I wanted to share a picture with you, but the candle holders have mysteriously disappeared (interesting), so you’ll have to use your imagination. The candle holders have turned up, so now you can judge for yourself:

I knew immediately when I spotted mine:

But the showering elephants never made it to the Christmas gathering. It was so ugly it was confiscated at the airport. I know, I know: “ugly” is not on the prohibited list, but you know what is? Snow globes.

“Seriously?” I asked the TSA agent. “That’s way less liquid than my trial-sized shampoo.”

“Yeah, I think it’s the liquid they use,” he said, giving it the once over, and, to his credit, not sneering.

“It’s distilled water!” I may have made a snow globe once in my Martha Stewart days.

“Come on, that is not on the list,” I tried.

“Actually, I think it is,” he said.

I fought on despite the fact that I knew there was no way he was bending federal law for me, but at some point, I started to enjoy it. This guy had to wonder why this God-awful snow globe was so important to me when it was ugly.

“My mom’s gonna be so disappointed,” I sighed.

“Do you want to check it in your luggage or do you want us to dona–” I’m sure as the words came out of his mouth he realized even the TSA wouldn’t be so cruel as to donate a tacky elephant snow globe made in China, and so I let go, into the world of misfit toys and the bin of dangerous items.

Turns out the TSA agent was right. Not only are meat cleavers, hammers, and ice axes prohibited, “Snow globes and like decorations regardless of size or amount of liquid inside, even with documentation” are a no-go.

Still, I’m having a hard time picturing a terrorist on a plane wielding a snow globe. Listen up, Samuel L. Jackson: there’s a movie just begging to be made.

The Tiger’s Wife was fantastic. Loved it. But it would have been the movie with the big studio behind it winning the Oscar. You can’t help but root for the little independent. I had heard Ward, the underdog, on NPR saying how she was thrilled just to be nominated for Salvage the Bones. She sounded so sincere that I wanted her to win. When she won, I committed to read it.

The writing is harsh in the most beautiful way, punched-up to a poetic level, and tight. You like the protagonist, her brothers, and even a pit bull so much that you’re worried from page one about the storm that’s coming. The tension builds like the winds that sweep across their Mississippi land.

I read 30-odd books this year and found it hard to choose a fop five from among the many contenders. And then I remembered that no one’s making me choose five. I just like to put five in my book widget, but that I can choose 10 if I want. And I want, so here’s a recap:

I finally got around to reading The Elegance of the Hedgehog, a fun flight through the philosophical that everyone read when it cam out in 2008. I’m slow to the table, OK? Plus, I put it down twice when I tried reading it back then. This time it stuck and I was duly rewarded. If you’re not feeling pressured to read the most newly minted novels (The Marriage Plot, The Art of Fielding, enough already), read it.

I also brushed up on a classic or two, reading Jane Eyre at last (very slow to the table). Jane and I would have been fast friends had I lived in the English countryside way back when. We could have roamed the meadows bundled in our layers, arms linked, stopping to talk about books and our crush on the quirky Rochester.

Forging on with my resolution last year to read books I might not normally pick up, and failing by page two of The Hunger Games, I gave in to the critical acclaim for last year’s National Book Awards nonfiction winner and devoured Just Kids by Patti Smith a memoir of her years spent with Robert Mapplethorpe. Oh, to have such a supportive artist and quasi-lover who champions your growth and creativity, while coming of age in New York City. What a power duo.

Under the category of titles I’d rattle off while awaiting laughter, I read and loved two books. The first was The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating by Elisabeth Tova Bailey. Seriously, if you don’t go out searching for snails to love after reading this, you are not human. The second, while not as lyrical, was Wesley the Owl by Stacey O’Brien. If you don’t go out looking for your own owl to mother after reading this, you are definitely not human.

Dog Years: a Memoir by poet Mark Doty that interweaves the loss of his partner  and dogs, another not-so-new book, was phenomenal and heartbreaking. And I’m not even a dog owner.

And finally, the most entertaining read, judged by how much I have to suppress laughter on the train: This is Where I Leave You by Jonathan Tropper.

Go forth and read, people.

My co-worker and I chair a fun committee at the office (we’re serious about fun) and this year instituted a white elephant Yankee swap. Gifts could be small, preferably lame, and must be derived from one’s office. I wrapped up a CD and a skull and bones eraser and unwrapped a plant that was whisked away in the swap. I ended up with a testy wireless mouse that I had unloaded months earlier on my co-worker. Ah, the circle of office life.

I read more issues of Rachael Ray’s Every Day magazine than I care to admit. She’s chipper that one, but she puts out a good magazine.

Every year I make my sister a calendar with photos I’ve taken, surreptitiously, of her dog, Molly, in various states of ridiculousness. This year’s theme was “What’s on Molly’s head?” What was on Molly’s head, you ask? A colander, apple, myriad stuffed animals, coffee filters, salad bowl, and a hat. Doesn’t it seem like she really, really enjoys it?

On yet another mild January day, I walked through the near-barren orchard and watched a hawk pluck a mouse from the field, the scent of sour apples lingering.

I read some good books over vacation but the best one by far, Salvage the Bones, took me through the last days of the year. More on that in my upcoming book wrap-up.

I pressed my face to the window watching for deer in my sister’s backyard. She and her husband spot deer posses traipsing through the yard, their hoof prints pricking the yard. I’ve yet to see one of these phantom deer.

My sister and her husband took me on a hike through the woods in the backyard where the famed deer live. Sometimes a hike can be a walk.

I Christmas shopped with my mom, a near-70 Energizer bunny, and had to sit, more than once, with the old people on the bench of the outdoor shopping center while she forged on.

I rented a million movies and finally saw The Muppets and appreciated the numerous nods to the 70s and 80s and the fact that there are enough lovers and dreamers who welcome back the Muppets with a big furry hug.

So, the other day, after checking the closet and confirming that she wasn’t behind the couch (her go-to hiding spot), or behind the wardrobe or under the bed, I was worried that she had vaporized—until I saw the corner of the armoire curtain was amiss. A cursory looked turned up nothing, but a second look deep into the recesses of the assorted linens and pillows revealed a surprised Maple, nestled in mosquito netting.

So I’m watching the bucktoothed llama and the irresistible, angelic-faced goat when a tuxedo-clad gentleman wanders over to the fence where I’m standing. It’s true that most men look good in a tuxedo, but this man looked especially good. And then he opened his mouth.

“Do you know what kind of animal this is?” he asked, pointing to the ostrich. The ostrich. Not a wooly mammoth or a zebu cattle that might be hard to identify on a little farm in Peabody, but a run-of-the-mill ostrich. Who doesn’t know what an ostrich looks like?

Before I could answer, he was out of the running despite the aforementioned very nicely tailored tuxedo.

“It’s an emu,” I said.

Please. Like you can tell the difference.

He snapped some photos with his iPhone.

“Fleeing the wedding?” I asked.

“Looking for a date, actually,” he said.

Now, this is where one might come up with a clever retort (“Might I apply for that job?” or “Give me two minutes; I have a dress in the car.”) before an adventure ensues. Others might insert the phrase “opportunity missed,” but I would like to reiterate that the man could not identify an ostrich. Also, his boutonniere suggested he was part of the wedding party, and what kind of friend wanders off and leaves his buddy at the reception?

I glanced from him to the ostrich/emu.

“Looks like the emu is free,” I said.

“Now comb out his mane,” the trainer said. “He can’t feel it.”

Dove’s mane rivaled Medusa’s. I know how I’d take to someone dragging a comb through, but Dove was a trooper.

Minutes later, I had my boots in the stirrups, heels down, and was being led around the arena like a kid on a pony ride. A dog with a feather in its hair, ran around the dustbowl, pretending it was a horse. With the reins, I steered Dove around some cones but got the sense he’d done it a million times and my steering was just slowing us down. I did a lap perched like a jockey—half standing, knees gripping the horse—and then a bit of trotting, which involved that bouncing motion that looks so effortless but is not. Just so we’re clear, I will not be riding the range alone or breeding show horses anytime soon.

Not me

Definitely not me

But moving to my modern pad made it stick out like a sore bureau and demanded that I drag its bones (and it has excellent bones) into the current decade. This is the candidate:

Before I went all Nate Berkus on the bureau

Cringe-worthy rosebud knobs

Despite keeping and eye on the feline lest she leave paw prints on my shiny new paint job, Maple was curious about the whole endeavor and kept sneaking off upstairs to smell the paint. She’s weird like that. I, however, did not enjoy the smell of oil-based paint and slept with the windows open, which, in a New England October is crisp. The result: a freshly revived bureau that keeps my sweaters snug and warm; just don’t look at the makeup remover pads I put under each leg to protect the floor that are now irretrievably stuck to the bureau.

After: a subtle lilac color

Fancy green glass drawer pulls from Anthropologie, which frankly cost more than the bureau

A little research turned up the fact that Ikki Matsumoto is the artist and that he features a lot of whimsical animals in his work, inspired by his mentor, Charley Harper. Who (sorry) could resist these stick-legged owls gazing at the night sky with comets in their eyes? Come on! How awesome are these little guys? $5 worth of awesome, though I would have paid a lot more.

The next weekend’s sale brought in this vibrant print for $3, a beach scene I snapped up, ironically, hours before the first snowfall.

Accessories were practically begging to go home with me, so I gave in to temptation and scored a horsehair belt, which is probably not horsehair, but I don’t know how else to describe it, two dangly pairs of earrings, and a Scotty dog ring that makes me feel like I have a dog without all the hassle.

And you thought those blow up lawn decorations were just for Christmas.

The carnival at night

But the other morning, when I woke up to see not tourists in the cemetery but a witc—well, judge for yourself—I knew Halloween was on.

The treats are pink and bulbous and the squirrels go to town on them too, so they must be tasty. Animals coming from miles around for this delicacy, apparently.

Tasty

Still, I don’t want my furball sprayed by Pepe, so I ease over to the door to scoop her up only to find a second skunk waddling by to check out the flower pots. An infestation.

At dinner, PBS is generous enough to air a show on the crafty world of skunks, illustrating close up how they secrete that spray. Not exactly dinner fare. And while the narrator insists that skunks retreat first and spray only when surprised or threatened, I can’t help but think a human and cat inches away through a screen door might signal danger and an upturned tail.