experience life. How they attempt to understand what the hell they're doing, how they express themselves honestly to one another, how they lie to protect themselves.

If I were reading this novel for a college course, this is the book I'd choose to write my final paper about. It is layered and intelligent and I can think of 15 theses right off the bat. But even for a person who doesn't have English major tendencies, it's a worthy story about the moments that make up our months and the days that make us wonder what the hell we're doing.

What is up with restaurants not taking reservations? The past couple years I've noticed that this is becoming more and more of a trend, and I find it highly annoying.

Most fine dining restaurants still take reservations, but typically when I'm making reservations it's because we have additional plans for the evening, like a play or concert, and we don't have extra time to dawdle at dinner. And so fine dining is not even an option since those places take much longer. In those instances, I just want to have dinner at a nice bar & grill type place.

And since our evening schedule will be tight and we won't have time to wait 20-40 minutes for a table, I call the restaurant a few days in advance to make reservations. And I am told they don't take them. So I call another place. They don't take them either. So I call another. And another. One doesn't take reservations but does offer "call-ahead seating." Um, isn't that what I'm doing? I am calling ahead. For seating. Yeah, turns out I'm calling too far ahead. They don't want me to call more than 20 minutes ahead, basically as we're heading out the door. If I call then, they'll put my name on the waiting list. But it's not a reservation. They don't do reservations. DON'T SAY RESERVATION.

I suppose if an establishment is busy enough, they know they'll fill their tables and so it's not worth their while to deal with reservations. But for the love of god, are we no longer capable of making long-term commitments? And by "long-term" I mean three days. Can restaurants really not offer their customers the basic consideration of a reservation? Have so many people bailed on reservations that they've ruined it for the rest of us?

Maybe this doesn't bother most people, but I am a person who plans. I'm a planner. Planning is what I do. And these damn restaurants that don't take reservations are seriously fucking up my plans.

Yesterday at Target I ran into a good friend, JC, from high school. We see each other from time to time - not as often as we should, but enough that we know what's going on with each other.

He works with another guy who went to our high school, and JC told me that just the other day the two of them had been talking about former classmates - where they are, what they do, that sort of thing. And this guy, who was good friends with Rob in high school, commented to JC that he hadn't seen Rob in a long time, and then added, "I hear Kelly is pregnant."

When JC relayed this to me, I think I gasped. "What?!"

He chuckled and said, "Yeah, I told him I didn't think so. I said I hadn't seen you in awhile, but I was pretty sure that wasn't the case."

"Where would he hear such a thing?"

"I asked him, but he couldn't remember."

It's not a big deal, of course, but I am rather perplexed by how such a rumor would get started. I mean, there are some rumors that would not surprise me. Like that I am a stripper. Anyone who saw me walk into Rob's company party last week - wearing my hooker boots and a coat longer than my dress which totally made it look as though I didn't have anything on underneath - would assume I was there to provide entertainment. Totally understandable. I also wouldn't be surprised to learn that it's rumored we have 12 cats. Because, really, it's only a matter of time. Or to hear whispers that I'm having an affair with John Stamos...Okay fine, I'm totally the one who started that rumor.

But the pregnancy one has me flabbergasted. Who, huh, what? Maybe people just assume we're having a baby since we've been married for more than, oh, 3 weeks. Or maybe I've been confused with someone else? I keep coming back to this mystery, trying to figure out how this could have gotten started. And then today the thought hit me - what if someone saw me earlier this year and thought I looked pregnant?! Gah! I didn't think I was that squigy around the edges, but perhaps I should have been sucking it in.

For some reason I feel the need to set the record straight. A friend of mine, who has also been married for five years, recently did just that. I think every woman of childbearing age in her husband's family has recently announced a pregnancy, and so she felt the need to make things perfectly clear. And so at their Thanksgiving meal, she said, "I'd just like to announce that I'm not pregnant." It was a joke, and I'm sure everyone laughed. But I imagine it also did just what she intended, which was to stop them from wondering silently or asking aloud, "Are you pregnant yet?"

I think that was the smart way to go. Because apparently if we don't nip these things in the bud, people simply start rumors. As if saying it aloud WILL MAKE IT SO.

There needs to be a person in every retail clothing store whose job is to give honest opinions about the clothes that customers are trying on. Not a sales person, because you could try on a burlap bag and they would swear that it looks fantastic on you and is so this season. No, it needs to be a person who can fill in for a girlfriend when you're shopping alone, someone who will tell you honestly, "You're wearing a fucking burlap bag, do you realize that? No, no, NO."

Rob's company holiday party is this evening, and a few days ago I went shopping for something to wear. I had in mind exactly what I wanted, which is never a good idea because of course I never ever find it. There are things that closely approximate what I'm looking for, but I'll pass those over in hopes that I'll find an exact replica of the picture in my head, as if I'm certain that some designer out there somewhere can read my mind. And maybe she can, but considering that I refuse to spend more than $40 on any article of clothing, I probably can't afford her anyway.

This time, what I was looking for was a dress...and that is a phrase I hardly ever say. There are only three occasions for which I've shopped for dresses: prom, weddings (only ones I'm in), and Easter (when I was a kid). I don't do dresses; I'm a pants person. Cute stylish pants, but pants. I like my legs, but I'm shy about showing them. Plus, dresses feel too open. The air swirls around inside the skirt and suddenly I'm aware of a vortex of air heading for my vajayjay. And that's just not right. Wind chill factor, hello!

But recently I've decided I should reconsider this stance. There's a woman I work with who often wears skirts and she always looks adorable in them, and I've realized that I'm overlooking a whole category of cute fashion opportunities. So, I went in search of a dress for this event. A dark red sweater dress (thin and flowy, not bulky and body-hugging) with longish sleeves and cut just above the knee.

And? I totally found it! That has never happened before. I was just browsing around Target, not finding anything, and then WHAM! There it was, what I was looking for! Except they only had one left. And it was an XS. I am not an XS. I am small, but I'm also tall, and thus my total square footage does not easily fit within the confines of XS. But it was the only one left, and it was otherwise perfect. What choice did I have?! So I tried it on.

And here is where I needed the advice of an impartial person, preferably someone not on commission or over the age of 65. Of which there were none. The dress actually fit great. Except it was short. Too short. Or maybe not, I couldn't tell. I thought it was too short, but then I realized that seeing even an inch of bare skin above my knee would have been shocking to me, given that I never wear stuff like this. So I decided that it was actually pretty hot. But then I remembered the Dressing Room Lighting Effect, of which I've been a victim before. You can look like a fucking supermodel at the store, but when you put the outfit on at home and look in the mirror, you think there must be some mistake because this is not what you looked like! And then you realize that the dressing room must have had Tyra Banks painted on the mirror, wearing the outfit you were trying on, and you totally thought that was YOU. And now don't you feel stupid? And frumpy.

In high school one of the dress code rules stated that our shorts had to reach past our fingertips when we stood with our arms down by our side. This dress met that guideline, so I concluded that if I would be allowed to wear this around hormonal, sexually-frustrated teenage boys, then how bad could it be? Plus, with black tights and knee boots, there will be no skin and very little leg revealed. That makes up for the fact that a little of my ass cheek hangs out, right? Maybe?

I bought it. And I am planning to wear it tonight, although I may put it on this evening, take one look in the mirror, and totally chicken out. Of course, Rob will be no help giving an accurate opinion, because husbands aren't exactly the best people to consult when wondering whether you're too scantily clad. Too scantily clad? they think. IS THERE SUCH A THING?

Yes, in fact, there is. It's a fine line between sexy and slutty, a line I'll gingerly be walking tonight as I try to ignore the breeze blowing between my legs.

I like my eye doctor. I really do, despite the fact that I consider eye drops to be a torture device. And I think my eye doctor likes me, despite the fact that I am totally Rachel Green at appointments. But he said something to me at yesterday's appointment that has done irreparable damage to our relationship. All it took was one word - just one word that made me immediately wonder why he's out to get me.

Bifocals.

That's what he said. He said bifocals. As in, "In the next several years, you are going to need bifocals."

Bifocals?! People, I am 27 years old! Twenty-seven going on 50, apparently. What is up with these doctors who go out of their way to make me feel fucking old? RUDE. Also rude? A certain husband who laughed (laughed!) upon hearing from his dejected wife that she will soon need bifocals (bifocals!). And it was not just a mere chuckle, but a long hearty laugh. Ass.

Rob cannot understand why this bifocals thing bothers me. "It's no big deal!" he says. "You're cute in glasses!" he insists. He's secretly thrilled, I'm sure, because with glasses I will be one step closer to looking like Tina Fey. But it's not just about the glasses, although having to wear them all the time will be a total pain. It's more than that - this is yet another GLARING imperfection. I am nearsighted, and I have long ago accepted that. I wear glasses to watch tv and when I drive at night. But to compensate for this inadequacy, I take pride in having great near vision. I realize how stupid that is, but it's like the cavity thing. I'll take perfection where I can get it, okay? And so at my eye appointments I'm always quite proud, when the tech hands me the cardboard chart to read up close, that I can read the very smallest line. The tiniest letters! With no squinting, and no hesitation! I may not be able to read the huge letters on the far wall, but I get an A on up-close reading!

Except not anymore. Now apparently I get, like, a B+. I can still see up close perfectly fine. Well, not perfectly I guess. (Grr.) But I can see fine. But apparently my focusing muscles are "fatigued." Apparently my vision is slipping, all around. Apparently I'm fucking OLD and getting less and less perfect with each passing day. In fact, apparently the only thing I excel at these days is the act of deteriorating. It seems I'm at the head of the class on that one. I mean, I'll have bifocals before I'm 30! I am totally in the top percentile - of aging.

Fuck.