Celebrating Christmas last Wednesday evening with my husband's father and girlfriend, all the big kids and grandkids met at a local Mexican restaurant. We drank margaritas and ate way too many nachos and burritos then headed over to my father-in-law's house for dessert.
Where we all sat around, stuffed to the papadas, unable to move.
Hey, so I fuck Castro, what's it to you? You a Communist or something? How would you like it they tell you all the time what to think, what to do, you wanna be like a sheep, like everybody else. Baa baa? Puta! You want a stoolie on every block? You wanna work eight hours a day and you never own nothing? I ate octopus three times a day, fucking octopus is coming out my ears, fuckin' Russian shoes are eating through my feet. Whaddaya want? You want me to stay there? Hey, I'm no little whore, I'm no stinking thief! I’m Tony Montana and I'm a political prisoner here from Cuba and I want my fucking 'Human Rights' just like President Jimmy Carter says, okay?...
Can you even think of a better way to celebrate Christmas with the conservative side of the family?
Having just slipped into something more comfortable* that Santa brought me from Victoria's Secret, I now plan to cuddle up under my brand new cranberry cashmere throw with David McCullough:
Born in Tidewater Virginia on February 11, 1732 (by the Old Style calendar), George Washington was the great grandson of John Washington, who had emigrated from Northampton, England, in 1657. His father, Augustine Washington, was a tobacco planter also known for his "noble appearance and manly proportions." His mother, Mary Ball, was widowed when Washington was eleven. Because of the family's reduced circumstances, he had had little education -- only seven or eight years of schooling by private tutor, no training in Latin or Greek or law, as had so many prominent Virginia patriots -- and, as those close to him knew, he was self-conscious about this. By steady application he had learned to write in a clear, strong hand and to express himself on paper with force and clarity. He learned to dance -- Virginians loved to dance and he was no exception.
Ooo, baby, baby.
*They're thermal pajamas. Geez. Get thy mind out of thy gutter.
"I need to get another phone number for you. Every time I call I get your answering machine. I hate when I get that answering machine."
"Well, I don't have another phone number. Just leave a message and we'll call you back as soon as we can."
"But I always get that answering machine. When I call I want to speak with someone."
"If you get the voice mail, that means we're out or on the phone. That's why I have voice mail, so I know who called when we're busy."
"I would rather get a busy signal."
"But we work from home. I can't have clients getting a busy signal -- that's why I have it set up to go into voice mail. Think of it this way -- if you get our voice mail, that means we're busy. Just think of it as a busy signal."
"You should get another phone number."
"But I don't want to pay for another phone number when voice mail will do. All you have to do is leave a message and we'll call you right back."
First rule: Do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing asbsolutely nothing. All they do is show you've been to college.
And I realize some of you may be having trouble deciding whether I am kidding or not. So from now on I will tell you when I'm kidding.
For instance, join the National Guard or the Marines and teach democracy. I'm kidding.
We are about to be attacked by Al Qaeda. Wave flags if you have them. That always seems to scare them away. I'm kidding.
If you want to hurt your parents, and you don't have the nerve to be gay, the least you can do is go into the arts. I'm not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.
A Man Without A Country -- Kurt Vonnegut
*Beautiful first lyric to a song I just heard for the first time while listening to my son's i-Pod staring at the Christmas tree and all the carnage spread 'round the room: "You're beautiful" by James Blunt.
Here's to *someone out there* who got here by searching for "If Bush Was A Girl."I do believe that searcher might need a Christmas miracle. And am a little dismayed that I am involved in such a situation. Oh well. It's Christmastime. All is forgiven.
And here's to all you lurkers! You know who you are. And I'd love to know, too. Jus' sayin'.
Can't close without saying Happy Holidays to you. And, oh yeah -- you, too! And I could never forget you. Or you. And, of course, you. And all of you!
As I've told a few friends lately -- may we have a more peaceful 2006 and may the new year make more sense to us than the last few years have.
One more wish, then I'm done.
May you never mix your metaphors in the new year. And may you forgive me when I do.
You know, all at once I both hate and love the word "Re-Gift" and the concept of "Re-Gifting." I hate that it's all trendy and the cable news talking heads keep saying it and analyzing it, yet I like to say the word myself and basically think there's nothing wrong with the idea of it. (Unless of course you would give me some old thing that's been in your basement for years because basically you're too lazy and shallow to think of a cool present for me. Well then, if that's the case, re-gifting stinks and is for losers. I'm so easy to buy for. For Pete's sake, just pay attention.)
Hence and therefore, here I am paying it forward. Another gift from me to you, originally from Jeddie Ningo of the one and only Jingosphere. He is a musician of the highest order. Check it out:
Oh-ho! Lee Knight!
a man -- especially one whose notion of Musical Humor was formed
listening to the musical mayhem of Spike Jones and who's not
particularly prone to the Reverence Due the Season -- access to a
reasonably hefty Macintosh running GarageBand, a triple CD of
Hanna-Barbera sound effects, and a basketful of kazoos, slide whistles
and butt-stupid percussion instruments, and you might get
May the blessings of the Ex-Muss Season Be Upon You.
Did you click on the link? Didn't you love it? Nobody holds a candle to the Jingomeister.
Anyone who actually believes there is a coordinated, planned War On
Christmas is not only borderline mentally retarded they are also in
feverish possession of just slightly subclinical paranoia. Welcome to
your own freakshows, assholes. God. You ever wonder why us progressives
think you conservative god fearin' folks are mental midgets deserving
only of our profoundly arrogant disdain? Umm...because you are. Y'all
It's a Blue Family tradition. Each year, the weekend after Thanksgiving, we head a few miles down the road to the Christmas Tree Farm. We've gone Christmas tree hunting at this charming little farm for 10 years now.
We either walk boldly into the vast landscape, handsaw at the ready to hunt the tree down, dragging it's lifeless -- yet still thirsty -- pine carcuss up to the barn. Or we wimp out and choose one already cut, displayed in the barn by the main house.
I'm not sure which trees to feel more sorry for -- the ones already hanging up in the barn or the ones out in the field.
Are the ones in the barn more popular? Special in some unknown way? The Christmas Tree Elite? Why do they deserve the special treatment of being presented so beautifully inside the barn, near the nice old lady who serves hot chocolate by the wood burning fireplace? It all seems so quaint and festive until you remember that these elite trees are all hanging from the ceiling and are usually sent spinning in circles time and time again by rotten little kids all jacked up on hot chocolate.
How do the trees still growing out in the field feel? Are their still-growing roots quaking beneath the frozen surface? Stuck, can't move, as the hunter families stand there, pulling and poking at them, not even thinking twice about saying, "This one's no good at all! Too big! Too skinny! Too lopsided! Uneven, too ugly, bad color, I hate it, can't stand it, won't buy it!"
Yeesh. After all of that abuse, you know most have to suffer from sort of of horticulture-related Stockholm Syndrome. Brainwashed to feel lucky -- like a chosen one when someone chops them off at the trunk.
"See! I'm the winner! Have fun out here, ya losers! I'm off to a nice, warm loving home!"
Suckers. They don't realize that this is the beginning of the end. Sure, at first you lovingly give your tree water, you decorate it to make sure it's a beautiful as can be, even brag about it to friends and family for a couple of days. But time marches on and who really cares that much? Dumb tree's as dry as a bone in 1 weeks' time.
This year we skipped the hunting part and went right into the barn. God forbid I even get any hot chocolate out of the deal. My hormonal teenager continues on a daily basis to ruin any family fantasy I've imagined in my head. Getting a Chrismas tree is now lame. As am I. Anyway.
Get it. Bag it. Go. That's our new Blue Family tradition.
As we were paying for the tree, the teenage girl took my money and asked if we would need a tree stand or bag to go along with it.
I replied, happily, "No thanks!" I'm so grateful now when a teenaged person is civil, it makes me perk right up. Talk about Stockholm syndrome.
And she returned cheerily, "Ok! Happy Holidays!"
I was all ready to pull a Wolcott. I even had a fist made, arm pulled back as far as possible to get a good heathen whack in, but then, shocked, stopped myself!
"She's one of us Mom," my son whispered from the back seat.
So she and I exchanged the secret liberal Christmas code.
And we were on our way back home with that 8 foot sucker strapped to the top of the car.