Thursday, December 29, 2011

Family Tree

It's a cold truth to face, but sometimes even the trustiest of pals can turn on a person. 

For instance, my longtime friend and ally, Internet Shopping, really fucked me this year. At Christmastime. Ouch. What did I ever do to you to deserve this, Internet Shopping? Couldn't we have just hugged it out instead?

Commence panicked last-minute double-shopping insanity. 

But the bright side of my orders not arriving in time is that I'm already well on my way to being done my shopping for next Christmas. Handy, right? Maybe I can wrap it up by April or so and make people think I'm a complete jackass - people just love it when you rub it in that you're way more psychotic about the holidays than they are. *cough, cough, Martha Stewart*

And on that note, I'd like to take a moment to gloat that I'm done my shopping for the future Mrs. Small Fry's** first Christmas as part of the family:

That's, like, decades ahead of schedule - eat my dust, Martha.

(**Notice that I'm waiting until the poor gal is actually married in before I let on just what she's getting herself into, 'cause you can bet that boy is karmically assured to wind up with kids just like himself.)

Saturday, December 10, 2011

Be Good for Goodness Sake!

During a recent bout of insomnia, I got the good idea to bake gingerbread men. Mostly I wanted to have a cookie-decorating party, but also - what else is there to do at three o'clock in the morning? And then I got the even better idea to poke a skewer through the gingerbrains of a dozen of those little critters and string them with a bit of ribbon so I could hang them on our Christmas tree.

Which I hadn't put up yet. Dang. So I also did that. But really - what else is there to do at five o'clock in the morning?

By the time I had the furniture rearranged and the tree decorated and the place tidied up again, it wasn't so early anymore. Small Fry came downstairs. I set down my seventeenth cup of coffee of the day and assumed a defensive crouch.

7:53am: Small Fry gasps and runs over to stand, starry-eyed, in front of the tree. A misguided "Oh, he's so sweet! I should get the camera" synapse fires in my brain.

7:53:10am: I reach up my nose with an ornament hook and rip that idiotic neuron out at the roots.

7:53:20am: Small Fry throws his arms open and exclaims, "I love it!" ... and leaves the tree completely alone.

No word of a lie. He didn't touch it at all. Not with a dinosaur, not with his eyeballs, not even with his nipples. What a difference from last year! This year's tree didn't require one iota of parental management.

Um, sorry, camera-neuron. Guess that was a little rash of me.

But then tonight I looked over and saw this:

 and this:

and this:

And yes, I put up a fake tree this year, but that's not the point so quit judging me. The point is, those are tooth marks. Small Fry has been nibbling on my sweet little defenseless gingerbabies in situ, like so many endangered albatross chicks or something. 

I no longer have a collection of adorable, homemade keepsake ornaments: I am the proprietor of a retirement community for gingerbread amputees. Not to mention, the mother of a rather devious Christmas-tree-worshipping pagan with possible cannibalistic tendencies. *sigh* Merry Christmas to me.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011


Dear Santa,

I have been a moderately decent human this year. Please bring me the willpower to lose ten pounds before Christmas.


Dear Frecklepelt,

My records indicate that you have in fact achieved your stated level of mediocrity over the past year. Thank you for your honesty, anyways. 

Unfortunately, willpower is on back order until the year 3000. In lieu of your requested item, enclosed is a really wicked stomach flu which may help you achieve your goal.


Thursday, December 1, 2011


Self, this is probably going to be hard to hear, but it needs to be said. I am your friend and I care about you, so please hear me out.

Self, you need to stop wearing your old work boots with your slacks at work.

I know, I know, you love your old work boots, and they're sooo comfy and your feet are soooo far away that, really, it's nothing but another unnecessary inconvenience in your life, but it's just the way it is.

No. No, please don't - please don't cry. I hate it when you cry. Well, yes, you do cry an awful lot, but that doesn't mean that I hate you, it just means that I frequently feel confused and agitated when I'm around you.

No, we're talking about your issues today. Specifically, your poor fashion sense. Quit changing the subject.

Now that is complete horse puckey, what on earth could possibly happen to your toes while sitting at your computer that would necessitate wearing CSA approved footwear? And don't you spend, like, the GDP of a small nation on pedicures every year? Why not show off those foxy tootsies a little?

Self, I hear what you're saying, but you really need to listen to me. Maybe it was endearing at one point in time back when you were a real biologist, but now... well, now it's just weird. You work at a desk. You wear mascara every day. Why can't you just change into one of the forty pairs of shoes you have hiding in your office?

Oh. Sorry. I didn't realize he didn't know you owned that many shoes. What do you do, buy them and smuggle them to work in your backpack?

Huh. Well, I guess that's one way to go about it.

But back to the boots. They don't even match with anything. No, it's not part of their charm, it's part of their, like, not-charm. They are the Anticharm. Plus, they smell. Oh yes they do! I dare you to smell them. Smell them! See? I told you so.

So are you with me now? Thaaaat's a good girl. Step away from the boots. It's okay, they've had a good life and they're going to a better place now. Sure, we can bury them in the back yard, sweetie, just as soon as the soil thaws a bit in the spring. We'll have a little memorial service, it'll be real nice. No, they'll be alright to sit over winter - I doubt they could get much stinkier.