Anticipation, anticipation, is makin' me late. . . .

Anticipation, anticipation, is makin' me late. . . .

My last internet-ordered gift arrived in today’s mail, so for all practical purposes, I’m done. With shopping, I mean. I still have a pile of boxes in the back of the car that need to be mailed, but if they’re a little bit late, I figure there are people who will have some more Christmas joy a day or so after everybody else’s gift-opening is over with. That’s how I’m rationalizing away my inability to haul my lazy behemoth-sized behind to the post office, anyway. I know there are people who are anxious to get some of these boxes, so I apologize profusely. The boxes will eventually arrive, I promise.
Does anybody else out there love to sit in the darkened room and just look at the twinkling tree? It’s as if some kind of magic was nesting there in front of the big living room window, for us in the house to see and for anybody driving along the road to share. I can’t wait for my kids to come home! I don’t think they can get away from their jobs until Christmas Eve, but it will be so good to have them here that night, to wait for Santa Claus (yes, we are a thoroughly believing household!!) and to once again watch them opening their gifts on Christmas morning, turning just for a few minutes back into the little giggling children they used to be.
I think one of the biggest ‘transitions’ of our lives is that first Christmas morning when your kids don’t wake up at the crack of dawn, desperate to run into the room to see their presents. It’s a real shocker, that first Christmas morning when you find out that your kids would really rather sleep in ’till ten or so, and open things up then. I’m all for sleeping in, myself, but on Christmas morning? I’ll never get used to it.
I threw all the dirty laundry down the front stairs and now it’s going to be really hard getting over them to the laundry room. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
And now, since it’s almost four in the afternoon and I’m still bumming around in this ratty red gown, perhaps I’d better put something on before someone rings the doorbell and gets a nasty shock.
One more week, dear ones. And it’s my favorite week of the year; it’s still all ahead of us, and the anticipation is better than the actual day.
Merry Anticipatory Week, everyone.
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The Dirties Eat Out

My Cousin C and I went to the city today, where we did a little shopping, hung out in a doctor’s office, did a little more shopping, and finally had to take a little rest in a Chick-Fil-A while our enthusiasm caught up with our age.

In the booth next to us, a woman and two little girls ate politely, conversed quietly, cleaned up their clutter, and left.

In the booth next to them, a woman and two little kids-of-unknown-sexes ate loudly, conversed hysterically, and left. Notice please that I left out ‘cleaned up their clutter,’ because they did NOT clean up after themselves.

That woman left the booth a disgusting mess. Oh, she gathered up the easy stuff, the paper mess, but she left the real mess all over the table and seats: played-with food all over the tabletop, mashed unidentifiable ick all over the seats, and an aura of UNCLEAN in their wake. Person after person came up to the empty booth, but recoiled when they saw the filth this woman left behind. The restaurant was so busy, it was a while before someone was able to devote that much time to cleaning up after The Dirties.

Sometimes, I agree with Bill Engvall. THOSE people need to wear a sign.

I used to take my two toddlers out to eat on occasion. Yes, tiny children often make messes, and yes, it is often hectic to deal with them, and yes, it can make a person frantic. Are any of these things legit enough to justify creating a mess in a public place and walking away from it? No, they are not. What kind of person would do that?

I wonder what this woman’s house looks like? Never mind, I think I know.

Sometimes, a mess is inevitable. Not cleaning it up is inexcusable. And if the server tells you not to worry, tip him. Big. But to trash the place and slink out, leaving it all behind you? Nice people just don’t do that.

Sure, someone is paid to clean up the place, but they are not paid enough; at least, they shouldn’t be expected to have to clean up someone’s disgusting children’s disgusting aftermath.

People with no table manners should eat at home.

I am Mamacita. Accept no substitutes!

Hitting the fan like no one else can...

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Scheiss Weekly by Jane Goodwin (Mamacita) is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 United States License.