Christmas Randomness OR I'm Going to Blather-I'm Just Warning You in Advance OR Happy Holidays, Ya'll! Don't Drink Too Much of the Spiked Eggnog and Then Talk to Weird Uncle Chainsmoke

That's a Xmas tree.  I would have done beer cans myself, but
Spam cans are a definite contender for uniqueness, redneckedityness,
and flair.

First off, happy holidays to everyone who's blessed enough to read my blog.  (All wonderfully clever people with a superb sense of humor.)  Merry Christmas, happy Hanukkah, happy Christmas to my UK cohorts, happy Kwanzaa, happy any other holidays I missed in my blatant attempt to cover everyone.  (It's actually a blatant attempt to CMA.  Psst.  That stands for cover my ass, an ability I've developed over many years of constant practice and am lately woefully stretching the boundaries of the CMA.)

Second, bad news for all you Fat Woman addicts.  (Horrid, wretched news.  Lock your alcohol away now and keep your knives in a drawer where you can't see them.)  I'm taking a blog break for two weeks.  That's right.  No new blogs until January 15, 2012.  (Oh, stop shrieking in agony.  It's only two weeks.  Two and a half technically.  If you really wanna get technical.  Well, do ya, punk?)

I just saw a collection of Dirty Harry movies at Target and
I wanted to use the line.  Well, do you, punk?

Now for more amused anecdotes that will probably cause peas (or other mysteriously lodged food) to shoot out of your nostrils.  (Or whatever else you put in there when you were six years old.  You know who you are and your mama remembers that, too.  She probably kept the emergency room X-ray just in case you get uppity when you're older.)  Of course that makes me think of a story I heard this week.

25 years ago a woman was standing on a set of stairs using a felt tipped pen to poke at something in her throat.  Something else happened and she swallowed the pen.  (She said she was standing on a set of stairs using a felt tip pen and a mirror to poke at a lump in her throat, I do not know.  I suspect she does not know.  In fact, I suspect if the pen hadn't caused her problems in the future it would have been an insignificant side note in the family history.)  She told the doctor and her husband but they didn't believe her.  (This story sounds taller and taller to me.  I wouldn't have believed it.  "Excuse me, Irene, you were doing what with what while on the what?  Oh, please.")  Fast forward to today when she had the pen removed and the pen was still capable of writing.  (Note to manufacturer: Your pen obviously has staying power.  You might want to buy it and put it in your museum of weirdness.  Or maybe make a commercial with Charley Sheen.  Either would work well.)

I see the pen.  Also I see massive depression and two dogs playing ping pong
while playing pinochle.  (I was just playing with some Rorschachs's cards.  If
you don't get this reference, it's because you didn't take Psych 101 in college
or you didn't watch One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.)

Oh, wait.  I forgot this is a Christmas themed blog.  I must go back and illustrate in my twisted manner.

Do you think the woman gave her permission for her
x-rays to be posted ALL over the Internet?  Because
if it was me who had a 25 year old pen lodged
inside me because I was obviously completely
effed up, standing on some stairs poking a pen
down my throat to see something about
my tonsils, I WOULD NOT give permission
to share with the entire freakin' world.

What does this have to do with Christmas?  Not a lot, but the story amused me and I did initially bring up the possibility of things shooting out of people's noses.  (Wouldn't it have been funny if this woman had sneezed at the holiday dinner table and a 25 year old felt tip pen came shooting out of her nose?  Well, probably not.)

I'm certain there would be a rational, intelligent conversation about
it, at the dinner table. You think she upped her fiber after the alleged
incident? I would have. I would have just gone ahead and
invested in the BIG package of laxative.

Warning: change of subject about to happen!  Whoops.  There it went.

HIM, the man to whom I'm married, went to find a kitten for our daughter.  Our daughter, Cressy, will apparently die without a cat this Christmas.  She's even got a name picked out for him.  A weird name, which is pretty much par for our house's course.  It's Megaroy.  I asked her to repeat this several times while she got increasingly irritated with me.  "MEGAROY, MOTHER, jeez, are you deaf?"  "Yes, but what does it mean?"  "It means kitty," she said condescendingly.  Then I gave up because it was better than what she named the dwarf bonzai.  (Bathtub.  I do not understand.)

This is a face I've had to look at consistently for the last month.

Perhaps we parental units got a little wrapped up in other things and put off the cat search for a little too long.  So HIM went out and shopped shelters.  Consequently we came to the conclusion that we'll have to write a letter to Cressy from Santa.  It goes something like this:

Dear Cressy, 

I know you asked for a cat and Santa wanted to bring you one.  But Santa's sleigh is too cold for kitties and I worry about kitties falling off the sleigh while I'm flying all around the world.  So your parents are going to take you to a special place where there are lots of kitties who need your loving care.

Sincerely,

Santa Claus.

P.S. Go easy on your mother when you're thirteen and madly in love with the fourteen year old in your algebra class and you don't want braces on and you think you should have your own Porsche when you get your learner's permit.  She likes her teeth in one piece and not ground down into little white crumbles of dentin.

Oh, we're going on the naughty list.  It's a conundrum.  We're 'supposed' to lie about Santa Claus, but if we lie then we should get coal in our stockings.  Right?  You think Santa sits at the North Pole trying to figure out who was telling the 'good' lies and who was telling the 'bad' lies?

Basically, Santa's got a messed up job.  Is there any kid on earth who isn't on the naughty list?

Well, happy holidays to one and all.  Be back to blog about my experiences with the hitherto unknown cat, Megaroy and who is really going to clean the litter box.  (I have the nasty suspicion it's going to be me and I'm not happy about it.)  But hey, think of all the fresh blog material.

See ya next year!