Ho, Ho, Ho. I Don't Think So.

So, the housewife had to run some errands today. Dog medicine had to be picked up, human medicine had to be picked up, Christmas gifts had to be purchased, and outgoing items had to be dropped off at the post office.

If I had the teeniest drop of Christmas spirit in my when I went out this morning, it has been completely squeezed out of my circulatory system by now.

First, a trek across Siberia. Well, across the Target parking lot. A long way to go for medication I don’t want to take. Perhaps the man had already been in line. I don’t know. He came from out of an aisle and snuck up to the pharmacist’s counter in front of me. Could have been he had every right to do so. My possession of ovaries does not automatically put me in line in front of him. But, if you know you’re going to be asking a lot of questions, why not just hold back and let the little lady go first. She’s going to be getting angry later, so better to just let her have some peace for now. Or not.

It makes me deliriously happy to know that my prescription is going to cost more than 3 times what it did earlier. And no one is going to be able to tell me why. Its up to me to make the choice – pay up or die. So, calmly, I take out my wads of cash and change, and place it into the pharmacy cashier’s hand.

After jostling (jousting) for the shortest big box check out line, I reach the cashier and am given a not too pleasant look for having the nerve to supply my own bag. Makes a little extra work for the cashier. In return, she grabs the receipt, coupons for shit I don’t want on my next trip, green change and the jangly change, and, in a vague attempt to aim everything at once into my outstretched hand, misses by a mile and hurls most everything to the floor. “Oops,” I say as I chase rolling coins. I am able to catch the ones that rolled my way. I have to stare at her to get her to pick up the coins that rolled behind the counter. I try to gather my belongings as they are shoved along by the cashier to make room for the next customer’s purchases.

I think I shall attend the next big box chain board meeting and suggest that next to the register, a catapult should be installed for each cashier to launch receipts, coupons and change in a wide-ranging arc. Better than a piñata, and just as frustrating to the customer.

Outside the store, I attempt to reach my car in the parking lot. While passing through the crosswalk, a man swerves his car around me to save himself the inconvenience of slowing down. For some, it seems, picking skin, bones and purchases off of the front bumper is preferable than lightly applying the brakes.

Where to next? More Christmas shopping? Why yes. At the only other store in town? And would that be another big box chain store? Absolutely. What the hell else is left in town? Why not the little gift stores downtown. Well, they all went out of business. What about that furniture and gift store out by the mall? Well, now that’s a mattress center. What about that awesome music store that would have all kinds of neat things for the hubby? Well, they have downsized and eliminated most of the cool stuff. The other side of the store? Well, that was made into a mattress center? What about that store that was across the street? Well, now that’s a Chick-fil-A. Ok. Ok. What else? Say, what about Pier I. There’s neat stuff there. Like hell. It’s now a medical clinic. What about that cool party store across town. Nope. It’s now a medical clinic. Wait. That independently-owned toy store? Nope, walk-in medical clinic. WTF? Yep. Retail in my neck of the woods means mattresses, chicken sandwiches and medical clinics. How do I wrap up those crappy gifts? Wait! There’s still some retail left in town. Tanning salons! Nail salons! Melanoma? Nail fungus? Plenty of walk-in clinics for that!

Since shopping has been cut short, to be done at home from the computer, there’s just one more errand to run. The post office. Good God, there’s a looooong line. But, it moves quickly. The clerks are patient, calm and friendly. Joy! Postal Joy! Who would have thought?

The little bit of Christmas joy received today was furnished by the Post Office!

A Little Disturbing

Last weekend, the family drove south to visit my mother, known as '"Moppie" to all grandchildren, in the hospital.

All kinds of things are happening to her body. The last 20% of the last remaining kidney decided stop functioning a few weeks ago. This pretty much f*cked up the rest of her body pretty good. Recovery has been slow.

As we were leaving the hospital, my mother requested we go to the drug store across the street to buy her some Depends undergarments. She did not want to ask the nurse for them. She wants to be in control and it upsets her GREATLY not to be. When one is undergoing dialysis 4 hours at a time, one can't just get up and waltz into the bathroom.

My daughter asked what we were going to buy. The hubby just said, "something for Moppie." I'm a bit more forthcoming about such things. I told her they were like pull-ups for grownups, and she needed them because she couldn't move for four hours during dialysis. My daughter, remembering her pull-up days, asked, "Do they have little pictures of Dora the Explorer on them?" I said, no, but maybe they had little pictures of Frank Sinatra on them. After a brief discussion of who Frank Sinatra was, and why old ladies liked him, she stated that having little pictures of Frank Sinatra on one's adult pull-ups would be A LITTLE DISTURBING.

Yes, it would be.

But one has to find a little fun in life among all the bad shit, right? And now I have a disturbing little marketing plan.

Is it Really December 1st?!?!?!

Isn't it pretty? Yes. Lovely. But each year, when December 1st rolls around, it feels more like a shark attack. I get the feeling that this beautiful Advent house is perfectly capable of disemboweling me, leaving me writhing on the floor, desperately clutching at the air.

My husband's mother gave it to my daughter four years ago. She had it all filled and ready to go. My daughter loved it. When "Baba" laughingly told me that I would be filling it up the following year, I was excited. It was going to be fun.

Not.

My daughter hates chocolate. She does not need anymore of those little plastic Hallmark ornaments (not that she needed any to begin with). Most little trinkets I buy for this thing are just an eighth of an inch too big in one direction to fit in. No. She does not need any more hairclips (but they do fit nicely).

Today is December 1st. Not one single little compartment has been filled.

This damn thing has disemboweled me once again.

I did have a plan to go out and buy some bits and pieces today. My plans are falling down around me. I'm waiting by the phone for my mother to call me from the hospital. Ice has begun falling from the sky. I'm not feeling the least little bit festive.

Plan B. Look under sofa cushions for change and lost items that will fit behind those teeny, malevolent doors.

(actually, I am terrified to go out. I don't know what will happen to me or those around me if I hear the smallest snippet of that First Day of Christmas song.

A Bang for Your Holiday Buck

Deck the halls with hooves and antlers, fa la la la la, bang, bang, bang bang

That is the favorite tune of Central Pennsylvanians’ this time of the year.

Yep. It’s shooting season. Grab your guns, your bows and arrows, your best drinking buddy and head for the woods.

It’s the time of year for the Centre Daily Times to photograph carnage for the front page. It’s the time of year to avoid the woods like the plague (unless your well-armed or drunk, or most likely, both).

Need proof? Here’s a recent story from our local paper: A 13-year-old boy with a lift-threatening illness gets a wish. What could that be? A trip to Disneyworld. Nope. To drive a race car? Not even that. What could a boy from Central Pennsylvania REALLY want? His big dream is to shoot a deer. A great big ol’ white tailed deer in Iowa. His dream came true. He got together his bow and arrows and headed out where the deer grow big. After killing a 153-pound buck, the boy gives his grandfather a call. Grandpa’s comment to the reporter: “That just gives you a nice feeling; he did good.”

So that’s what matters here in the hills and valleys of Central Pennsylvania. Killing deer. It’s built right into the trash and recycling pick schedules. Their list of fall holidays: Labor Day, Thanksgiving, First Day of Deer Season, Christmas. What, no Veterans’ Day? Nope. That’s been quite willingly given up in favor of gittin’ them deer the Monday after Thankgsiving.

Here at my house, we’re trying to decide when to go visit the far-away folks for Thanksgiving. Do we get the kiddo out of school on Wednesday, or do we leave Thursday morning? You see, school is in session on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, but closed on the Monday after. Doesn’t make much sense does it? At least not to those who DON’T hunt deer. Makes perfect sense to those that do. Why, if school were in session on the Monday after Thanksgiving, only girls would be in school. All the boys would be out in the woods with their daddies waiting to bag a buck.

When they talk about “the season” here in Pennsylvania, they’re not talking about the season where you bake a turkey, string the lights on the house, or a fat red-clothed man comes down the chimney. No, they’re talking about the season where you go out in the cold and wet, load your guns, and shoot away at a deer out for some lunch.

This season (as with others in the past), I will not be sharing the same joy as those fellows out in the woods. I’m sure it’s just a fault in my character, but I just don’t get a thrill by taking the life of an animal. Not that I’ve ever done it before. Intentionally. (Those two deer were accidental. They just got in the way of a car going 50 miles an hour. I can say that neither party was thrilled in the least.)

This year (as with others in the past), a bit of my discretionary income will go to Toys-for-Tots, not the taxidermist. My halls will be decked with greenery and white lights. My holiday preparations will not involve cleaning a gun and hanging out at the ammo counter at WalMart. The only thing I’ll strap to my car will be a Christmas tree, not a carcass.

Enjoy the beginning of your holiday season. Enjoy your friends and your families. And stay the hell out of the woods.

Catalog Hangover

Photo from Soft Surroundings Catalog

The 10 billionth Christmas catalog came this afternoon. Oooooooooh. All sorts of products are waiting out there for purchase. But I don't have any room in my home for new purchases. My home is already full of CATALOGs.

For every product you can imagine.

Trees (real and fake)
Socks
Toys
Barometers
Bunion pads
Furniture
Hardware (including floral patterned hammers)
Fungicides
Calendars (without squares to write information in. WTF?!?

and so on.

Those clothing catalogs have got me going though. If I purchase some of these items, I'll have a dang good time during the High Holidays of Consumerism.

I'll be just gorgeous hanging balls on a perfectly symmetrical tree. I'll be just stunning quaffing magnums of champagne (every third woman in this catalog is lifting a glass). If I purchase the above dress, I know I'll look just like this radiant reveler. (In truth, I'll look like a drunk with a faded tire around my neck.) That Soft Surroundings catalog makes the whole season look merry and bright. Just raise a glass, hang some balls, and be a beaming beauty with your purchases.

Champagne and balls not included. Void where prohibited. Frankly, lady (me), just wear that tired old skirt and pilled sweater that you wear every damn year no matter how many catalogs are shoved into your mailbox.

Now, I'm off to find some twine and tie up the 4,000 catalogs and set them out for the recycling truck.

I can't believe its only the middle of November. I've got a catalog hangover already.

Mixing it Up for the Holidays

I’m going to be mixing it up this Christmas. Its finally time to buy myself a stand mixer. I guess to most readers, that would sound quite normal coming from someone who plays for the ovarian team, but for me, it is just a bit ridiculous.

I was expecting some flack from the hubby. Unpredictably, he did not say, “but you only bake twice a year.” He would have been pretty close to the truth. Instead, he inquired about the price, and only flinched just a bit when I told him, “About $300-$400.” I didn’t need my backup argument, “I would bake a lot more, if only I had a better mixer.” I do believe this.

Hubby gets a cake twice a year; once for this birthday and then Fathers’ Day. The kid gets one for her birthday. And each Christmas, I bake a few cookies. Other than that, the beaters remain silent.

About 15 years ago, I requested a replacement for my grandmother’s hand mixer. I’m pretty sure that appliance was from the 1940’s. 1950’s at the latest. It could handle only the thinnest cake batter. I guess batter was a whole lot runnier back in the olden days. My mother gave me a Cuisinart hand mixer. Oooooooooh, sounds good, I thought. It sat around until after the warranty expired. Then it was cake making time. I put some softened butter into a bowl with a couple of eggs, dropped in the beaters, turned the mixer on extra low, and was instantly measled with bits of batter. A vast portion of the kitchen was also measled. I’m one of those people who likes everything on the counter and on open shelves for easy access (could be a result of laziness). My utensils sit at the ready in lidless canisters, my silverware sits on the windowsill in vases, every plate and bowl is on open shelves next to the cooking area. I was not pleased. Months after a round of mixing, I will find flecks of batter on the window, the cabinets, and every utensil I use.

I’ve stuck with this mixer for these past 15 years. As a result, my baking has dropped off tremendously. My kitchen cleanup time has been drastically reduced, however. But, I do miss baking. And I refuse to do it again until I get a mixer that understands that I need several mixing speeds. Low should be low. Medium should be medium. High should be high. Not every speed should be extra high. Actually, I never attempted to run this mixer on high. I might not still be among the living. Or at the very least, I would no longer be a resident of this planet. Extra low should not resemble the Tasmanian Devil all hopped up on every amphetamine gathered on every college campus over the course of two semesters.

I’m dreaming of mousses and puddings, cakes and tarts, cookies and macaroons. Not batter measles. How quickly can I have this thing delivered.

p.s. I would appreciate any advice on which mixer to buy.

Yes, that does make your ass look big

Oh, that hot new trend of wearing shorts over tights!

Not good. Unless you are shaped (or rather, not shaped) like the twiglet shown above.

A weekend in New York City will turn up hundreds upon hundreds of "fashionistas" dressed in these chunky shorts (light) over tights (dark). Hmmmmmmm.

Fashion facts: Light colors make items appear larger. Dark colors make items appear smaller.

Unless you are a runway model, do not attempt this look. Unless you are a practicing anorexic, do not attempt this look. Unless you are under 25 and fall into one of the above categories, do not attempt this look.

Are you over 25? Are you over 95 pounds? Are you under 5'10"?

If you've answered yes to any of the above questions, then yes, your ass looks big in those shorts.