Dang, Y’all!

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Y’all! Wow! Thank you so much to all my new readers and subscribers! I had no idea Freshly Pressed wasn’t just auto-generated so I’m thrilled to have been on of the blogs chosen.

I, uh, guess I better go write some stuff. I’ve got to chase off this critter that is apparently tap dancing in my attic first. You know that moment when you realize it’s not just squirrels playing grab-ass on the roof and the noise is COMING FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE? Yeah, hadn’t even fully received my first IV of bourbon cup of caffeine this morning when I found myself simultaneously cleaning out a refrigerator because we temped it at 50° and poking my ceiling with the handle of a Swiffer mop yelling, “YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU THINK YOU HAVE SQUATTER’S RIGHTS? COME DOWN HERE AND FIGHT LIKE A MAN!” No rodent in his right mind should want to come to fisticuffs with me. I will cut you. And I hadn’t taken my meds yet.

But I digress…

Thank you so much for the kind words, funny comments, and fabulous new blogs I found written by those of you who have stopped by. I shall endeavor to earn your regular readership. Just so you know, I use the terms asshat and batshit crazy a lot more than I did in the featured post, so if that’s a problem for you, here are some adorable cats doing funny things.

Thanks!

Briefly: Holiday Sickness Version

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jingle deezI’m just going to bitch a minute. Sit down. Have a drink. Join me.

Have you ever been sick, but not really SICK SICK, but miserable-no-energy-totally anti-social-because-no-one-should-have-to-be-around-you sick? I’ve been that way for the better part of a month now. I’m down to just an slightly unnerving dizziness and some kvetching, which is an improvement over last week when I didn’t even have the energy or desire to complain about anything other than people who jump the light at the Greenline crosswalk on Graham. And that barely counts.

Some people like to be tended to when they’re sick. I like to be left the hell alone. So, in that sense, it’s no different than when I’m well. And I glare at people the same way sick or not. I enjoy being brought the occasional cup of tea or getting the odd neck massage, but other than that you better run for the hills because when I feel bad I start to cry. A lot. And no one needs to see that. No one.

I would like to be one of those girls whose tears are made of morning dew and whose little chapped red button nose only adds to her adorableness. The girl who always has men giving her handkerchiefs. Hell, I would like to be the kind of girl who’s around men who still carry handkerchiefs. And drink whiskey neat. And wear hats. Oh, wait. I’m married to one of those men.

Anyway, all of this is to say my annual debate with myself about decorating the house for Christmas has begun. I like decorating the house. I just don’t like the taking down part. Maybe I need to find a taker downer whose OCD manifests itself by the need to wrap tiny ornaments in bubble wrap? You know anyone like that? Generally I cave and give my family the following admonishment:

You are NOT to enjoy these decorations. You are not to look at them. If you do not participate in the decorating or clean up, you do not get to bask in the glory of a well-decorated Christmas tree and sideboard draped with evergreen swag. These decorations are purely for MY enjoyment and that of our guests should I actually get around to inviting anyone over. Should you be witnessed deriving any joy from these decorations, you will be eating left-over creamed beef surprise for A MONTH. A MONTH.

That works about as well as asking a toddler not to run around with his diaper on his head. Or hammering Jello to a tree. Fortunately, I’ve given up Pinterest so I don’t have to see pictures of Super Woman’s perfectly decorated mantle, kitchen, SUV, bedroom, tree house,  and dog trot. Nor do I have to endure any cute ideas about what to have that creepy Elf on the Shelf dude do. 

My neighbor has kept her Christmas tree up for sixteen years. Her tree can drive. Next year it will be able to go to an R rated movie alone. Hers used to be the first Christmas card we got every year, but I think she’s realized she’ll never get on in return so, you know, she can save that one for her chiropractor. I’m thinking of designing some cards for those of us who like the idea of sending holiday greetings, but don’t want to be merry about it. And perhaps a combination holiday card slash get well. The holidays make everyone sick in one way or another. As a bonus? This project requires neither the wearing of pants or the application of concealer. SOLD.

Sucking The Life Out Of The Holidays

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You know how you think your family is crazy? You’re right. They are. You are the only sane one and you’re pushing the rock of sagacity uphill. Both ways. In the snow. Give in. Just give in.

There’s a yard sign I’ve seen around the internet that says something to the effect of how in The South we don’t hide our crazy. We put it out on the porch and give it a cocktail. There’s a reason for that, but it has less to do with embracing eccentricity and more the fact that there’s only so many people a house can hold. Not that the porch is really any better. Getting all your crazy kin out there with cocktails only ensures the porch will collapse and kill all your dogs.

My cousin Sharon says that while she wasn’t born in The South, she got here as soon as she could. I can only attribute this to a tendency towards stubbornness and a deeply held need to reassure herself she’s not so crazy after all. Having married into a family so eccentric Flannery O’Connor would run screaming headlong into a fainting couch, really all she has to do is show up to receive such reassurance. Her husband, my mother’s first cousin, and my mother like to look straight at my brother and me, and with all seriousness, frighten the snot out of us with the sober reminder, “WE’RE the sane ones.” Do they protest too much? No. No, unfortunately they are not, in this case, delusional.

Your family, normally a somewhat irritating yet benign protuberance on your butt becomes, around the second week of November, a festering boil which cannot be lanced until sometime around the last week of February when the image of your sister singing Patsy Cline’s greatest hits and wearing on her head the wreath you painstakingly created from months of collecting sweetgum balls finally fades. You TOLD her she’d had one too many Brandy Alexanders.

This time of year only serves to make friends of strangers and enemies of family. You’ll happily chat away to the woman in front of you in line who is asking if you understand a damn thing about these computer tablet pad internets she’s getting her grandchildren to play with, but you’ll lunge for Aunt Bunky’s throat if she tells you the story ONE MORE TIME about how they were so poor they had nothing to play with but pecan shells and how they never decorated with holly because they had to boil it into tea. This is the time of year that tries men’s souls. And patience. And livers.

And while I’m on a roll, whoever thought this was a good time of year for hunting season was obviously not just an only child, but an orphan. You haven’t lived until brothers, flasks empty, rifles loaded, come ass-over-elbow out of the woods arguing about why the other one is so undeserving of Mawmaw’s milk punch recipe. Grown-ass men. Armed. Milk punch.

This year I will put my shopping off longer than usual. I’ll pay out the wazoo to get everything shipped overnight if I have to. I’m hoping those Mayans were on to something.