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.

Whoopi Calls It African-American Friday, Yes!

I am doing it. I am finally doing it! I am Black Friday-ing!

Note: Cross that puppy off the bucket list, yes!

I am standing in a line. A very, very long line. I am pushing large boxes of items on the floor because there are no carts available. Precariously stacked in a Grinch-like manner on top of the large boxes are smaller boxes and trinkets and stuff. There are no carts available anywhere in Contra Costa County, probably.

It is hot in here. It is hot in here because there are a thousand other shoppers, pressing their bodies this close to mine. I am sweating, but I can not take off my sweatshirt to reveal my turtleneck underneath. I am not wearing a bra, you see.

Note: Wearing a bra while shopping in the middle of the night seemed optional, at the time.

A vendor comes through the line with 5-Hour energy shots. For free. No thank you, I say. The ladies in front of me gulp theirs down. They ask for more.

The guy behind me actually has a cart. He keeps ramming it into my ample bum, accidentally, I think. He is staying this close just in case some unruly shopper tries to cut into our line, I suppose.

The ladies in front of me getting boisterous. I think the Energy Shots are kicking in, yes.

I pass the time by fluffing up the artificial Christmas trees dotting the store. My pet peeve is unfluffed artificial trees. The trees look so much better now, the other shoppers agree. Thank you, I am saying.

Why isn't the line moving? I am so hot. The Hub goes to get another Diet Coke to add to our growing pile of empties, which lies on top of the boxes we are pushing, for which we will pay when we get to the checkout. If we ever get to the checkout.

Our line has not moved for thirty minutes. Shoppers are getting restless. I am selected to investigate. Because of my calm, collected manner and excellent negotiation skills, I suppose.

Note: I am chosen because I am the only shopper with the grim determination to take on the Line Manager.

Additional Note: The Line Manager is a roundish control-freak who is a loud talker who employs a series of walkie-talkies and clipboards and bathroom passes to leave the line for necessary breaks, at her whim. She doesn't scare me, oh no she doesn't.

Additional Additional Note: She might scare me a little.

Quick Observation: My cause would be greatly aided if the Line Manager were a balding fellow in his fifties with a belly hanging over his belt. Just saying.

The Line Manager is explaining to me that the Laptop people got to cut in front of the rest of us regular shoppers.

What! Cutter Cutter, Peanut Butter I am saying and then I am offering to buy a laptop so I can cut in line too. She sends me back to the crowd to deliver the news to my fellow shoppers.

No one is happy about the news. There is rumbling. There is pacing. There is a quiet threat of rebellion.

It's so hot in here. I lift up my sweatshirt and fan myself with it. I am careful to not flash the boobies. But if the Line Manager were a balding fellow in his fifties with a belly hanging over his belt ...

After two and a half hours in line, I am done! I am out! I am free!

I need a cart!

I skim the parking lot with my eagle-like vision. I see one, oh yes! The Lady next to me sees it, too. The Lady sees it after I see it, because I am already jogging to the cart, inhaling the cool air. My boobies are bouncing, but it is refreshing, yes.

The Lady next to me bolts for the cart. Seriously? I can take her. I speed up. My long legs are gliding like a gazelle.

She speeds up.

What am I doing? I hand her the cart. Merry Christmas, I say. After all, there must be one more cart somewhere in Contra Costa County.

Merry Christmas!

Heck, yes!

Power. To the People!

Oh Yah!

The hospitality of my new friends in the Northern Plains is refreshing, dear readers.

I am refreshed, not because it's 21 degrees in Fargo today but because it is so darned refreshing to see that Customer Service is alive and well at the Home Depot, oh yes it is.

I do not know what this sign means, exactly, but odds are high that I am quite pleased about the prospect. Of the Employee. Powering up.

Gives a whole new meaning to power tools, you betcha.

Heck, yes!

Mathematics, Simplified. Grand + Grand = More Grand!

Life just keeps getting Grander.

Grand Boy, The Sequel. Grand Boy2. Grand Boy, Part Deux.

A little piece of heaven dropped into my world on a blustery Fargo day.

Note: Most days are blustery in Fargo, yes.

Grand Boy emerges with a lusty cry. The Dot's head rests on the pillow, a smile crosses her face, strands of damp hair stick to her forehead. The SIL brushes tears from his cheek.

The Trophy Wife is speechless.

Note: Some occasions are just simply beyond words. And this, my friends and readers, is one of them.


Additional Note: Do not worry. Do not fret. The Trophy Wife will not remain speechless for long. Oh, no.

Welcome to the world, Little Will. Welcome to the world!

Just Call Me Wild Thing. Yup.

So, I am in the hardware store buying spray paint. I am in a fancy hardware store in a fancy neighborhood and I note that the aerosol cans are not locked up in spray paint jail. I do not have to ask a bored employee to unlock the prison gates to buy spray paint. I can just select the paint. And then buy the paint. It is a revelation in shopping, yes.

Note: I do not know why spray paint in a fancy hardware store in a fancy neighborhood does not require security guards. Perhaps the adolescents residing in the fancy neighborhood are either lacking in the artistic ability required for vandalism or do not wish to spray their private school logo on the wall  of the local bistro, under cover of darkness, no.

Oh, yes. As an adolescent, I had occasionally urges to stick it to the man, sure, and I definitely caused my fair share of mayhem and whatnot. Oh you'd better believe it.

Note: No you shouldn't. I am a liar.

I carved my name in a bench at The Ice Burgie. Oh, yes I did. And, if I recall correctly, I was taken to the police station for breaking the curfew and blaring my car stereo at all hours of the night.

Note: No, I wasn't. I am a liar.

But the point is ... I am buying adulterated spray paint by my own free will and choice.

I am at the checkout, looking down, digging in my purse for my wallet.

Note: The Trophy Wife has a giant handbag which is sadly disorganized.

The store clerk is ringing up my purchases.

I am still digging.

Are you over the age of 18? she is asking.

I stop digging. Am I on candid camera?

I look up. My golden hair falls back from my 40-something face. We make eye contact, the clerk and I.

Oh, she says.

And that is all.

But for one brief moment, I am a wild adolescent once again, drinking soda pop in the parking lot after dark, cruising the strip, although my car is overheating and that's kinda lame. I am carving my name is benches. I am turning in my homework ... a day late.

Oh, the wildness of youth.

Heck, yes!

Just Roll With It.

Actual USGS Scientists at Work

So, the earth is shaking out here in California, a bit, yes.

I do not care for the earthquakes, no.  Mostly because earthquakes are so darn unpredictable. Earthquakes tend to strike when I'm on the potty or naked in the shower or watching Temptation Island. I do not wish to be found in the ruins with my pants puddled around my ankles or in my birthday suit or lazing around on the couch watching cheesy television.

And then there's all the drama. Not from the residents of my fine state, no, because mostly it's how we roll, pun intended.

It is the drama of the USGS.

Note: United States Geological Survey, yes.

Having emerged from his underground bunker in the wastelands of the Nevada desert, probably, The Earthquake Scientist is on the evening news, standing in front of a map and some gadget that looks like my Grandma's old washtub and is pointing and looking grim, yes. Very grim. In somber tones he delivers the bare facts. No sugar-coating from this guy, nosiree.

There is a 99% probability that California will experience a 6.7 magnitude earthquake ... wait for it ... wait for it ...

... in the next thirty years.

Thirty years? Really?

How much government funding does it take to figure that one out?


Thirty years?

Well, I want a piece of this action. I predict that a major hurricane will make landfall in the state of South Carolina ... in the next thirty years. I predict that Will and Jada will split up ... in the next thirty years. Heck, I'll even go out on a limb and predict that the Lowly Chicaco Cubs will end their century-old World Series drought ... sometime in the next thirty years.

Ooh, I think I kind of have a knack for this thing.

I wonder if there are any job openings at the USGS?

Heck, yes!


Note: This post is not intended to diminish any of the suffering of individuals or countries that may have experienced major earthquakes. I'm just fooling around.