That one line, “Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse,” has started quite a little industry. The Christmas market is endlessly reduplicative–there’s only a finite number of symbols that really say “Christmas,” so you have to really milk every new noun you have. So, merry christmouse.

This isn’t the best photo, but Autosharpen just couldn’t keep up with the demands, and when I used “Despeckle” the image just…vanished. Hang this combination wreath and mouse on the front door to set the tone for the Christmas party–awkward shuffling, muttered questions of “what does it *mean*?”) and, just possibly, a really big cheese plate–but strictly cheddar and Wheat Thins, this is a nice party that doesn’t put on airs. Only gingham.

Those eyes, like two felt cataracts. I’m not sure what it’s vaguely gesturing toward. Maybe it’s hoping someone will get it a Wheat Thin.

The Christmas Mouse tradition–note the iconography of the bow-around-tail–continued at a nearby Goodwill.

Better to zoom in a bit though, so you can see him in all his Christmas glory.

Not a happy mouse. Someone woke him up. And he doesn’t care if it’s Santa, the Tooth Fairy, or even the Pope, they’re going to regret this poorly-timed mouse call.

Not real sure what’s going on in his hand. Maybe a candle stick. Maybe a bong. Looking this closely at it, yeah, that red thing is probably a candle, but really it looks like one of the stripes of his pajama is inexplicably trying to reach closer to god, like an absurdist upraised pinkie. And usually candlesticks are brassy or wooden. Really, I’m thinking that particular shade of purple-pink is more reserved for adult items of an unusually intimate nature, though the shape really says “little Christmas mouse hash pipe” to me. You’d hope he’d be more mellow.

And nothing, nothing says “Merry Christmas” like maimed labradors.

All together! We wish you a broken puppy, we wish you a broken puppy. We wish you a broken puppy, with a truncated rear!

These were part of my post-holiday bargain shopping a few years ago, found in a big pile with all their other broken brethren, a small scattering of lost and forlorn body parts underneath. The sign said “50% off,” but to be fair, I think it looks more like only about 20%.

…so named because he was discovered by NASA for the space program. I don’t know.

This sad state of affairs very nearly came home with me. What says “Kid, give up on all your holiday dreams, you’re getting socks this year” like a dead unicorn in a glass ball? It’s like something Voldemort would hang up with the tinsel.

Put this one up next to an ornament showing a Department Store Santa cashing his paycheck for three bottles of Jack Daniel’s, and maybe a very small, festive treatise on the Historical Jesus. Go for a theme this year.

And lastly, what’s more seasonal than a Christmas Goose?

Don’t worry, Mr. Bear. It’s only once a year, it’ll be New Years soon and the booze will take the shame and humiliation of Christmas away in a nice, champagne-colored haze.

Puffy Quilted Christmas Mouse from the Salvation Army on 1325 near Round Rock, painted, surly Christmas Mouse from goodwill on 2222. Maimed labradors from Goodwill near 620 on 183, dead unicorn ornament from Savers on North Burnet near 2222, and Quacky the “Take It!!” Christmas Goose from Goodwill on 2222.

Whatever you’re going to say, we’ve heard it before. “It’ll never work. You’re from two different worlds. She’s resin, you’re ceramic. You’re better than him. She’s only interested in your money, when you’re dead and gone, claimed by that strange skin condition that doctors can’t even begin to diagnose, she’s going to flip you upside down, pull your cork out, and run away with your life savings. Don’t do it, he’s a fish.”

But he’s not a fish, he’s a living, breathing, mammal, with warm blood, warm feelings. And we’ve had ENOUGH of it. If a girl and a ceramic porpoise with a slot for coins on his head can’t make it in this world, it’s not a world we want to be a part of. So don’t tell us no. Don’t give us advice, just stand out of the way when we’re going up the altar, because he can only stay out of the water for like an hour, and my body’s fused into one large, columnar mass, and I don’t really change directions very well. This is our Happily Ever After, and if you don’t have something more useful to say than “Don’t marry porpoises and don’t marry cake decorations,” don’t hang around for the reception.

Goodwill on Metric and 183, Austin

There’s a lot to be said for reality TV. Or at least you could spend a lot of time trying to list all the programs. I’m not sure why you would want to do this, it’d be a bit like rolling a boulder up a hill while roller skating, but maybe you’ve got your own thing going on, everybody needs hobbies.

But I do like Gordon Ramsay. He’s charmingly hostile, has a puckish exterior, and probably knows his way around a spaghetti alla puttanesca, for example. But do I like him this much?

Is he really all this? Is Ramsay “Damsels with floral wreaths following behind him, singing his praises and scattering flowers in his wake, while cherubim and seraphim in constant chorus endlessly repeat ‘Hosanna in the highest, blessed is he who comes after local news on Wednesdays’” great?

Yeah, probably.

Here’s the sad part. I came in next week on my usual pilgrimage, and that same parade of vestal virgins, angels, and possibly a creepy little lawn gnome were prancing about, beatifying a resin-cast frog in a bikini top. So, I have to say, they’re either fickle, or easily impressed.

Most Holy Bobble-Headed Ramsay’s miraculous apparition seen by this lowly mortal at Savers near 2222, Austin.

“No, no, you can trust me. There ain’t no giant snails here. Not a one. Now you just sit yourself down here…that’s it, real slow like. Just…relax, for, you know, five, ten minutes.”

“You know I’m you’re friend. Rabbits don’t lie, I’m your BESTEST friend. I ain’t never fed no-one to no giant snail. That’s a complete fabrication. What they say, a base canard.”

“…But all the other children, they said the bunny started talking to them, and then they never ever did come back, oh no they didn’t. Momma said, ‘Never talk to la-go-morphs. They’ll always betray you.’ And Momma never did give me no foolishness.”

“Who you going to listen to, sweetheart? Who’s got a fluffy tail and big cute ears? Your mother? Well, maybe she does, maybe she doesn’t. But I’m telling you, no-one on MY watch ever got eaten by a giant snail, and that goes for you too, sister.”

“Okay, but if I get eaten by a snail, we are not going to be friends anymore.”

“Okay, I can live with that, if you can.”

…Shortly after the giant snail ate the small, challenged girl, I found this hat. I really don’t have a lot to say about this hat, except that it’s not your everyday hat. In fact, I’m not sure it’s an any-day hat. It’s the sort of hat that someone brings out to a chorus of “oohs” and snickers, and then you’re MADE to wear the hat while people tell you about how the next two years of your life are going to be endless sleepless nights, screaming, and and a limitless amount of crap, which really isn’t so much different from graduate school.

The baby on the side is kind of a young Linda Blair. Or maybe the little tyke in Trainspotting.

Jane! Get me off this crazy thing!

There were a few more treasures, some of which will make an appearance for Christmas–but the day was drawing to a close, and there were Goodwills to be found, and dinner to be had (once the nausea died down). We headed to I10.

Can you smell what the Duck is cooking?!?

Okay, maybe not, but don’t let the satin dress and pink headband fool you–she’s the uncontested queen of Collectibles. Each one of those pearls she ripped from the neck of her enemies, that sash is a RIBBON OF HONOR and GLORY for her many victories.

Oh, I used the wrong picture.

There we go. Now you can see the bodies of the fallen in broken disarray around her. This is a powerful duck.

It’s also apparently a collectible duck? Is she part of a set? Maybe each one comes in a different color, and they fight the forces of the Clown Lord with a series of dramatic poses, and at the end of each episode his buffoonish minions grow to about 100 times their normal size and trample through Women’s Garments and the Electronics Section, scattering clothes and shattering house goods (that may be redundant–this is a thrift store, and the plates were pretty chipped to begin with, and the electronics really were a little dodgy anyway).

She and her five sisters together form a Super Mecha Battle Duck Bot, as strong as FIFTY stuffed ducks in dresses.

So, basically, the clowns probably don’t have that much to be afraid of.

Savers on Burnet near 2222, Austin

They do not know who I am because for so many years, I stand by the man with the grass skirt. He smiles, he invites the ladies over for parties, to drape flowers around their necks. He tells them about his rippled sixpack, about the grass under his feet, about how difficult it is to keep the grass skirt smooth, and how much he would appreciate their help in this matter.

Me, I’m the one that carries the basket of fruit to the party, that sets the tables, that blushes furiously when he squeezes my orange and asks me if a tender fruit is ripest. I’m the one that wore two petticoats, an overskirt, a head-scarf and a heavy linen apron to a luau, because that’s the way I roll.

Everything is stitched together. My worried frown, shining with second-hand embarrassment that he somehow reflects from his bronzed skin. My mouth is a thin line of gathered stiches, lest I tear my face open and howl at the moon for pain, for the aching joy of finally making a noise, of breaking out of this endless moment of service to finally, joyfully, bite into an apple of my own, dare to eat a peach, shame the world by tearing his skirt off and wearing it myself, proud flowers against shockingly white skin, breaking my stitches in shameless, selfish happiness, and he can grin like a fool all he wants, because that skirt’s not going to hide either of us anymore. Today. Today. TODAY, by God. Just as soon as I find a platter for these grapes.

Savers, South Lamar and 290

You may be wondering, if you’re in one of the several states where the spread of oil threatens your local ecosystem, “how do I keep our birds safe?” Certainly the spill in the gulf is the greatest petroleum-based threat to avians in recent memory, bigger than when John Travolta’s hair wiped out a flock of seagulls in 1978 (the glare confused them). Some people go to nonsensical extremes.

But sealing your waterfowl away from the world in a glass box is only delaying the inevitable. They must be free…free to fly, free to find out who’s got half their beaks. Free to be birds.

Plus, an all-glass bird cage is really kind of revolting after a few weeks. Trust me.

So, third time’s the charm, right? But begin with confidence, paint with bold orange acrylic, and REALLY permanent marker. This is a house for BRIDS, damn it. Write it proud.

Oh.

After teacher gently corrects you, and you realize your mistake, you know that day-glo orange and blood-red will probably scare away the brids. So, entrance two, a more inviting one. A gentle invitation for the brids. How we love them. We love them.

What? Well, crap.

After teacher uses the standard copy editor’s mark for “transposition” to show the error of your ways, and maybe held your hand this time, it’s time to decorate! A little glitter-caulk just about covers up your first bold forays into spelling, and a long ribbon of drool demonstrates that this clever little contraption isn’t a three-seater, but a single bird longhouse cleverly disguised as a block of birdie condos. You were just as shocked as I was, I’m sure, so you shellac the damned thing in green, tell mom to put it on the back porch, and dare any brids to chirp their complaints. It’s a heartless universe, and a remorseless back yard. Take this, sparrows, it’s more than you deserve.

There are more sophisticated ways to mess with a songbird’s head. Bearing in mind that you couldn’t find their brains with a pair of tweezers and a Fresnel lens. The most deliciously perverse treatment is to make a birdhouse out of birds. Then watch their confusion!

That’s right, a pretty outdoor hut covered entirely with…marabou stork? Owl feather? Not a clue, but it’s GUARANTEED to scare hell out of wrens, finches, and other turdiform bug-eaters. Each night they’ll sit, quivering in their bird box, and think “Whatever’s out there, it killed an owl and stapled it to our house. Be quiet and maybe…just maybe…it’ll go after the robins.

The only thing that’s more hideous than this nasty little bird chateau is what it would look like if it was actually used. By birds. Outside, in the rain. Add a nice green slick of mold and despair to the thing, and never be bothered by finches again. I can only assume the whole thing looked better on page 35 of Martha Stewart Living, maybe after a few martinis.

Glass cage found at Goodwill on Parmer near I35. Other bird houses at Goodwill on 183 and Metric. Oh Goodwill on Metric, say the word, I’m yours.

Be careful when you put on your shoes. Venomous clog-nymphs are everywhere.

Okay, there’s nothing terribly upsetting about this guy, right?

The eyebrows are a little bit creepy, and he looks altogether too eager to make your acquaintance–and he’s nearly a foot long, at that stage you really should think of making the transition from “plastic miniature” to “stuffed animal,” but maybe he was made for a child with a delicate digestive system, easily rinsed off to hide his shame. His eyebrows are weirdly dark and glossy, and the same color as his nose, and overall he looks a bit like someone you’d expect to encounter sneaking furtively out of the $.25 peepshow arcade.

Oh, no, Nothing so innocemt as that.

This is the bear you’ve been warned about–eager to corrupt innocent young kewpie dolls to service his base physical needs. No doubt he has a harem of PVC-headed, tousel-haired sex slaves. You can see it in his smirk.

“You look young, unbroken, and you have a plastic head. Let’s see if you can do anything about…this.” (Zzzzip! thump.)

I’m sure he’d be even happier if he was anatomically correct. On my limited honor, I did not set up this shot. They were that way when I found them.

Found at Texas Thrift, near I35 and 51st by the Famous Christmas Store, Austin, 9/05.