Tickle Me Amadeus
I put all my Christmas cd’s in the stereo. I’m ready to begin.
I love this time of year above all others. The anticipation, the lists, the planning, the opening of boxes to see decorations and ornaments I’ve seen at this time of year and no other, for nearly thirty years. Last night after all the Thanksgiving dishes were done, I got out my Christmas dishes and glassware, and put the autumn dishes in their place, in that hard-to-reach cabinet above the stove where the Christmas dishes live all year.
Did you know that the seasons are not capitalized? This bothers me a lot. “Monday,” yes. “November,” yes. But “autumn, winter, spring, or summer?” No. Unless they are the first word in the sentence, of course, but I’m tired of grammar lessons during vacation so I’ll stop now.
Oh, oh, the Trans-Siberian Orchestra!!! I must run into the dining room and crank the volume up to eleven!!!!!!
I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving, and I hope you are all anticipating the next holiday, MY FAVORITE ONE, as much as I am. And if you’re not, well, have a wonderful time enduring other people’s enjoyment of it, anyway. If you want to celebrate Unholy Yearly Curmudgeon Solstice Wintertime Blues, go right ahead and you’ll hear nary a complaint from me. I expect the same from you about my holidays. I promise not to laugh when you tell me about your family celebratory dinner of roast venison, shot down out-of-season and therefore EXTRA yummy, and your tradition of finding bb’s in the meat and flicking them across the tablecloth at each other while singing songs about how other people’s religions and beliefs are evil while your own is the ONE. I won’t even giggle when you describe your annual Sacrificial Snowman ritual, and how it represents the fragility of mankind.
Yes, I will. Sorry. Frosty-killers.
Hub wanted to check out WalMart today and I laughed in his face. I am not a bargain-stalker. I don’t even shop in stores, except for groceries, these days, well, not much. I do almost everything online. No lines, no fuss, and a LOT of great deals.
I can’t offhand think of a single thing that would make me want to stand in a line that spirals around the store three times and requires guards to keep the nasty people from trying to cut. Nope, not a single thing.
But whenever I read about people who’ve been standing in line for a long time who gang up on a ‘linecutter’ and beat the shit* out of them, I smile.
*I meant to say “tar.”**
**No, I didn’t.
People who cut the line are scum. They were scum in sixth grade when they cut the lunch line and those selfsame people are still scum now that they’re in their early thirties and cut the WalMart Day-After Sale line because Bubby and Misti Dawn HAD to have that toy/electronic device/video game deck/limited-quantity Bert doll (he’s the one who looks like a dildo with a face) or else their Christmas would be RUINED and don’t we all UNDERSTAND THAT KIND OF PRESSURE that a mother feels when she thinks of her spoiled rotten whiny ankle-biters precious little children on Christmas morning with SOMETHING ELSE under the tree which of course means no happy smiles for the video camera and the internet? We MUST HAVE the current Playstation and an Elmo who reproduces asexually (it’s for small children, you know) whilst giggling and linedancing. What is Christmas all about, anyway???
I don’t think those kind of parents even know.
I do apologize for perhaps stepping out of the character you thought you knew, but sometimes it all gets to me.
My wholesome image is shot now, isn’t it.*** Crap.
*** It was a matter of time.
I blame those footprints on the moon.
We've got soup to nuts, and we've also got soup for nuts.
Our Thanksgiving Day meal has always leaned towards the traditional: turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, etc.
It still does, with one exception.
Every since Zappa grew up and moved out, he has been cultivating a somewhat creative, out-of-the-southern-Indiana-box attitude towards cooking. I think this is fantastic. He has always liked to cook, and he has always liked to experiment in the kitchen.
I don’t think there is any kind of edible ‘thing’ that he will not try. And if he likes it, he will learn to cook it himself.
Remember, this is the boy who describes a cow as “A steak surrounded by shoes.”
I’m not saying his contribution to this year’s dinner is strange, but I bet Mom thinks so when he tells her what it is AFTER she’s tasted it.
He made soup, and it looks really good. Homemade broth, full of vegetables and funky spices and meat.
What kind of meat, you might ask? And well you may, too.
It does look like chicken. I haven’t tasted it yet. I’ll keep you posted.
My baby boy. Seven feet tall, flaming red hair, Dean’s List twice this year, finder of truly awful interesting videos on the internet, and one of several computer ‘guys’ on the college campus. Call the desk for help, and you’ll be speaking to my baby. He’ll be right up there to fix your problem. Be nice, or I’ll come after you myself.
(I was going to say something about how he’s over 21 and single, but I decided it would be tacky.)
The kitchen floor is surely dry by now. The sponge on the mop is so old, it kind of left pieces of itself all over the floor. I’ll just sweep those up before the PEOPLE get here.
How much do I love these people? Hey, I mopped my floor for them. That’s true love.
The rest of the year, I generally clean it by scraping the really noticeable spills up with the toe of my shoe. When I’m wearing shoes.
Don’t you just love the way a baking turkey makes the whole house smell good? Don’t you just love a house that’s full of people, all trying really hard to behave themselves in front of Mom?
Me, too.
Come on over. There’s plenty of food. We have soup, too.
Update: The alligator soup was delicious. There’s a little bit left over, in a Tupperware* container in the refrigerator. Come on out and have a taste.
*The same thing, five for a dollar at the Dollar Tree. Who can afford real Tupperware any more?
Why, yes, I'll have a little corn, thank you.
<---Corny, isn't it.
And like most corny things, it’s true.
What am I thankful for? You.
Yes, you. You’re as dear to me as are the friends I can really see.
I am thankful for you, my precious internet friends.
If it were up to me, you’d all be sitting around my table, chowing down on pecan pie and persimmon pudding tomorrow. And no, I’m not QUITE as old as the lady serving the turkey in this very famous picture.
But I bet that lady likes to listen to Radiohead and Offspring and Cake when nobody’s looking, too.
Speaking of cake, I need to go back to the kitchen and put some frosting on mine. Well, on half of it. My kids don’t like frosting.
Happy Thanksgiving to you all. I hope all your dreams come true. *
except that really weird one where you’ve been pulled over by the policeman and he’s asking you to step out of your car and you don’t want to because you’re naked. . . . .
