Thanks to Frahnk for cluing me in to this amazing holiday!

It's at least as important as MiLK Day!

How are you all going to celebrate it? Duke and i would've fed our furry friends...but none were to be found. Come to think of it, it's a pretty stupid time of year to celebrate something so important.

I'm not a prude by any means, and it takes quite a bit to shock me. Heavens knows i'm used to hearing a steady stream of un-PC comments from my friends, and i've been guilty of plenty myself.

But somehow it's not that offensive when Michael drops an N-bomb, say, 'cause he's from Flint, Michigan, the poor dear, and i've met some of his black friends before. I guess i think it's kind of ok to say racist things, for example, so long as you're not really racist. That's called humor. Ask Jerri Blank.

And i suppose River thinks she's an expert on world religions now that she's married to an evangelical preacherman.

But, still, my jaw dropped to the ground when she said to us, matter-of-factly, "You know how Jews are." She made a pinching motion in the air. "They love money." She smiles at Heems and i, then adds, "If you have two Jews and you throw a penny on the ground, BAM!" Her hands smack together. "They'll both be fighting for it."

Benjanderik host a potluck dinner party on Sunday night, and Benjy makes his amazing risotto and Duke brings over roasted squash soup – it would have been butternut squash soup, but Jewel only had two of them, so we had to supplement with acorn squash – and it was a big hit, and Kathleen came, as fabulous as ever, and Chadwick, who I met a couple of years ago at the Retro on Roscoe street fest, when Mintie and I dubbed him PYT, and Joe, delightfully crazy Joe, who befriended the midget couple that afternoon, and Jeff, who we’re meeting for the first time, and there’s a token straight boy here, too, a jovial fellow named Ollie, who’s comfortable around a bunch of homos, and is a good guy, even though he doesn’t know who Anne of Green Gables is, and it’s a fun crowd and we’re all being just the right mix of serious and crass.

Benjy tells me that he was cleaning out his storage closet and found an old letter I had given to him – one of those Don’t Open For Five Years type of letters -- and it was dated back in 1998, and I sit down at his desk to read it, and it’s charming in its utter naïveté – “It’s especially appropriate, given where we are in our lives right now,” Benjy says -- with me expecting to have had kids by now, and my whole distaste for the clichéd gay lifestyle shines through, as well as my all-consuming fear of HIV. It makes me sad, in a way, to read it, but I don’t want to get too pensive now, so I rejoin the group and drink red wine and Joe makes a mention of how I was teasing in email about bringing something with at least three different kinds of meat – the joke being that Benjy’s a vegetarian, and Joe announces, “I never eat pig – unless I’ve fucked it the night before,” and Jeff and Chad and Kat all gasp and then burst out laughing, and somehow Joe doesn’t understand that they’re laughing about what he just said, so, in the same breath, he yells, “What? What’d I miss?”

And everyone’s getting good and liquored up, and Ollie feels he’s somewhat handicapped when we play Celebrity, since he doesn’t know the gay icons – even though it takes us forever to guess Liza Minelli ’cause the person references musicals instead of “Arrested Development,” and Benjy shouts, “Bad gay! Bad gay!” at me – and Ollie says that a Certain Someone has hit on him many a time, “But I just love vag too much,” he says, smiling, and adds, “It’s just so…WET.”

Forget chocolate and peanut butter. Michael’s two great tastes that taste great together are horror movies and 3-D.

So, of course, he was giddy as a schoolgirl when My Bloody Valentine came out, and he organized a group of us to go see the late show on Friday night. He made an Evite and everything.

Nigel drives me and Slutty (her last name was Slutzski, but her ancestors dropped the “ski” part so they wouldn’t stand out as Poles. Isn’t it hilarious that they actually thought Slutz would sound better? Slutty doesn’t mind her last name at all – she knows it makes her memorable. Who can forget a girl named Slutz?)

When we get to the theater it’s freezing in the lobby. It’s not as cold as it is outside, but it’s pretty damn close. So I have the fluffy gray hunter’s cap Mema got me last Christmas on, and Slutty keeps saying I look like I’m from the movie Fargo.

“Lots of people have these hats this year,” I tell her. “Even girls,” and I point two out right there in the lobby.

I keep the hat on as we go into Lucky Strike for dinner. As we’re heading to a big booth by the bar, a man runs over to me and tells me I have to remove my hat – “Dress code.” I guess they’re worried about gang activity or something, but it seems really silly.

Michael’s little brother Matthew is visiting, and he’s brought his girlfriend. Michael didn’t even know he had a girlfriend. She’s cute, with raccoon mascara and bleached blonde hair.

“Have you ever been to Chicago before, Heather?” I ask.

“Last year I came for Spring Break,” she tells me.

“Was it Girls Gone Wild?” I tease.

“No, not quite,” she says, and Matthew adds, “She was engaged then!” and they both giggle over that.

Michael and Catty know the manager and he tells them that some guy they know from the bars (Nurse K.) got arrested for selling prescription drugs. Whenever they see him out he gives them some “Attagirls,” the nickname for Aderall.

When we go to get our 3-D glasses, which look exactly like Tom Cruise’s Ray-Bans in Risky Business, I hear the girl in the ticket booth say to a couple, “The theater is 50 to 60 degrees. Is that OK?” So I lean in and ask if our theater doesn’t have heat either.

“Y’all are the lucky ones,” she smiles at me. “Your theater actually has heat.”

While we’re waiting for the movie to start, sitting through the same awful pre-movie loop – we’re supposed to be excited about Patrick Swayze’s crappy new TV show ‘cause it’s set in Chicago – we notice that the theater is lousy with homos. Who knew so many gayboys would be into a slasher flick? I mean seriously – half the room is gay.

The movie itself is mediocre. Just enough gore and nudity and scary moments that make you jump and cheesy, unintentionally funny parts. The 3-D redeems it, though. I keep thinking that that’s the future of movie-going. Soon all movies will have that amazing depth; photos, too probably. In five years, we’ll all be saying, “Gosh, remember when pictures weren’t 3-D? It seems like ages ago!” Like we say that about black and white photos. And we’ll most likely sigh and say, “2-D pictures are so cool. There’s just something so nostalgic about them.”

After the movie, Nigel drives me and Slutty home – I’m totally in hibernation mode – but the rest of them go to Catty’s new beau’s favorite South Loop hangout, some upscale Black bar called M Lounge. Richard knows the owner and apparently is such a good customer, she paid for him to fly to Vegas with her. Yes, he and Catty are two peas in a pod. Except Joyce at the L&L couldn’t afford to fly Catty anywhere.

They talked about the movie, and Catty said that all he really remembered was the awesome death by shovel.

Michael looked at him and said, “Catty, if you only knew how many times I’ve wanted to do that to you.”
 

This is downright ridiculous.

Negative 15 degrees? I mean, come on.

I've started wearing my scarf over my face with my hat pulled down so all you can see are my eyes, and those just barely. Duke says i look like i'm wearing a burqa. Why the hell did i agree to go out tonight? I don't care if the movie IS in 3-D (the remake of My Bloody Valentine, which, of course, Michael is spooging over) -- it's literally arctic out.

As i hurry along to work, my toesies feeling as if they could crack off at any minute, i pass patches of dark yellow snow. Those dogs must be dehydrated. It reminds me of when i was a kid and my friends and i would always giggle over what we called the Golden Rule of Winter: Never eat yellow snow.

Now that i'm older and more mature, i actually think it'd be much more funny to tell kids that yellow snow tastes like butterscotch. Don't you think?

Duke looks as the top tags for my blog posts:

birthdays
catty
chicago
crazies
death
drunks
duke
gay
greyson
mema (you made the cut! congrats!)
michael
photography
politics
san francisco
uptown

And everyone knows, when it comes to tags, size DOES matter.

The more you tag something, the bigger it shows up in a tag cloud. So in Hipsterhomo's Fairyland, Catty and Michael loom the largest, along with Chicago.

"Why are Catty and Michael so big?" Duke wants to know.

I have to think quickly. "Um, cuz you're ALWAYS such a part of my life that most of the time i just ASSUME that the posts are about you, too." Not bad for being put on the spot. I think i sounded convincing, but he's squinting his eyes at me.

"Look," i say, showing him the tag cloud. "You're right up there with death, drunks and crazies."

Somehow that doesn't make him feel much better.

It really is amazing. I can't look at a sock now without envisioning a monkey child emerging from it.

I decided to do mine inside-out to add to the fuzzy Frankenstein feeling.

(Duke documented the process, and now that he's making his own monkey, he's pouting that i'm not grabbing the camera and documenting his own journey. We'll take pics of the final product, though.)

Here i am, sewing for one of the first times ever.

One sock is for the legs, torso and head. Here i am stuffing it.

The other sock is the rest! The tail, the arms, the face and the ears. The only part of the sock you toss, really, are the toes. Here i'm cutting the ears.

The lil bugger is coming together!

Sewing on the ears. He's almost done!

Only needs the eyes! IT'S ALIVE! IT'S ALIVE!

And there he is! Meet Argmore Goyle! David Jacob said he had to be named Argyle, because of the sock and because of the street. But i had to throw in the "more" part. There's a trend in Chicago where historic buildings on corners were named for the two streets they sat on. There's an apartment building at Argyle and Kenmore that has what i find to be the hilariously unappealing name The Argmore.

My sock monkey reminded me of a gargoyle for some reason (though his face is actually rather bovine), and his name starts with "arg," so i gave him the second name Goyle.

Here he's thanking Web Goddess for providing the instructions for his creation.

Argy quickly acquainted himself with Bananasaurus and went for a ride.

Ring around the rosey!

Oh, Argmore! He downed that glass of wine lickety-split! Like father, like son.

There you go! My new buddy, my new baby.

Last night, around 10 p.m., i gave birth to a strange yet adorable creature. It wasn't too painful, either.

I finished my very own sock monkey! His name is Argmore Goyle and i'd like to think he's quite a handsome fella.

Whenever i get a hole in one of my socks, i throw it out, but i just can't bring myself to throw out the mate. So i've had a collection of mismatched socks in my drawer that i'd wear now and then.

And, yes, these are often women's socks, okay? Ya happy now? I like fun socks -- colorful argyles or bright blue with snails or fun checkered patterns -- and most of the time it's the chicks who have those options. When i buy them at Target, i make pretend that they're for my "girlfriend."

Once Chausette the Sock Monkey came into our lives, i've been thinking about giving her a little brother or sister. I don't need to be going around with mismatched socks. I look enough like Punky Brewster as it is.

Making a sock monkey really didn't take much time at all -- i'd say two or three hours total, if that. Keep in mind that i've never sewed anything before and i had to figure out the whole knotting process to start. I got frustrated when our cat Boudini would bat her paws at the yarn and mess up my stitch. But she was just being a cute lil kitty. And the reward!

I brought Argy along with me today, showing him off first at our coffeeshop and then at work. River gushed over the lil guy and told me, "You know, i was feeling pretty angry this morning -- well, not ANGRY, but upset -- but that stuffed animal made me feel much better."

And then i showed it to Dawn, and she fawned over Argy, too. I think he's going to get a big head if this keeps up. Dawn clutched the monkey to her ample bosum and asked, "Is it okay if i keep him by  me for awhile?"

Pictures to be posted soon!

How to spend a sleepy, snowy Sunday? I decide to head up to Hancock Fabrics to buy the materials to make sock monkeys out of my mismatched socks.

These are the sites i'm using for my Franken creations:

web-goddess

wikiHow

Supersockmonkey.com

The world outside my door is wonderfully white. At least a foot of snow covers everything in sight.

But there's something amiss. Something doesn't seem quite right.

And then it hits me: No children playing in the snow.

City kids so rarely play in the snow. No one is having a snowball fight. No one is building a snowman. No one is making snow angels.

When i was a kid and we got any amount of snow, my friends and i were outside all day, making igloos and Snowl, the snow owl (boy, did i think i was clever for coming up with that one), and packing six of us onto my parents' toboggan as we'd slide down our neighbors' driveway. We'd stay out for the entire day, sometimes not even bothering to come in for lunch or hot cocoa breaks.

And it's not just in the winter that you don't see kids playing outside. Sure, there are the tot lots and the entire lakefront, but i'm thinking back to the summers i spent at my parents' house, Galleius Glen, in Annapolis, Maryland. It was a wealthy neighborhood, with lots of young doctors and lawyers and Washington types, who lived in massive houses with beautiful front lawns as big as football fields.

We'd've killed for lawns like that, growing up. But i'd never see any kids on those lawns. Nobody playing football, or Red Rover, or Mother May I? or Red Light, Green Light, or Smear the Queer (just jokin' about that last one).

I'm thinking about all this as i exit the el station and walk through the snow on Thorndale Avenue.

Up ahead, i see a woman with a white cloth covering her head, and a navy top, with a large gold pendant, and my first thought is, A nun! You don't see a whole lot of them nowadays.

Then, as she gets closer, i see that she's wearing a skirt (even as the temperature dips toward the single digits), paired with combat boots. And the pendant isn't a cross -- it's a Star of David! My next thought is, Oo! A prostitute! I see more of those than nuns.

By this point, she's in front of me, and she's got terrible acne all over her face and i hear her muttering a nonstop tirade of profanity -- muthafucka PUNK ASS BITCH ASS fucker -- that fades out of earshot once she's passed me.

I nod my head and come to a conclusion. A prostitute nun!