Thursday, December 24, 2009

What I Really Mean To Say Is...





Merry Christmas!
(I thought about making some extra-glittery kittens or dancing Precious Moments wise-man -toddlers for you, but the day that happens will be the end of the world, probably. Bringing on the Apocalypse is not very Christmas-y.   Instead, have this too-sweet dancing snowman.  Can he use your bathroom?)

Hope you all have a wonderful, non-Grinchy Christmas -
Love,

 Good -King -Wen-ces-las looked ooout....

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

I wonder If Chicken Licken plays the banjo? Remind me to ask Santa.

Santa Claus, you can be a vindictive sum'bitch.

As my grandpa used to say.

(Well, Grandpa didn't exactly call you a sum'bitch, just most of the neighbors, but I think he'd be okay with it. At one point the two of you were a lot alike, what with the beards and the bellies, and also my Grandpa liked to sit in his La-Z-Boy in the evenings and crack filberts, which are more elegantly called hazelnuts by people who don't have them littering their yards, and I hear you make a lot of holiday nutcrackers.  If you're originally from Arkansas, we might be related.)
 
Anyway, as you may remember from my "punch Santa in the nuts" post, I am not feeling too Christmas-y  this year, and probably you have removed me from your list.

Also, I know now you are trying to drive me insane.

See, lately, say...the last two weeks or so, just I've been laying my weary head on my pillow to sleep at night, I've been hearing something strange.  Sounds.  Almost a melody, but so faint, so indistinct that I've been thinking it's in my head.  I checked the radio, but it was off.  Same with computers, ipods, phones, old toys.  Nothing was making any noise. The neighbors windows were closed and dark. No cars with radio playing were driving by.  All is calm, as they say.

And yet, just as I lay down, there it was again, a sound best described as a chicken playing a toy piano in another room. Yes, Santa, I even checked the yard for chickens and pianos, and came up empty again.

(By the way, am I the only person who remembers chickens playing tiny pianos?  I swear we saw them at the fair when I was little. You put money in a slot, and the chicken would play the piano with its beak, randomly, until finally some chicken feed would roll out of the piano.

This bothers me so much I think I've even mentioned it in another post somewhere, and so I had to go research 'chickens playing the piano' because I was scared I made it up, and at first all I saw were a lot of pictures of cats playing the piano,  Apparently cats are proficient keyboardists.  Then, finally, I found two illustrious chicken pianists:

First, Beanie, shown here doing her homage to Liberace:



And Henny Penny, from the old days: 

http://www.flickr.com/photos/bobjagendorf/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

So nice try with the chicken thing, Santa, but Google called your bluff. Also, is that you in your off-season outfit?)

Anyway, last night, while I was reading Kathy Griffin's memoir in bed, I heard it again, only this time, it had a melody.

And this is why I know it's you, Santa Claus, messing with my head.  Because last night, the chicken pianist was playing "Good King Wenceslas".

Why, Santa, why?

The song played on and on, tinny and faint, and impossible to track.  GOOD KING WEN-CES-LAS LOOKED OUT, ON THE FEAST OF STE-PHEN,  played the chicken. Repeat.  Repeat.  Repeat. Tink, tink, tink, tink, tink-tink-tinkkkkk....

It was impossible to concentrate on my book, even the part where a stoned Andy Dick performs a pants-less lap dance on an audience member. Tink, tink, tink, tink, tink-tink-tinkkk...  


My husband does not hear the chicken, Santa.  Only me.  Also, he informs me that the song is not "Good King Wenceslas went down, on the feast of Stephen", like I always thought.
I have to say I have a totally different opinion of the king now. 

Also, did you know that Wenceslas had really hot feet?  I looked it up.  He was a saint (a real-life Bohemian duke) because he would always go out barefoot in the snow to give money to the poor.  I don't know if he didn't have any snow boots, or he was always in a hurry or what, but he was definitely unusual in his cold tolerance.

According to the song, the king had a page who had to come along every night, and the king would order him around, saying things like "Bring me flesh, and bring me wine, bring me pine logs hither:

Understandably, the page was a little pissed about carrying all the flesh and wine and logs through the snow, and he would complain about it:  Sire, the night is darker now, and the wind blows stronger;
Fails my heart, I know not how; I can go no longer.

 
Still he didn't get to go home, because the duke/king told him to stop whining and just walk in the footsteps he was leaving in the snow.  The footsteps were so hot the page would stay warm just by standing in them:
In his master's steps he trod, where the snow lay dinted;
Heat was in the very sod which the saint had printed.


It's a song about hot sod.

 

So tonight, instead of focusing on Kathy's feud with Dakota Fanning, I'm going to be thinking about the Duke of Bohemia leaving a wake of steaming snow and bits of dropped flesh behind him, and waiting for music that only I can hear to start.

That's pretty diabolical, if you ask me.  I only threatened to punch you in the nuts, you know, it's not like I would have really done it.

At least make it a different carol.  Does the chicken know "The Little Drummer Boy?

Thursday, December 17, 2009

It's possible I might punch Santa in the nuts if I had the chance, but Miss Yvonne is practically a Christmas miracle.

Probably you have been marveling for the last few minutes at just how Christmas-y it's gotten up in here, what with ostrich Santa hats, and novelty lights, and stuff.  Next thing you know I'll be baking virtual mincemeat cookies and sending them to you-  blinking, glittery, holiday STD cookie widgets. If I could only get them to smell slightly burned it would be perfect.

Mostly I just pretend to like Christmas. I could happily live without slice-y angel hair and Secret Santa popcorn canisters and  Mariah Carey Christmas songs.  I don't treasure the twenty years of snapshots of the EXACT SAME CHRISTMAS TREE. We have ornaments I keep trying intentionally to break,especially the Precious Moments praying-toddler-wiseman one that was a gift from my mother-in-law, but that's made of some space-age indestructible material.  Once I threw a  Disney Christmas CD out the window of the car, and then drove over it. A person can only take so much.

I am a closet Grinch.  I was just tarting up the blog to distract you.  My blog is my Christmas beard.

Also, I have to keep up appearances at home, because my husband (the Ebay addict) has come home every day this week with Santa hats.  There are enough Santa hats in the house now to cover every living head in the house three or four times.  No one will wear them, but it's good to know we're never going to run out of seasonal novelty head-wear. That's security.

As usual, I've wandered off topic. Actually, what  I really wanted to talk about is the gift that keeps on giving, and that is Miss Yvonne at Yo Mama's Blog.

I was talking to Steamy and Kurt a little bit ago about how great Miss Yvonne is, and we all wanted to write a post about her genius and then, I'm sad to report, there was a scuffle, and Steamy said something about how my interpretative canoeing is strictly amateur-level, and I made a little "mhmm, mhmm" sound like when you french-kiss a tub of cream cheese because she especially loves that, and then I tried to get her in a headlock, but Kurt broke it up with his handsomeness (which is totally not a euphemism) and also by using the tie to his robe as a lasso.

Finally we decided to share Miss Yvonne, which sounds much more lascivious and awesome than I am up for, frankly.

But I love Miss Yvonne.

She always makes me laugh.  Every single time.  I want to go over to her house and hang out, as long as she doesn't make me help with Christmas decorations. I hear she's crazy-picky about the tree skirt and she probably wouldn't approve of my method of only decorating the front part of the tree.

If you haven't been over to Yo Mama's Blog, you need to go there, because it is a cornucopia of cool. (I just made that up off the top of my head. It's best to leave the alliteration to the professionals.)

For instance, Miss Yvonne listens to werewolf soft-porn audio books at work. Apparently this is a sure-fire way to excite gay men. Also, she decorates corn on the cob with penis-shaped straws, which is a daring design option.

Her renters
a) use her kitchen strainer to clean the fish tank (Somehow Captain Carl managed to herd me out the door before I could grab a paring knife and shank Eco. )
b) are potential kitty rapists
c) live librarian- by -day/sexy- cougar- by- night lives.


She's always on the lookout for her own personal Cheesus,
 So I heard a story on the news this morning that some lady found the image of Jesus in a cheeto. And she almost bit into it when she saw the little Jesus face, so she looked closer and she saw not only his face, but also his whole body. She named it Cheesus, which I'm pretty sure is sacrilegious but also hilarious. Then the news lady person said that most everyone will see the image of Jesus in an unassuming object at some point in their life.

I've started looking here in my cubelet this morning, but so far nothing. I thought for a minute I saw Jesus on the peel of my banana, but it turned out to be Christian Bale, which is close but not quite.

but lately she's been stalking Harry Connick, Jr., 
I'll meet you outside your house for lunch when I get into town next week, okay? I'll be the one wearing reindeer antlers and climbing your security fence.
 

something I'm pretty sure we all can relate to.

When I first found her blog I was excited because her header says she trains monkeys, but so far that's a part of her life she's keeping super-secret apparently.  I keep coming back every day, because I know someday soon she's going to tell us all her monkey-wrangling secrets.  I hope she hurries up though, because I'm thinking about getting my husband one for Christmas, and I don't know how well they get along with cats wearing tiny Santa hats.

So you should go over there.  Say 'hi'.  Hit the follow button. (But only if you promise to come back and maybe follow me an extra time.  It's like a finder's fee.  Also, I'd be lonely here by myself with all those cookie widgets and broken ornaments.)

Besides, Miss Yvonne loves Steamy and Kurt and I too.  Here's what she said about us:
I'm just as funny and witty and good looking as all of them, right? Okay, maybe not quite as funny but I'm definitely as good looking and probably better in bed than all of them. Just sayin'.

It's true.

Monday, December 07, 2009

Remember the Good Old Days, When We Lost Touch With People Forever? I Miss That.

Dear Grown-up Woman I Do Not Know But Who Is Now My Facebook Friend,

You don’t remember me, I’m pretty sure.  Some things are best left unremembered, I think. 

I spent a lot of time with you in your house, a long time ago.  You were four and what is euphemistically known as “a handful”.  Maybe you’ve outgrown that now, but it’s hard to tell from your Facebook profile.

I was a teenager.  I came over to your house a lot while your parents were gone doing some sketchy seventies “marriage retreat” thing, which was probably swinging or visits to an opium den, but I don’t like to dwell on that and who are we to judge, right?

While they were gone we played Boggle and Concentration a lot and you cheated,  but I tried to forgive you because you couldn’t actually read yet.  And then after you and your older sister went to bed I would sit on the couch for hours and try really hard to stay awake.  Didn’t you have a TV?  I don’t think you did.  Here is what was on your walls:

draft_lens6450211module62369062photo_1255185390kliban-cat-nibble

Sometimes if your parents were really late from their swinging marriage therapy sessions, I would hallucinate about the cat with the guitar and all the bloody mouse torsos.

One time, as usual, I confiscated a giant glistening wad of Bubble Yum from your mouth before sending you off to bed.  Only this time, unbeknownst to me, you managed to find another tempting pack in a drawer. Apparently you chewed most of it all at once while lying in bed wearing your little summer sleeveless nightgown, and then you fell asleep. 

I wasn’t in your room at the time, I think I was staring at the cat picture and thinking about Michael S, who was so cute and wouldn’t be arrested for Grand Theft Auto for another four years, but pretty soon your mouth fell open, the giant mass of wet gum rolled from your lips and down your chest, and then came to rest gently in the crevice of your right armpit. 

You were so cute wandering out of your bedroom a couple of hours later, all confused and cranky.

“Did you have a bad dream?” I asked. 

Instead of answering,  you just raised your right arm to a ninety degree angle like a little Hitler Youth, and there, under your arm, were long pink strings of gum stretching from your armpit to the underside of your arm.

I wanted to do the right thing, Grown Up Lady, I really did.  I was pretty sure the answer to gum removal was the application of either hair spray, peanut butter, or ice cubes.  At least that’s what you did with clothes, and it seemed like it should be the same for armpits. 

I looked for hair spray, but it was the late seventies, not the eighties, and big hair and arching bangs weren’t commanding large bulk purchases of Aqua Net yet.  Then I looked for peanut butter, but I guess you’d had a lot of sandwiches recently. 

You can see I had no choice.  I gathered up a big bowl of ice cubes from the kitchen, a dish towel for the run-off, and a paper bag for the picked off gum bits, and then I spent two hours icing your armpit and picking little frozen flakes of gum from your skin. 

Sure you screamed some, and maybe, in hindsight I should have found some nice warm baby oil or something, but you and I are beyond that now.  We’re adults,and, may I point out, you are currently free of armpit gum, although this is an assumption on my part, as your armpit is not really visible in your Facebook profile either, and you did really love grape Bubble Yum especially.  It was like a monkey on your back.

Anyway, last week your mother called me after twenty-five years, out of the blue, after hunting me down on the internet, which was a little weird, but o-kay. My daughters are on Facebook, she said.  They’re looking forward to hearing from you. It’s been so long!!

Honestly I had my doubts, but she was so insistent.

See, I meant to just send you a little “howdy-do” message, but apparently I don’t know how to do that without friend-requesting.  You accepted, but my ‘howdy-do’ has been left unanswered, and now I am a silent, unacknowledged stranger on your friend list.  Kind of a mixed message. It’s awkward, is what I’m saying, and I’m now I’m like a stalker, which hurts a little after all we’ve been through together.

Maybe if I sent you some flair, or a pack of gum, just to break the ice?

Love,

Vic