Annual Christmas Card Bitching Post

The first Christmas Card arrived over the weekend from a former student of my husband.  Three photos on a card.  Children.  Lovely girls.  No personal greeting.  No signature.  

Why the hell bother.  


so . . .

Again.  Word for word, is last years post.

If I am on your Christmas Card list, I'm delighted.  Whether you are a friend, an acquaintance, or merely someone who has repaired my furnace or cleaned my teeth, it doesn't matter.  I love a card.  I like those cards to be cute, glittery, gorgeous, filled with confetti, festooned with ribbon, city stylized, kissing kousin kountry, red and green, blue and white, black and yellow, and decorated with Jesus, snowmen, zebras, angels, trees, RVs, balls, bells, and whistles.

I also will read your newsletter.  If you care to send me the long form, I will happily read it because, chances are, I care.  And I really like it when you tuck in a photo of your kids, your dogs or your vacation home.   Especially the kid.   If I like you, then I probably like your kid.  I even want to know if they've made the honor roll or graduated from braces and headgear.

Just please, please, please don't send that one-sided, unsigned, undecorated photo of your dog, kid, or vacation home that poses as a complete holiday card.  And when you print out the envelope on your computer and your housekeeper then stuffs all of the envelopes, I'm going to want to tell you to stuff it.   Put a bit of ink on the damn thing or don't send it.  I'd rather you send me a picture on facebook of your middle finger.  At least that's personal.

Happy Holidays
Merry Christmas
Happy Kwanzaa
Happy Chanukah
and so on

Annual Christmas Card Bitching Post

Yes.   I have posted this before.  Many times.  I shall not give up.  As long as I have a glimmer of hope, there is a chance of my mailbox once again being filled with gorgeous, stunning, glittery, Christmas cards.

My Christmas cards received list shortens each year through attrition.  It will probably grow shorter if my best, dearest, and oldest friend reads this post.  Because, yes, she has sent the unadorned, unsigned and unloved photo postcard.

so . . .

Again.  Word for word, is last years post.

If I am on your Christmas Card list, I'm delighted.  Whether you are a friend, an acquaintance, or merely someone who has repaired my furnace or cleaned my teeth, it doesn't matter.  I love a card.  I like those cards to be cute, glittery, gorgeous, filled with confetti, festooned with ribbon, city stylized, kissing kousin kountry, red and green, blue and white, black and yellow, and decorated with Jesus, snowmen, zebras, angels, trees, RVs, balls, bells, and whistles.

I also will read your newsletter.  If you care to send me the long form, I will happily read it because, chances are, I care.  And I really like it when you tuck in a photo of your kids, your dogs or your vacation home.   Especially the kid.   If I like you, then I probably like your kid.  I even want to know if they've made the honor roll or graduated from braces and headgear.

Just please, please, please don't send that one-sided, unsigned, undecorated photo of your dog, kid, or vacation home that poses as a complete holiday card.  And when you print out the envelope on your computer and your housekeeper then stuffs all of the envelopes, I'm going to want to tell you to stuff it.   Put a bit of ink on the damn thing or don't send it.  I'd rather you send me a picture on facebook of your middle finger.  At least that's personal.

Happy Holidays
Merry Christmas
Happy Kwanzaa
Happy Chanukah
and so on

What Color is Your Easter Bunny?

Aww, how cute!  And she's gray!

My Easter Bunny is brown.  I’m thinking perhaps a light brown hare.  Strong and wirey.  Able to truck lots of chocolate eggs about.

I’m not sure what color Megyn Kelly’s is.  Quite possibly white.  Angora.  Because isn’t that really what all bunnies look like.  All bunnies are just white.  And super fluffy.

I think Easter Bunnies come in all colors and it has little to do with the color of the Peep and Jelly Bean recipient.  There are gray bunnies, tan bunnies, black and white spotted bunnies.  Bunnies whose ears go up and bunnies whose ears go down.

I’m so glad that Easter Bunnies come in different colors.  Aren’t you?  How bland would this world be if all bunnies were the same color?

Now, what about the Tooth Fairy?  Mine is Caucasian, I think.  Her hair is dark brown with a bit of gray.  She is not Disney Princess young and gorgeous.  She is not wizened and old.  Actually, I think she looks a lot like me.

What color is your Tooth Fairy?

Five Pound Box of Bullets

Ho Ho Ho from the Lowcountry.

Here's what hangs on trees in Nikki Haley's state:

Yes, if a real gun isn't enough, we can hang an armed glass duck made in China.


And if you require more festive shooting accessories, just string these lights all about the house.

Ah, get the eggnog.  Get out the stockings.  Get your guns.  It's Christmastime in Charleston.  And that crackling sound you hear as you sit by the toasty yule log --- it might just be gunfire.

Merry Christmas.

For the Love of Christ, Show Us Your Bling

A couple of months ago, I went with my family to New York City.  My husband was participating in a conference and my daughter and I were there to visit the zoo, shop, and see as much artwork as possible.  One outing involved what my daughter considered to be a long subway ride.  As I had already inflicted several trips by subway upon her (some involving incorrect stops resulting in more subway rides), my daughter was a bit tired by our third day of sightseeing and subway cruising.   After several people had exited at a busy stop, my daughter spotted two open seats near the door.  She was on her way to the closet seat when a twenty-something, able-bodied couple pushed in front of her to take the seats.  We have been to the city several times and are quite used to pushy people, but this time my daughter got just a bit of a quivery upper lip.

I shrugged and tried to tell her with my eyes that this was just what happens in the big city.  I also wanted to tell those seat-stealing folks how I felt about them with my eyes.   Instead of looking deep into the eyes of the worst offender (young, well-cut dude), my eyes were enchanted by the movement of something shiny.  Very shiny.  And very gold.  And large.  Yes, this dude was able-bodied enough to be able to bear the weight of a 6” crucifix.   Six inches might not seem like a great deal, but when it is a chunk of heavy swinging metal -- that’s a heck of a lot of cross to wear.  Especially for a man who did not ask himself, in front of a tired child, what would Jesus do?

I’m thinking that Jesus would stand while a child sat.  Jesus would be aware of his surroundings and would give a damn about the suffering of others, no matter how minor.  Jesus wouldn’t sprawl over two subway seats.  And I’m assuming this dude is wearing the cross because he is representing Jesus.  Could be he’s just making a fashion statement.  Whatever.  He’s an ass adorned with a cross.  A cross that is likely to take out the front teeth of anyone that is in swinging radius. 

We stand.  We ride.  We get off several stops later.

I begin to notice others wearing crosses.   While I see many, I’ve yet to see one quite as large.

I noticed three women at the hotel wearing crucifixes.  Smaller.  More discreet.  Yet somehow, just as disturbing as the dude’s.  Each one was inset with diamonds.  Did these women go into their local jeweler’s and say, “I’d like a diamond necklace.  No.  Wait.  I’d like a symbol of my Savior.   No.  Wait.  Can I combine the two?”  Or maybe these necklaces were gifts from their adoring husbands.  Did their husbands walk into the jewelry store and request a special something for their pious brides?  They certainly wore these pendants with pride.  The glint in their eyes seemed to say, “Look upon my chest.  There you will see my love for Christ.  I know I love him.  But I want YOU to know that I love the Lord.  I am a lamb of my Savior.  I also don’t give a shit about children mining for gold and diamonds in African countries.  They are not lambs of the Savior. I am blessed and those children can dig those freakin’ diamonds up for me.”

If you must show innocent bystanders that you are a Christian, forget the bling.  Get yourself two rough sticks of wood, lash them together with ragged twine or a bit of shoelace too small for a homeless person to use, and string that around your neck.  Make sure it’s pretty darn big.  And heavy.  You might also want to think about adding some nails and thorns for a bit of discomfort.  It would be a bit easier, and far less expensive, to go about doing unto others as you would have them do unto you.  And nearby children would not have to fear having their teeth knocked out.

Three Men and an Attitude

Master Chef "Hosts"

I like food.  I like good food.  I am especially fond of very good food.  When I leave my little burg for an urban excursion, I research the restaurants well in advance of reaching my destination.  And, if the food is not up to snuff, oh well.  Better luck next time.  I won’t be lugging along a trunk full of attitude just so I can unleash it on restaurant employees that cannot meet my bloated expectations.

I’m not fond of reality television shows.  I like good shows. I prefer someone to write a good story, create a layered environment, and round up a herd of good actors to perform.  There is a great wall between the “reality” of today and my choice of programming.   But there are times one just wants to turn on the television and get a quick entertainment fix.  After a three-day walking and eating visit to New York City, the hubby, his mother and I were relaxing in front of the tube.  What to watch?  A show about food?  Sure!   And then we stumbled across Master Chef.  A roomful of amateur contestants ready to cook, and three big, flaming assholes reading to judge their attempts at culinary greatness.

Master Chef was a huge disappointment to me.  There were three judges.  I have only two hands.  Therefore, I was short one middle finger.  Am I the only person left in this country that does not think insulting others is funny?  Sure, those contestants expected critiques of their cooking.  And they expected that those that could not perform well would be eliminated.  Don’t all of these reality and talent shows follow the same formula?  A roomful of pretties waiting to be knocked off one by one?  What I did not expect was for three grown, supposedly respectable men, to act like complete dicks.  At least Freddy Krueger had a deeply-set issue prompting him to turn on others.  Individually, hosts Gordon Ramsay, Joe Bastianich, and Graham Elliot have built food empires based on restaurants, books, television shows, and wineries.  Together on Master Chef, they are three unpalatable turds on a plate.

As I see it, a chef cooks, trains and educates.  They take raw ingredients and form them into beautiful, tasty piles of sustenance.  It is an art form.  The best should be and are looked up to by us lesser life forms.  We want them to feed us.  To share their joy of cooking.  To educate us about their ingredients.  Etcetera.  I don’t feel that a chef needs to spread the knowledge that they would do better in life by running a string of S & M clubs.

No, I don’t think that any of these three men would notice or care that I don’t support their empires after seeing this show.  I don’t want to eat in their restaurants.  I don’t want to buy their books or wines.  I don’t want to watch their ugly, catty Master Chef show.  I prefer a larger entrée to a larger ego.  In my world of eating food and watching food television, these three have just been eliminated.  If this is the direction gourmet food is heading, I’d rather stick to Stouffer’s. 

More Tasty Treats for Americans

I'm really not sure what those with a sweet tooth eat in other countries, but in the United States, we eat this:

The Gummy Bacon is actually strawberry flavored.  The Roast Beef gum is roast beef flavored.  I'm not sure about those gumballs.

The hubby spotted this display while in California.  He sent a photo of the gummy bacon and my daughter strongly encouraged him to buy her some.

Check it out through the "Bacon Viewing Window."  Bacon sells.  We LOVE pork fat products here.  And if we're not eating pork fat, we are eating things that look like it.

Strangely, this candy is made in China.  Now we know what the Chinese think of us.  They just want our cholesterol levels to go through the ceiling and for us to fall dead on our faces and they will take over.  Bwah ha ha ha ha ha!!

Is it Spring Yet!?!

Well, I suppose the withdrawal of Santorum is like a tulip bulb ready to bloom. A fresh promise for the future.

But, frankly, everything else is still wintery to me.

Wednesday I had some errands to do. Errands usually take me to Target, because aside from Target, there's nothing else but Wal-Mart. I'm NOT going there.

There I stood in the parking lot, ice pellets peppering my face and blurring my vision. Target lay across the frozen tundra to my left. Past three abandoned strip mall stores. In the gray and icy distance stood the brooding hulk of Kohl's, right past the empty lot of dirt and rock. Further into the murky gloom stood the fucking new Cracker Barrel. The sight of this shopping hell turned my shoes to lead and my heart and soul to black stones.

So, unless Santorum changes his mind, I'm pretty much shutting up until I feel warm again. God knows when that will be.

Hearing Crickets. . .

I'm guessing that is what my readers are thinking about my blog lately. I've been negligent. I could say I've been tending to other matters, but the fact is, I've been wasting as much time as usual on useless stuff.

I'm trying to enjoy autumn. It's beautiful here in Central Pennsylvania right now (and I so rarely say that). But this year is just not the same. I keep thinking back to this time last year. Sometime during October I went to visit my parents, not knowing it would be the last time I would see my mother in her own home.

Right now, the weather is beautiful. The windows are open and I'm listening to the crickets chirping. I hear footsteps shuffling through the leaves. Halloween is not even on my mind yet, but I am already dreading winter.

It's a long winter in these parts. I'm sure there are some Canadians out there rolling their eyes, but really . . .

I'm going to need some help getting through this winter.

Somebody, please help me think of something positive about 5-6 long, cold months. Please!

Please, take my identity

Dear Auburn Student:

Please tell me you are a student and not an instructor or professor.

I know tuition costs are rising and student debt is waaaaayyyy out of hand. You need some dough. What better way to raise your much needed funds for education and date rape drugs than the old give me all of your personal information so I can worm my way into your bank account and whatnot scam?

Let me tell you, I've seen far better attempts at this. FAR BETTER.

You were wise to put Bank of American in the "from" section, but having vqgfds@auburn.edu right next to Bank of America made me just a teeeeeennnny bit wary. I'm not sure why.

But all in all it just looked a mite shady:

We recently have determined that different computers have logged onto your Online Banking account, and multiple password failures were present before the logons. We now need you to re-confirm your account information to us.

If this is not completed by August 31, 2011, we will be forced to suspend your account indefinitely, as it may have been used for fraudulent purposes. We thank you for your cooperation in this manner.


To confirm your Online Banking records click on the following link:


bankofamerica-scholarship.stud.from-wa.com/index.php?



Thank you for your patience in this matter.

Bank of America Customer Service

Please do not reply to this e-mail as this is only a notification. Mail sent to this address cannot be answered.


2011 Bank of America All Rights Reserved.

I'm thinking that your college career is going to take a nose dive and this will probably have some effect on the rest of your life.

Of course, this could be showing that you have low moral fiber and great ambition and that you will go far in life. Far down the road, when you are at the top of your game and I am a dottering old woman, you will be able to scam me and my cats out of our last quarters and take the burial plot on top of that.

Hope you get everything that is coming your way, asshole.

Dear Friend,

Gee, how long have we been friends now? Forty two years. That's a long damn time. We've had our childhood differences. I recall the time at the beach when we were in our early 20's and we actually had a fistfight. I can look back at that now and laugh. God, how tacky! But, I must say, I felt a little better afterward.

We can't do that anymore. Or we don't. I guess we could. I'm not sure who would win. Would it be a long fight? Might be. We disagree on soooooooooo many things.

I can't remember our first real disagreement. Not one of those childhood things about who was spit sisters with who first, or who's sister was the meanest. We put more energy into those debates than anything we've discussed since we were 16.

There were those eye-rolling discussions. That time when you were finished with your dinner and a fly landed on your plate. You managed to kill him and slide him around in your remaining sauce and got a free dinner. You did not share this discount with me. I paid full freight. I'm not sure you even tipped. I also recall times when luck came my way and you demanded that I share. I wanted to share, but I also wanted to punish you for that fly incident.

These days, there are so few things we can talk about. Our children are fair game. Although my kid might have an eating issue, or lice, or difficulty learning how to ride a bike, or a tantrum. And I know as soon as I tell you these things, you will not commiserate with me or ask me for more information. The first thing you will tell me is that your kids NEVER had that problem. Shit. Why did I even bring it up. Oh, yeah. Because I wanted to share.

Religion. Good heavens I would never bring that topic up. And I do thank you for never bringing it up with me. I'm surprised that you haven't. Really. I know that you fear that my child (and the rest of us) will go to hell. I should thank you for never bringing it up, but that would be bringing it up, so I'll say nothing.

Politics. I do like to discuss politics. That's just one of my many annoying features. When was the last time I brought it up? Was that the Bush/Gore election? I'm thinking so. I had the audacity to ask who you were thinking about voting for. You told me you would vote for whoever your brother-in-law suggested, seeing that your Daddy was dead and couldn't tell you anymore. I'm sure I had the What-the-fuck look on my face, but since we were talking on the phone you couldn't see it so we managed to stay friends.

I know I haven't been the best of friends myself. When your mother was dying, I was having the time of my life in college and I wasn't there enough for you. I truly feel awful for that.

Why is it that we can't get personal anymore? I do keep a great deal to myself. I don't have many friends (could that be because of the politics?) so the ones I do have, I like to share my feelings with. When I had the nerve to tell you I was depressed because my artist life sucked and my real life sucked and I hated where I lived and I was having a mid-life crisis and I felt I had no future and all of that and your response was a little grunt and the suggestion that I get a job, I really wanted to say screw you that I real friend would want to talk about it. I just shut up and we talked about your job or store coupons or some shit that had nothing to do with me like most of our conversations go.

I remember a couple of years ago, if we went more than a week without talking on the phone we were shocked. We used to take turns calling each other on Fridays. If someone had to do the calling more than twice in a row the other one was called out. If we did skip a week, then the next conversation was a long one. For the past few months, its been me calling. And you sound so put out when I'm on the other end. I know you're busy. We all are, don't you know? I do think you can spare 10 minutes every other week. That's enough time for you to tell me about your recent bargains.

Does it hurt your feelings that I don't ask you to come visit anymore? It shouldn't. You know you are welcome anytime. I just got tired of asking and hearing really crappy excuses. Its really easy for me to pack it all up and drive six hours each way and visit you and my family every couple of months. However, I do think your five year (or is it six?) absence is a little noticeable.

This last visit was a bit hard on me. I am glad you took a few minutes to come see me at my Dad's house. I know my recent trip was boring for you to hear about. That's why I only talked about it for two or three minutes before you changed the subject to your recent trip. But I'd already heard about that twice, so . . .

And when you asked me about me, I'm not sure what you wanted to hear. I gave you a sentence or two about what I had been doing. You grunted. I guess that meant you were listening. And then I got a repeat of everything your children had been doing. I've heard that three times. I don't think you got the message when I was able to recite their comings and goings. But when you asked about me and what's going on in my life, I thought you meant what I was working on. You've told me all of your work trials and tribulations. So when I ventured that sentence or two about my new artwork, I thought I might get a grunt. No, I really did not expect you to ask me to show you something that I've made. I'm not sure that has ever happened. Of course, I did not expect you to say, "Hey, I'll have a look at your website." Why, oh why, did I not expect that sound of crickets. And the blank face. And then the immediate change of subject.

After 42 years, can't you just be honest and say, "I don't give a shit?" I must say, I'm getting close.

Well, I'm assuming no one has read this whole post. But I sure do feel better now. It's out there. It's written down.

And if you have read this far, we should really get together and discuss religion and politics.

Behind Every Great Man . . .

. . . is a huge ass pile of wires.

The hubby went and purchased himself another television-related gadget. This, of course, necessitated another cable. And here is what we have behind the television.

I do think he is a great guy, though. And I don't bitch when he wants to add another electronic device to his ever expanding showcase of whirring, blinking, manly nirvana.

As long as another remote is not required.

This does make me want to go out and buy a frilly little figurine to set atop the television set.