And You Think YOUR Holiday Dinner is Rough.

And you think YOU have a crummy shower ...

Okay, so I am watching a well-known Home & Garden Television Network, which I shall not name.

Note: Okay, fine. So I am watching HGTV.

And because I am in the midst of renovating my Ramshackle House on the Hill, I am particularly interested in whole-house renovations.

Note: Okay, so actually I am in the midst of planning the renovations to my Ramshackle House on the Hill. Donations are accepted. Gifts cards. Firstborn. Whatever.

So I am watching HGTV and some Gentleman is talking about how he spent 140 grand renovating his condo and how his new master bath is totally totally fab and and lavish and an exquisite use of materials.

Um, okay.

The Gentleman is showing off the exquisite use of materials and the plushness and the decadence. Of it all, including the bidet.

Um, okay.

Now The Gentleman is referring to THE SHOWER. He is referring to the exquisite use of materials and the spray heads and the waterfalls that grace THE SHOWER.

It is a SHOWER FOR FOUR, he is saying and smiling and gushing. About the exquisite use of materials, I hope.

Oh dear. My heart is happy that The Gentleman loves his renovations. And his materials. And the decadence.

But really? A shower for four? On national television when dear Grandma Ethel, with her pacemaker and all, is watching?

Now, there's a holiday dinner I wouldn't want to miss ...

Heck, yes!

Pick a Peck. Go Ahead. I Dare You.

It's killing me.

Literally, and I am not exaggerating.

Note: Yes, I am.

It's killing me because there is a woodpecker outside my bedroom window. That stupid beast is outside my bedroom window every morning at 6:45 a.m.

Pecking away, yes.

It's not killing me because that danged creature is damaging the house, no. I don't really care. And it's not really killing me that every morning I am awakened, not by a tap-tap-tap but a tap-tap-rat-a-tat-tappity-Mc-Tap-Tap tap-tap-rat-a-tat-tappity-Mc-Tap-Tap.

Note: How does that bird not have a headache?

No, it's killing me because I am sitting on a plethora of Pecker jokes, which, due to my genteel manner and strict upbringing I feel may be inappropriate to share with my readers.

Blast!

I want to say Death to the Pecker or That Pecker is Going Down or That Pecker Has Pecked His Last Wood, but alas, I cannot.

And I cannot observe how Peter Piper Picked a Peck of Pickled Peckers. Oh, wait. That's not right.

Whatever.

But I have to tackle the Pecker problem. I've got a bone to peck with that bird. Pick, I mean.

Sweet Holy Smokes.