'Tis the Season

'Tis the Season.

Oh, I am not talking about spending too much or eating too much or fretting too much, about the spending and eating, mostly.

Oh, I am not talking about cranky drivers in the shopping mall parking lots or bell-ringing Santas with obviously fake spectacles or poinsettias dropping leaves faster than the falling of the stock market.

Oh, I am not talking about joyful holiday gatherings and hanging stockings with care or delivering goodie plates, which are probably regifted elsewhere, let's face it.

I am talking about the epitome of the holiday. The end-all, be-all of the holiday season.

Yes.

I have lost the Christmas gifts that I put away for safekeeping.

I am searching high. I am searching low. I am searching above. I am searching below. I am searching inside. I am searching outside. I am wondering where I could have possibly hidden the perfect must-have gifts that I purchased a few mere weeks ago and hid away.

Forever, yes.

It's officially Christmas!

Heck, yes!

My. Christmas. Wish.

I am listening to the conversation of the Cute Young Men who are checking me out at the grocery store.

Note: Simmer down. They are not checking me out, per se. The Cute Young Men are checking out my groceries: two stalks of celery, two red potatoes, a sourdough roll, a bottle of diet coke with lime and a can of light whipped cream.

Additional Note: Light cream? That's an oxymoron, my friends.

The Cute Young Men, with Justin Bieber hair, are discussing their shared mutual Christmas Wish of saving the world, someday. I comment, because I must, of course. What aspect of Christmas world-saving do you have in my mind? I say.

The Cute Young Men shrug. Oh, the environment, one says while the other, clearly his wing-man, nods agreeably.

Oh, I say, that's nice, but my Christmas Wish is for everyone in the world to have an iPad.

Then I realize that sadly, I am in the midst of Non-Believers.

The Cute Non-Believing Young Men mock the iPad. The best gadget you didn't know you needed, they are saying, Oh the giant iPhone, they are saying.

I am patient with The Ignorant. It is not their fault.

It's because you do not own one, I say, it's because you simply do not know the fantasticness that is the iPad.

I explain it's fantasticness, briefly. I read and respond to emails, I peruse MLS listings, I use it for recipes, I GPS myself and others, I blog, I write my book, I play games, I create grocery lists, I check my (busy) social calendar, I check weather anywhere I wish, I buy stuff online, I share photos of my freaking adorable Grandson, would like to see?, I listen to music, I draw pictures, I read novels, I G-chat, I watch movies and television when I travel, I read and mark my scriptures, I wirelessly print all kinds of stuff, and that's just the beginning, yes!

The Cute Non-Believing Ignorant Young Men listen, politely. Then, as if hit by some bolt of lightning, Checker-Outer says, Oh, it's like a computer. Except you can take it anywhere you wish!

The Wingman agrees. And it doesn't take up so much room in a landfill oneday and ruin the environment like a big old computer.

I smile. My work here is done.

I will go home now. To my Big Giant Desktop 27-inch I-Mac with all the bells and whistles.

I hear a landfill, calling my name ...

Heck, yes!

Yes. That's a Peg Leg, My Friends.

My obsession with pirates is well-documented. And my fetish, if you please, with the rubber chicken is no passing fancy, no.

So, what's better than a rubber chicken? What's better than a pirate?

Yes, that is correct. A rubber chicken dressed as a pirate.

It's like a marriage made in heaven, yes.

Sweet. Holy. Moses.






- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad Paddy, or Paddington, if you prefer the more formal approach from the Sonoma County Hall of Justice, where as a public servant, I await Jury Duty.

Mom

I'm thinking about my Mom, who is celebrating her eighth birthday in heaven today. Eating angel food cake, of course, because after all, she's in heaven. With lots and lots of candles, which makes her mad, probably, but the cake will light up heaven tonight. And when I look into the sky, I'll find the brightest star and I'll know that she's there, blowing out candles and laughing. And her eyes are crinkly at the corners and almost disappear when she laughs. And I love that.

In her honor, please indulge my reposting a tribute from 2009. I love you, Mom!

I'll Be Seeing You.

Dear Mom,

I hope that you are having a great"Birthday to Heaven" today. I'm not sure what you do there to celebrate the anniversary of your return. From my earthly perspective, I hope that your day is full of flowers. Pink camellias, towers of impatiens, fragrant bunches of lilacs and poinsettias. Lots and lots of poinsettias. Do you remember that at your memorial, the room was full of poinsettias? And Mom, they have so many new colors of poinsettias now! Oh, but you probably already know that, being in heaven and all.

I also hope that you are surrounded by people you love. Well, otherpeople that you love. Like your Mom and Dad and your brothers and sisters. And I hope that you are spending time with people I haven't met yet, like my future grandbaby. And I'll bet you have so many family pets running around there that every once in awhile you want to give them a little shoo, Sissy! Or shoo, Peppy! I always thought it was hilarious that dog was named Peppy. I don't think I ever saw her do more than saunter. And on an occasional basis at that.

And I hope that you are celebrating Christmas just like we used to in our cozy old house, except it's not foggy. And you get to decorate the tree with icicle strands and make divinity and snowballs. And I hope that you finally learned the harmony to 'Silent Night' because I have learned it and I look forward to singing it together sometime.

There have been some changes around here in the last seven years. Did you know that I am now known for having fantastic shoes? I know. I thought that would make you laugh. And get this--my last hair appointment cost me two hundred bucks! Two hundred! Isn't that something? Oh, and my hands are looking more and more like yours. The arthritis in my thumbs is progressing pretty fast. But I manage.

Oh! I finally wrote my book! Dad likes it. He's not exactly a tough critic. I imagine that you would like it too. I hope you don't mind that I talked about the time we went skinny-dipping. Yeah, I know. Good times!

I've thought a lot about your last moments on earth. A little part of myself was ripped away that night. Well, a big part, really. But that big part has been filled, mostly, with friends, family, joyful memories and happy thoughts of the future.

And that future includes you, Mom.

I'll be seeing you. One day.

God Bless Mr. Dyson: A Christmas Story.

In an unusual turn of events, to be sure, I am experiencing a Grinch moment. Yes, me, the proponent of all that is Optimistic and Hilarious, yes. My Scrooge-Meter is in overdrive. A Bah Humbug spirit envelops me. Or envelopes me. Whatever. I don't even care.

Note: I warned you. It's not pretty, no.

How can this be? The Trophy Wife Spirit is a joyful and decidedly merry approach to this grand adventure called Life. What the heck?

It all begins with rat poop, but that is true of all great Christmas stories, yes.

Note: Technically, I suppose it begins with the rats themselves with their beady little eyes and their dirty little feet and their nasty, promiscuous ways. In my garage, yes.

It is a warm midsummer day when I notice the first scurries upon entering my the garage, followed shortly by mounds of shredded paper before the sighting of the nasty little pellets. Of rat poop, yes.

The confirmation, yes. Of the rat.

So, I set out a trap or two, not fully understanding the ramifications of the presence of the rat. In retrospect, I realize that I waste valuable time because in the ensuing week or two of trapping nothing, those beady, dirty, nasty, promiscuous rats have been doing the happy dance in my garage, if you know what I mean, and I think you do, and have created hundreds, perhaps thousands more of the beady, nasty, dirty and promiscuous beasts and as you know, the Trophy Wife does not exaggerate such matters.

So, with no recourse, the rat poison buffet begins. And those beady, dirty, nasty promiscuous, and stupid beasts love their Buffet of Death. They consume box after delicious box, probably telling their stupid rat friends all about the free lunch in the Trophy Wife’s garage.

Fast forward to December.

I open the door to The Dungeon, which isn't actually a real dungeon, although that would be hecka cool, but is actually an under-the-house room accessed through the garage and although probably originally intended as a wine cellar, it serves well as a Christmas decoration storage unit, yes.

There is an avalanche.

Of rat poop.

Note: Okay, maybe not an avalanche, exactly.

But it's dirty and nasty. And it's everywhere. There is rat poop in the garlands and ribbons and all that is merry. There is rat poop in the wreaths and trees and the berries. There is even rat poop in the manger.

Note: No, there isn't.

I have found the Lair of the Dead Rats.

So, I'm feeling grinchy, yes. But thanks to Mr Dyson who invented a vacuum cleaner that never loses suction, even when the device is full of rat doodle and has inadvertently sucked up the skeletal remains of a beady, dirty, nasty, lusty, gluttonous beast, yes, and thanks to Mr. Lysol who invented disinfectant which, inadvertently causes a mild, but pleasant high when inhaled by the canfuls, yes, Christmas is cleaned up and back on track, almost.

God Bless us, Every One.

Especially Mr. Dyson.

Heck, yes!

Illegal. Aliens.

So, NASA has big news.

Apparently, there seems to be evidence of alien life. Scientists have released the startling discovery of alien DNA, potentially. In California.

Duh.

I've lived here my whole life and I see aliens every single day.

Note: I wonder if the NASA aliens are legal immigrants to this fine state. Are there passports and VISAs in outerspace?

Just wondering.

Heck, yes!

Simmer Down! I'll Be There in a Minuet!

I am reading the local newspaper. The Food section catches my attention because I am always hungry, yes. There is an article about the importance of thoroughly washing and rinsing leeks, which is a very good idea.

Note: Sadly, I experienced a poorly-rinsed leek in my Sausage-Kale Soup, which is akin to eating a nice hot bowl of soup at the beach on a very windy day, if you know what I mean.

Ooh look! Readers of the newspaper are sharing favorite holiday cookie recipes.

Note: I love holiday cookies, although in the olden days, we made Christmas Cookies.

I peruse. There are recipes for Raspberry Ribbons and Ginger Doodles and Viola Shortbread Cookies, which contain neither musical instruments nor pansy-like flowers, no. Then another recipes catches my attention, however briefly, yes.

Note: I have many things that require my attention, as you know, which accounts for my somewhat short attention span.

Oh, I am thinking, Graham Cracker Cookies sound delicious.

I glance through the recipe. Four sticks of butter. Excellent! Bittersweet Chocolate. Excellent! Raspberry jam. Excellent! And the directions seem pretty straightforward. Whisking dry ingredients, creaming butter and sugar, blending until combined, dividing dough and securing in plastic wrap to chill for 30 minuets.

Thirty minuets? Really?

I am loving this recipe!

So, I google The Minuet and learn how to perform The Minuet and I'm practicing with the Hub, who is a very tolerant man, yes. It is requires curtsies and bows and pointy toes and counting to three. A lot.

Yes, the recipe seems like a lot of effort, what with the dancing and all, but it's Christmastime! So, I'll just keep practicing.

Perhaps a new Christmas tradition is born!

Heck, yes!