At least she doesn't have a monkey on her back

Is Christmas over? Is it safe to come out of the bunker now?

Scrooge you guys, I'm going home

If you've known me for any reasonable amount of time, you will know that I'm not the Christmas-cheeriest bitch on the block. Aside from the pretty pretty lights, which I dig in a big way, there isn't much about the season that sets me to tingling with joy. Let's face it: several years in retail didn't convince me that this is the most wonderful time of the year. The commercials are so bad and so insistent and so fucking repeated on a short loop that I'd be tempted to smash the TV if not for the fact that I am addicted to far too many shows. Plus, donkey porn just doesn't look as stunning on my computer. So the TV stays intact. This time of year holds no religious significance for me, godless agnostic that I am, and I'm too old to give a shit about Santa, unless he wants to bring me a big wad of cash; then I could certainly give a shit about Santa, and possibly even a polar blow job if there are enough big bills in the card. I am also quite sickened by people I see who are totally focused on buying overpriced status gifts for everyone they know, people who bitch about how much money they're spending, but act like it's required for them to go overboard with generosity so as to impress people they probably don't even like that much.

And don't even get me going on the mongoloids who pitch a hissy fit every year because some people choose to utter the words "Happy holidays." When the police come by and order you to take down your tree and ornaments on December 24, then you may consider it a War on Christmas. Go on, say "Merry Christmas" to me all you want, free of charge. I don't mind. But if I feel like including all the celebrated days in one phrase, I'm damned well going to do so. At least I'm not saying "Hope you break some bones this holiday season!" or "Yuletide greetings, you douchebag!"

I could probably get by all that, if it weren't for the music. Christmas music, for the most part, makes me want to pour cement in my ears until my head crashes to the ground and there is, once again, sweet silence. Don't get me wrong; I think a lot of the music is very interesting, and there are even some singers who do a bang-up job with the material (I'm thinking the Roches). But that's never what they play in the stores. Here I am, going into Walmart at midnight, just minding my own business and buying my beer and vaseline, and my ears are assaulted by a steady stream of singers whose voices are somewhere in the range between fingernails on chalkboard and so high only dogs can hear, singing Christmas songs that would have been so much better left as instrumentals. The only saving grace is that, if I can hoof it over to the beer aisle quickly enough, the sonic outrage from the store loudspeakers is drowned out by the sound of Vivaldi's Four Seasons, which the store is nice enough to play at a decent volume from speakers mounted on a wine display. So I stand there and soak in the classical music, then make my dash to the checkout lanes, humming Spring to myself so as to drown out some warthog in heat singing about harking for the angels to sing (so why doesn't the bitch shut the fuck up and hark already?).


Yeah, the holidays make me even grumpier than I am the rest of the year, which is quite a feat when you stop and think about it. But then someone goes and does something nice for me and suddenly, I feel like a true assbag for wanting to punch a snowman right in the carrot.

My sister, for instance, came over last night for our traditional Thursday-night brain rot of General Hospital, and she brought early Christmas presents for my babies. And then my heart grew three sizes.




Auntie Squirl brought the boys a jester wand with most tempting feathers (pictured above with the conquering hero Friday), three fuzzy mice (as opposed to fuzzy dice, which seem to confuse the cats to no end), and two large tubs of catnip. Oh, yeah...we're gonna be fucked up this Christmas!

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go make my employees work overtime on Monday and then perhaps knock a small child off his crutches.

At this particular moment...

I am:

• Watching Bravo. Duh, like you didn't know that. Those OC housewives are like a train wreck, a well-dressed train wreck, that I can't stop watching.
  
  
• Eating chicken in thai peanut sauce, a dinner I made all by myself, and it tastes good and I'm not dying from it!
  
  
• Laughing my fool ass off because someone on TV just said, "I'm getting a facial!"
  
  
• Dropping rice on Thirteen's head and then pretending I didn't when he whips around and accuses me with his bratty little glare. Oh yeah, I'm quite easily amused.
  
  
• Now quite hooked on Heroes thanks to my brother's season 1 DVDs.
  
  
• Returning the favor by getting Tardist hooked on Dexter by way of my season 1 DVDs.
  
  
• Having a hard time getting the Dexter theme song out of my head after watching about five episodes today.
  
  
• Feeling like maybe I watch entirely too much television these days.
  
  
• Wondering if the cat vomit on my panties is some kind of editorial comment. Um, they're the ones from yesterday that I threw on the floor last night; I wasn't wearing them when said regurgitation occurred.
  
  
• Sending my resume to lots and lots of potential employers. Sooner or later, one of them has to look at it and be fooled into thinking I'm worth employing.
  
  
• Thinking that if I see "would of" instead of "would've" or "would have" one more time, I'm going to bust out my grammar police uniform and start writing tickets and slapping on the cuffs. Don't think I won't do it, people. Then I'll avenge misuse of "I" and "me." Don't mangle the language, y'all.
  

If you hear cackling late at night in Walmart, it's probably me

You know how sometimes you're tired, and your brain isn't quite working at top speed, and you see words and read them wrong?

Ummmm....this one is bad, even for me.




When I first looked this, I read it as:

PENETRATION
Kitty Lube

Please don't tell Eeyore, Friday, and Thirteen; I don't want them to get spoiled to the idea that I would actually use lube.

Oh, the indignity!

So, it apparently wasn't insulting enough that a squirrel peed on my porch. When I went outside this morning, I found this:




That's right. A squirrel busted a nut on my porch.



In other news of the weird, I have actually put up my own Christmas tree, for the first time...ever. I'll admit to being a huge Scrooge when it comes to all that fa-la-la-la-la crap, but I was given my mom's tree, so how could I not put that up? It's amazing I was able to get the giant thing through the door, though.




Oh, yeah...I went all out. Ho ho ho, motherfucker! What's the next step? Inflatable reindeer in my yard? Icicle vibrator?

By the way...did you know that Christmas lights are roughly the same shape as a butt plug?

Lazy Bucky's quickies

I'm sure they make medication for my state of mind, but what the fuck fun is that?

• My newest addiction is the cartoon The Boondocks. You have to love a show where a 9-year-old kid writes a letter to Santa calling him a "bitch ass nigga."
  
  
• Friday has traditionally been the cat to jump up in my lap simply for the purpose of farting on me. Lately, however, Thirteen has become increasingly clingy, and along with his newfound velcro-ness, he's picked up the "fart on mommy" habit. And it's bad, people, it's bad.
  
  
• I've heard older women who prefer to date younger men referred to as cougars. Does that apply to older women who prefer to date younger women? Am I a cougar? Or is the term "dirty old dyke" still the only label for someone with my predilection for girls who weren't old enough to vote in 1992?
  
  
• My shovel is still gone, so my small bit of hope that a neighbor just borrowed it is shot to hell. When I buy my new shovel, the fucker's coming in the house with me when it's not in use.
  
  
• I'm looking for work, but so far no one has realized how indispensable I would be to their corporation. Maybe I should take "$2 whore" off my resume?
  

Oh, that's COLD!

When I went out to get my mail this afternoon, I discovered that some sonofabitch had absconded with my snow shovel. Took the fucker right off my porch, probably while I was sitting on the other side of the wall watching TV, I mean, engaging in highly intellectual pursuits.

Now how do I get this giant puddle of urine off my deck railing?




Well, alright...so it's a tiny dot of piss. A squirrel pissed on my porch. I don't think it was my sister, though; the puddle would have been bigger, and she'd have cleaned up after herself. 'Cause that's how she rolls.

If I could pick a specific punishment for my shovel stealer, I think it would involve all the squirrels in the neighborhood ganging up to pee on his or her face in the night. Then, when the asshole wakes up and wonders "What the fuck?" and gets up to look in the bathroom mirror, I hope the squirrels will have brought MY shovel into the house so he or she steps on it and gets a face full of wooden handle to go with the squirrel urine. I only threw that in because I didn't figure the squirrels would have enough leverage to get the shovel up the perpetrator's ass.

Any other suitable punishments for someone who would steal the snow shovel of a poor, defenseless woman like me? Go on, tell me what should happen to the fuckface!

Pussy galore

I'm not the only one in this house who is addicted to Project Runway. Friday claims to be rooting for Jillian (pictured), but I think he really just watches because he is the cat version of Tim Gunn.




























Thirteen, on the other hand, would rather sit in a tunnel than watch Friday's gayboy TV shows.







Friday tries to persuade...


"Come on, Thirteen - you could use a few fashion tips. You're looking a little rumpled there, silly boy."




...but Thirteen is unswayed.


"Not looking, you can't make me look, la la la laaaaa..."

Bravo for a fever

What, exactly, does the phrase "under the weather" have to do with being sick? Really, aren't we kind of always under the weather, unless we're flying in a plane over the clouds? Anyway, linguistic arguments aside, I've felt like ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag for the last couple of days, and have spent an inordinate amount of time in front of the television.

Not just any television, mind you: Bravo TV. I'm addicted to Bravo's reality shows. Did you know that Bravo often runs marathons of their own shows during the day? Well, I know it pretty well now. I've sat through hours of The Real Housewives of Orange County, which is a way for middle-class folks to feel better about ourselves when we see these spoiled, privileged, rich bitches and their brain-dead offspring acting like the nincompoops that they really are. My favorite quote of the day, from the idiotic lips of one of the rich offspring, said to a girl visiting from Ontario: "Do you speak Canadian?"

The shows that really get me, though, are their competition shows. I got hooked on Top Chef about halfway through the first season, and came in on Project Runway when they started their season three. Yesterday, I'm only slightly ashamed to admit that I spent the entire day in front of Project Runway reruns from the seasons I missed. I more or less watched those all day until this week's PR was shown last night, and was so disinclined to move that I watched it yet again immediately afterward (they usually run the new episode twice in a row on Wednesday night). Then, just when I thought I was going to move from the couch onto my bed, they popped up with an early showing of the Top Chef holiday special, where chefs from all three seasons come back to compete for a one-off cash prize for the night.

After all that, I figured I'd just pass out in bed and the next thing I know, it would be morning. But between the Bravo overload and the slight fever I was running, my mind went on overdrive and I had weird, vivid dreams all night. It's been a while since I've dreamed so much that I can actually remember in detail upon awakening. To begin the night, I was a Top Chef contestant who was packing to go home because I'd been eliminated, but couldn't manage to get all my stuff down to the car. Every time I'd think I was ready, I'd remember more shit that I'd left up in my room, and I always had to take the stairs to get back up there. Once I finally got all my stuff out of the room, I tore out of there in my car and proceeded to drive the wrong way down the highway while the hotel clerks shouted warnings at me. After I woke up and fell back into a mildly disturbed slumber, I dreamt that Molly and I were coming out of a museum and heading to our car, and then we saw a van bearing down on us, obviously intending to squash us like bugs. So she grabbed my hand and took off running, around cars, and most impressively, right over top of a parked car. I knew I wouldn't be able to keep up her pace and let go of her hand so she could get away, but luckily, I woke up before the van was able to turn me into a tard pancake. In my next set of dreams, I was staying at the Parker Hotel in Palm Springs (Bravo actually did a short series about them, but I hadn't seen any reruns of it recently, so I don't know what brought that on). My old calico, Nudgie, was there, but she belonged to someone else (apparently, I'd given her to them...you know that had to be a dream). I found out that they'd let her escape outside, so once I was able to chase her down and catch her, I told her she was coming home with me (which is quite a feat, considering that she's been dead for years). But then I realized that Friday was missing, and I was frantically running around, asking everyone "Where's Friday? Where the fuck is Friday?" but it was one of those dreams where you're on the verge of busting a vein and everyone around you is totally indifferent to your panic. I raced outside to find him, and in my dream, I woke up and realized it had been a dream. While I was still dreaming. You'd better believe I went and found Friday as soon as I actually woke up.

How come I can't get sick and have completely realistic sex dreams? It's what I think of 90% of the time, so you'd think that would carry over. All that Project Runway, all that Top Chef, and no Heidi Klum, no Padma Lakshmi? What the fuck, people? Truthfully, I'm not sure I want to go to sleep tonight. I'm stepping away from Bravo now. Anybody wanna come over and play Uno Attack all night?

A crimp(er) in my plans

I got snowed in with a hot hairdresser...and lived to tell the tale.

Well, to be fair, it wasn't the snow so much as it was the freezing rain and the impenetrable fog which kept me at Molly's house. Plus, you know, no hardship there - sexy girl with fresh groceries and beer? Yeah...snow me in, baby, snow me in.

She was drinking Sparks again, and you know what that means: my hair becomes her playground. I'm a freak for using glosser and a straightening iron on my tangled mass (I mean on my head, you sick fuckers), and Molly is always urging me to make my hair BIGGER. So she gave me a beer, sat me down on the floor in front of her, and crimped like there was no tomorrow.







I really like having my hair fixed, but I'm always worried that someone, someday, is going to clue her in to the fact that she's essentially putting lipstick on a pig. But until she realizes that, I'm going to enjoy the hell out of it and bring you all photographic evidence of what happens at adult slumber parties. Well, um...up to a point, of course. You do not get to see the pillow fights; I'm saving that for the pay-per-view site.


Of course, there's always the danger of all that hairspray going straight to my brain, and I'm afraid that's exactly what happened Friday night.



It's not that the dementia hadn't set in years ago, but now it is undeniable. All I need now is a pastel straight jacket that goes with the sparkly hair clip.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go practice for the next pillow fight.