"Touch not my life's faire wyffe, for she doth give dandye heade."
Everyone who works at our local CVS pharmacy’s drive-through window knows us by name. I suppose this is better than being known by name at the McDonald’s drive-through window, but since most of the teens working at McDonald’s in this town were in my study hall in 8th grade. . . . oh well, fame’s price. . . . .
Tonight, waiting in the pharmacy drive-through line, behind a huge red jacked-up pickup truck, its sub-woofers thumping away, we happened to notice that on the rear window behind the driver, was the following sentimental saying: “Trucks are like wives; if it’s not yours, don’t touch.”
On the window behind the passenger was etched “My wife gives good head.”
All together now: “Awwwwwwwwwwwwww. . . .”
And they say that rednecks don’t do poetry and romance.
Fifi: A Love Story
She looks pretty good to be 29 years old and full of superglue, doesn’t she.
A few years ago, I thought I would try something new, so I put a twinkly-lights-covered star on top of my tree. It was beautiful, but after a few days, I took it down and hung it from the bannister, down into the landing, and put Fifi back in her rightful place.
Beauty isn’t enough. It never is.
Fifi is supposed to perch on the top of the tree by jamming the tiptop of the tree into the hole underneath her skirt, but I only tried once. It just didn’t feel right to be doing that. I mean, look at that face; I just couldn’t do that. Let’s not go there, okay? Is that a siren I hear?
So now I tie her to the tree with fishing line. Why that makes me feel better, I’m not sure, because one is almost as pervy as the other, but even so.
We found Fifi at a Hallmark store that is no longer there, well after our first married Christmas, for less than half price, which, back then, was just a couple of bucks. I’ve since tried to find other Fifis on Ebay, because it’s the only thing on our tree that my children actually want, but only an idiot would pay that much. Apparently, I’ve got a rarity. Who knew?
We’ve been without any cookies in this house for almost a week, which is not like me at all. I’ve got several hours between classes today, though, so guess what. . . .
I’ve spent this afternoon mostly in the kitchen, baking. I’m not artistic, but I am colorful.
Come over, and stay a while. We’ve got lots of cookies and other goodies. Nobody leave my house hungry.
Dear internet friends, friends who are as dear to me as any friend I’ve actually seen, I hope all of you are happy tonight. I hope your families are together, and everyone is speaking, and that love is ever a part of all your lives, tonight and always.
And, if I may, I want to wish you all a Merry Christmas.
I’ll be saying that several more times until the actual day, you know. I’m a big believer in wishing others well at all times of the year. Those whose belief systems can’t handle being wished well by someone of a different “persuasion” need to memorize the following statement: “Thank you.”
That’s the proper response to someone’s well-wishes. Not an indignant “I DO NOT CELEBRATE OR BELIEVE IN CHRISTMAS AND I’LL THANK YOU NOT TO IMPOSE YOUR BELIEFS ON ME.” No, indignation is not a proper response at all when someone wishes you well.
It’s a simple response, really. “Thank you.” Why is that so hard for some people?
Merry Christmas. “Thank you.”
Happy Hannukah. “Thank you.”
Joyous Solstice. “Thank you.”
Fruitful Kwanzaa. “Thank you.”
Season’s Greetings. “Thank you.
Gleeful Winter Faery und Elfin Tide. “Thank you.”
Earth Goddess Tidings. “Thank you.”
See how easy it is? Memorize that response, oh indignant ones, and life just might flow somewhat more easily for you.
. . . how lovely are thy branches. . . .
I took this picture a few minutes ago, in a darkened room, no lights except the tree lights. And, I guess, the camera flash, because look how light it turned out!
Is that me, reflected in the window? Gad, I’m fat.
Fifi the Angel has graced our tree-top since Belle was born; we’ve had only one Christmas without either of them.
It takes me about three full afternoons to decorate our trees. That’s “trees.” Plural. That’s right, there’s another one in the dining room. I can’t take a picture of that one right now because it would also show the dining room table all covered with rolls of gift wrap.
A closer look at my tree will show you how packed it is with the ornaments I have collected all my so-called ‘adult’ life. Okay, since 1973, I’m old, all RIGHT.
Both big trees are like this. Also, Hub’s tree down in the family room, which he never takes down. Why? Because he likes it. Sigh. I seldom go in there.
There are several foot-high trees here and there around the house. I don’t really count those as Christmas Trees, although ‘some’ people have called them so. Those are covered with miniature ornaments, much like the bigger ones on the actual Christmas Trees.
Surprisingly, or maybe not, neither of my children is especially interested in my beautiful Christmas ornaments; they prefer the vintage ‘fifties’ look for their trees: fragile glass ornaments and swags of ribbon and tinsel, etc. Oh well. I saw Belle’s tree a few days ago and it is breathtakingly beautiful. She has really good taste in spite of me.
I love this time of year so very much. I hate that it is winding down. It goes so fast, so incredibly fast.
Wahhhhhh, hold me. . . .
