TREE TRIALS

Join me for a visit to Christmas past. Not that long ago. . .

 

One of  our cast of characters. You've probably seen her picture at PetSmart under a sign that says WARNING.

It’s half past tree-decorating time. I have a collection of beautiful and delicate heirloom ornaments handcrafted to celebrate joy and reflect the beauty of the Christmas season.

In a box in the basement. 

Why?

Because nothing says Here Comes Santa Claus like shards of memories and broken glass scattered across the living room Oriental to impale the toes of random passers-by on their way to the kitchen for a snack. And with centuries of experience, the reindeer are finicky about landing on a roof that’s decorated in a festive pawprint motif. Santa is understandably anxious about a house that decorates with broken balls.

 A week ago, we decked the halls, shook out the tree skirt, and festooned the boughs and branches of the well-worn, but guaranteed to remain life-like, evergreen with symbols of good will toward men. The evergreen that has a permanent, cat-shaped hole in the middle.

The next morning the tree exploded. I thought the star had gone supernova.  

A black ball of fangs and fur flew past in a cloud of glitter and tinsel, and a tabby with a surprised and somewhat bewildered expression catapulted from the center of the Christmas tree, ricocheted off the La-Z-Boy, and careened into the hall, where it scattered laundry baskets like bowling pins. The vacuum cleaner succumbed to a change in air pressure and current and performed a magnificent backflip, neatly taking out a stack of newly washed towels on an end table. A black and white furball with years of experience grabbed a gold ball with a luminous snowflake pattern and headed downfield like an Olympian about to score a gold medal goal.

The tree was shredded like a delicate interoffice memorandum and teetered like a ballerina with sore feet before it crash-landed on the hardwood floor.The Pit Bull, who is leery of the cats' shenanigans and who learned emergency maneuvers during the last hurricane, hid under the coffee table with his favorite knucklebone for rations.

 But within minutes the tree was up and re-decorated in its Christmas finery.

 Its Christmas plastic finery.

 In a move of inspiration and lightning-fast reaction to a scene of destruction in our living room years ago, Bill rushed out and snapped up all the dazzling, heirloom plastic ornaments that WalMart had to offer.

 Of course, our tree looks like the toddler aisle at Toys R Us on Black Friday.

 If our Christmas tree were a Muppet, it would be Miss Piggy.

Where other homes have trees that reflect good taste and tradition, our tree is a reflection of our life choices. We don’t have family photos on our walls so much as mug shots.

Because sometimes Peace on Earth looks more like Earth in Pieces. It just takes a little love to keep it all together.

 And maybe some duct tape.

 Hold your loved ones together with whatever it takes.

 Merry Christmas!

 

 

TREE TRIALS

 

One of  our cast of characters.
You've probably seen her picture at PetSmart under a sign that says WARNING.

It’s half past tree-decorating time. I have a collection of beautiful and delicate heirloom ornaments handcrafted to celebrate joy and reflect the beauty of the Christmas season.

In a box in the basement. 

Why?

Because nothing says Here Comes Santa Claus like shards of memories and broken glass scattered across the living room Oriental to impale the toes of random passers-by on their way to the kitchen for a snack. And with centuries of experience, the reindeer are finicky about landing on a roof that’s decorated in a festive pawprint motif. Santa is understandably anxious about a house that decorates with broken balls.

 A week ago, we decked the halls, shook out the tree skirt, and festooned the boughs and branches of the well-worn, but guaranteed to remain life-like, evergreen with symbols of good will toward men. The evergreen that has a permanent, cat-shaped hole in the middle.

The next morning the tree exploded. I thought the star had gone supernova.  

A black ball of fangs and fur flew past in a cloud of glitter and tinsel, and a tabby with a surprised and somewhat bewildered expression catapulted from the center of the Christmas tree, ricocheted off the La-Z-Boy, and careened into the hall, where it scattered laundry baskets like bowling pins. The vacuum cleaner succumbed to a change in air pressure and current and performed a magnificent backflip, neatly taking out a stack of newly washed towels on an end table. A black and white furball with years of experience grabbed a gold ball with a luminous snowflake pattern and headed downfield like an Olympian about to score a gold medal goal.

The tree was shredded like a delicate interoffice memorandum and teetered like a ballerina with sore feet before it crash-landed on the hardwood floor.The Pit Bull, who is leery of the cats' shenanigans and who learned emergency maneuvers during the last hurricane, hid under the coffee table with his favorite knucklebone for rations.

But within minutes the tree was up and re-decorated in its Christmas finery.

Its Christmas plastic finery.

In a move of inspiration and lightning-fast reaction to a scene of destruction in our living room years ago, Bill rushed out and snapped up all the dazzling, heirloom plastic ornaments that WalMart had to offer.

Of course, our tree looks like the toddler aisle at Toys R Us on Black Friday.

If our Christmas tree were a Muppet, it would be Miss Piggy.

If it were a celebrity (don't tell Miss Piggy), it would dress like Jennifer Lopez on Oscar night.

Where other homes have trees that reflect good taste and tradition, our tree is a reflection of our life choices. We don’t have family photos on our walls so much as mug shots.

Because sometimes Peace on Earth looks more like Earth in Pieces. It just takes a little love to keep it all together.

 And maybe some duct tape.

 Hold your loved ones together with whatever it takes.

 Merry Christmas!

 

 

 Christmas Symptom Countdown

It’s been a year since I retired. And now that the pumpkins are packed away and Christmas is hovering just around the cranberry sauce comes the season I anticipate all year.

The joyous season of “I’ve Met My Medical Insurance Deductible” is upon us.

The beginning of Advent marks the time allotted to visit all the doctors who have an interest in my health plan before New Year’s draws the curtain and the annual Rite of CoPay It Forward begins anew. It’s a lottery of how many doctors I can fit on my physical symptoms Bingo card before December ends and that mysterious rash goes unrequited. I count down with my Days of the Week pill caddy.

 

It seems like I’ve won the medical specialist lottery. These days I collect professionals whose titles end in -ist like TikTok followers collect new dance moves. I keep cardiologists in my contact list the way the Kardashians keep cosmetologists. My days rotate around medical tests. The Cologuard people send me flowers on my birthday and the local mortuary offered me a discount on my final arrangements.

 

It wasn’t always this way. The second I lit that 60^th candle on my birthday Triple Decker Hot Fudge Chocolate Madness, my knee went out, my heart skipped a beat, and the skin in my neck draped over my chest like Spanish moss. I used to toot my own horn; now I can’t lift my knee without banging my gong.

 

I’m not the type that revels in sickness to get extra attention. I’d rather shave my legs with a cheese grater than have a well-meaning Boy Scout help me across the street. If I want somebody who worries about my every need, I’ll trade my cat for a Golden Retriever.

 

I’m the youngest sibling in my family. Now that we’re all retired, our family potlucks have turned into a medical version of Rock, Paper, Scissors.  Neurologist beats Cardiologist, Cardiologist takes out Orthopedist, Oncologist wipes out Neurologist. We swap for medical supplies instead of gifts. Last year I got the grand prize. It was an enema kit and a picture of George Clooney.

 

I can hardly wait for the results of my physical to let me know what I can’t eat this year. Carbs are out, sugar is out, salt is out.

 

Maybe I’ll just go out.

 

Merry Christmas to all. With no side effects.

 SNAPPED, SPACKLED, AND POOPED

When the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come starts spreading its merry magic around, anything can happen. One year, the spirit of Snap, Crackle, and Pop possessed me, and with a joyful heart I set about making Rice Krispie treats.

I might not bake like Betty Crocker, but I mix like a lidless blender.  Ingredients disappeared into the bowl like bathtub toys down the drain.  Seeing what I was up to, my husband volunteered to do a store run to buy emergency rations of vanilla extract.  I’m not normally a baker, but when the situation calls for it I can preheat like Paula Deen.  It was Christmas, and if the kids wanted Rice Krispie treats to take to school, why I was going to snap and crackle if it killed me.

I was elbow-deep in white fluff and crunchy bits when the phone rang. This was prehistoric times, before the days when a cell phone would make it easy to check a shiny screen for pertinent information.

I looked at the phone on the shelf.

I looked at the mass of seasonal sweetness glistening in the mixing bowl.

Ring Ring

Surely it was a late night salesman calling with an offer on reindeer rides or antler cleaners.

Ring Ring

Or it could be. . .

Ring Ring

Santa.

I lunged for the phone.

Across the dog napping by my chair.  Across the table.  Across the mixing bowl full of sticky, marshmallow goodness.

Which immediately grabbed my sweater like a Hoover on a hairball.

I squealed and grabbed at the sticky mass stuck to my sweater. My hands stuck tight.

The phone rang forlornly. Would Santa wait?  I couldn’t take that chance.

I wedged a rubber spatula somewhere very inconvenient for a spatula to go and tried to pry myself loose from the goo.  No luck.  Finally, through the use of my gourmet kitchen superpowers, I pulled a hand free and grabbed the phone.  Crispy Christmas spirit clung to my clothes like a solidified lava flow.

 “Hello, Santa?!” 

Dial tone.

I sat back to ponder the situation, one hand stuck to my shirt in a modified Pledge of Allegiance salute, the other hand held fast to the telephone, wondering if there was a known antidote for marshmallow crème super glue.

About that time the man who promised to love, cherish, and pick up milk on the way home from work came in the back door.  “Why didn’t you answer the phone?  I wanted to ask you about the ingredients for the . . .” 

I looked up at him, festive clumps of cereal globs hanging from my sweater like Christmas tree ornaments and marshmallow crème tipping my eyelashes like disco balls. The black Labrador dozing at my feet dreaming of sugarplums looked like a Candyland Appaloosa.

That night I discovered the true meaning of Christmas. Sure, now I know that the combination of crispy rice cereal and marshmallow crème must have some sort of unstable effect on the individual ingredients, some sort of recipe for disaster than an entry-level biology student has memorized. Or maybe, as my kids suggest, the unstable effect dealt mainly with the cook. 

I’m not sure where I went wrong, but the next day my family strung electrified razor wire around the kitchen door.  Now I have to sign a consent form to check out a spatula and I only have access to marshmallow creme when accompanied by a guardian under the age of 12. 

But I learned a good lesson the hard way. When the chips are down and your snap and crackle have lost their pop, a man who will chisel petrified puffed rice off of your Partridge in a Pear tree sweater is worth more than a herd of flying reindeer. He headed right back to the store for a sleigh-load of store bought Rice Krispie treats.

And these days?  I eat oatmeal.

An Open Letter to My FaceBook Friend-To-Be

Dear Friendless,

I see by my little pop up timer that you want to be my friend. That’s thoughtful of you and I’m sure you have a great personality; a people person that draws other folks to you like barbecue draws rednecks. But upon searching my memory banks, my old address books, and the pictures from my high school yearbook, I find I have no clue to your identity. I’m afraid to check the mug shots on the county jail website.

I asked my children if they had teachers that might be motivated to make my acquaintance on the sly. I wondered if my coworkers had friends with motives for revenge. Aside from folks touched by that episode with the chocolate diaper in the microwave, I can’t think of any work-related citizens who might bear ill will toward me.

I’d like to think you’re a fan, too shy to say anything out loud, but wanting to duplicate my every move so that you can be more like me every day.

Sort of like a stalker with poor life choices.

Sort of like the shy girl who sits in the corner by the cheese dip waiting for the chance to say “No problem” when someone drops a jalapeño in her shoe.

Sort of like the fellow that knew how to work the slide rule in math class back before everybody had calculators that could figure the change in your body fat ratio before you ate the chocolate chip cookie.

I married that guy.

I was going to ignore your friend request. I was going to go gleefully on my way accepting gifts for my virtual megafarm. I was going to go toss a pie at one of my less needy friends.

But then I looked closer. That’s not a stalker. It’s not even a fan. It’s a picture of me at a recent Christmas party.

I’m sitting by the cheese dip.

And eating out of the bowl.

And picking a jalapeno out of my shoe.

The Man Hunt

I'm hunting men this Christmas
The one I want the most
Is really most elusive
Down here so near the coast

The weatherman says eighty
So again this year you'll find
Me at the kitchen window
Building snowmen in my mind.

Best wishes for a very merry Christmas and a blessed and peaceful New Year!

Merry Christmas, Eeyore

I’m a little bit of a late bloomer when it comes to getting ready for Christmas. I'm kind of like those bulbs you have to plant in your flower garden in the dead of winter to turn into flowers come spring. Or maybe it’s the seeds you plant. However it goes, Father Christmas won't be seeing my bloomers til half past Valentine's Day.

But for the first time since the Power Ranger incident of '02, I started shopping before Christmas this year. I was going to wait, but the operators were standing by and I had to call right away to get the Ginsu knives.

Although I don’t go full out in the decorating area, you can tell it’s Christmas around my house by subtle changes in the décor. Just keep an eye out for mutations in the dust patterns on the coffee table.

I’ve moved the nativity scene that I forgot to put away last Christmas from the shelf in the laundry room to the top of the entertainment center, dusted off the baby Jesus, and removed the dryer sheet from the shepherd’s staff. The shepherd isn't quite as festive without his lint-free banner, but now it smells a little more like a stable and less like the Snuggle bear.

What appears to be stray tree limbs connected by lumps of fur in one corner of the living room is actually a small Frasier fir holding up under the strain of the investigative processes of two Labradors, three cats, and an inquisitive Dachshund sporting a Christmas tree skirt. Occasionally the tree gives a shudder and deposits various small animals on the floor. If it lived in the Hundred Acre Wood, my tree would be Eeyore.

There are 1,497 gift bags of assorted sizes and heritage covering every available flat surface, along with several containers of used bows that are perfectly suitable for family gifts if you affix them to packages with a loop of Scotch tape. There is no Scotch tape anywhere in the house. There are several dozen wood screws of assorted sizes in the junk drawer, but repeated attempts at giftwrap show that the wood screw is not a device that is effective for this purpose.

The kitchen table is covered with bits of burned sugar cookies and ingredients for partially assembled gelatin salads and casseroles that will bear offerings of melted cheese and Ritz crackers come Christmas day. This is not considered untidiness in the kitchen, but rather food preparation with holiday flair.

There is a wreath on the outside of the closet door instead of the inside of the closet door. The wreath boasts a giddy Snowman who is on the verge of bursting into the songs of the season just as soon as the Captain tells me where he hid the batteries.

There is a car in the driveway awaiting new tires, a replacement windshield wiper, and a brake job. Nothing says Merry Christmas at our house quite like "there's a front end alignment with your name on it just around the corner."

So for all of you folks who have every Martha Stewartesque napkin folded into snowflakes, don’t judge me on my lack of handmade ornaments and scented candles. Christmas at my house might have a different flavor and a smell that tends more toward PineSol than pine branches, but the spirit is the same.

I might deck my halls with takeout boxes instead of tinsel, but I still have the hope that good will is not just a store where you can get half off every Tuesday.

Merry Christmas!

Hip Hop

I’m like Shakira--my hips don’t lie.

Even when threatened.

However, without much coaxing they’re willing to reveal every bite of doughnut I’ve had in the past ten years. Try to stuff them inyo a pair of pantyhose and they’ll also let on what happened to the last box of Thin Mints, the banana bread the neighbor brought over, and the six dozen Rudolph cupcakes intended for the third grade Christmas party.

My hips and I have never had a very good relationship. All I long for is to see daylight between my thighs one time before I die. On the other hand my hips fantasize of a day when we can coexist on the buffet deck of the Love Boat without me snarling every time a skinny chick sucks down a milkshake without scraping off the whipped cream.

These days they’re spreading the dream to my chins, who have rebelled and resorted to disguising cookie crumbs in their folds for a late night snack. I’m so nearsighted, I thought it was just stray whiskers. If I ever locate my bifocals, I intend to act sternly in regards to my personal appearance. I may have to read up on excavation techniques.

When I was fifteen, I was all shin bones and shoulder blades. Now I’m fifty and I’ve discovered that love handles are the new hipbones. I used to sing “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes,” but now I have to admit that my head and toes lost touch long before size 10 became the new obese. My knees are still active, though. They take every opportunity to go out. So these days, I’m more likely to sing “Shake, Rattle, and Roll” and hope I don’t lose anything important when I stand up.

Last week I wanted to buy a pair of hip hugger jeans, but I had two get three estimates on the location of my navel to determine the right size. I was going to wear them with a halter top, just like the old days, but my kids hit me with a restraining order, the entire population of the tri-state area staged an intervention, and the government declared my entire Head to Toe area unsafe. I’m expecting FEMA to approve my application for natural disaster assistance any day now.

In the meantime, I’m investing heavily in Krispy Kreme. Because hips don’t lie, but maybe they can be bribed to keep the sugar coated truth to themselves.

Fascinating Facts

While taking a summer break from blogging, I picked up a few new followers, which tells me something, although I'd rather not think about it. Instead, I'll credit the talent of Lisa Allen for giving folks a tidbit or two to tune in for. Thanks Lisa!

In retribution, I mean thanks, to the new folks, I decided to force you to, er TREAT you to, some tidbits about moi. (As Miss Piggy, no relation, would say.) I decided to call them "Fascinating Facts" because "Facts That Put Us To Sleep" just doesn't have that mysterious quality that draws in new readers. So set your alarm and read on.

Fascinating facts:

1. I share a birthday with Abraham Lincoln. My kids think we’re twins. (Abe and Amy. It fits, right?) I told them our mother could only tell us apart because Abe parts his hat on the opposite side from me. And wears his beard is shorter.

2. I’m not good with crafts. My niece gave me a glue gun for Christmas and I glued the bag closed before I could get the gun out. Now I’m required by law to keep the ammunition in a separate location.

4. I like to drive red cars. It’s a mother of two’s way of telling the world there’s more to me than apple juice and gym socks.

5. I like to wear blue jeans everywhere. It’s the white trash version of The Little Black Dress. Reeboks are my pumps. I have a matching wrap. It’s made by Levi Strauss.

6. If my mother weren’t already gone, she would dig her own grave with a grapefruit spoon if she heard me say white trash.

7. I drink Mountain Dew for the taste. That’s like saying I read Playboy for the articles. It’s really all about the rush.

8. I wish I could play the piano. I’d like to hit the ivories at high speed with Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy and leave steam rising from the keys once before I die.

9. I was inside a church that caught on fire. No one was hurt, but to this day, I can’t roast marshmallows without singing Nearer My God to Thee.

10. My kids think they know everything because they can program the TV, the computer, and the cell phone. But they don’t know that I named the dog the primary beneficiary on my life insurance policy or that he’s in charge of their trust fund.

11. My husband, the Captain of our Love Boat, secretly thinks that I’m bossy, that I like to do everything my own way, and that I’m adverse to change. I think adverse means the opposite of reverse and is one of the gifts and graces mentioned in the Bible.

12. I’ve been married twice. So far.

Oh Rapture!

I don't pretend to know the mind of God, although I'm pretty sure He gets His laughs watching the Weather Channel. So while I watched the announced Rapture proceedings with a raised eyebrow this weekend, I couldn't help noticing that a few items around my house have gone missing. Even though I may be tempted to look suspiciously at possible suspects in my living room, I'd like to point out. . .

Ten Things at My House That May Have Been Raptured This Weekend:

1. My car keys.

2. The last two chocolate chip cookies. Also, the equivalent of a glass of milk.

3. My other shoe.

4. The dollar bill that was hidden in the junk drawer under the nail clippers.

5. The points of all my pencils.

6. The lid to the grape jelly.

7. My deposit slips.

8. My original Alvin and the Chipmunks Christmas album.

9. The pliers I use to turn off the hot water.

10. The dog’s food—the bag is empty!

On second thought, cross number ten off the list. There is a suspicious trail of crumbs leading to someone's sleepy pillow beside the couch.

Santa's Last Chance

Dear Santa,

As I sit here, wrapped in crumpled piles of swaddling tissue, packing away voided warranties and random battery compartment doors, it occurs to me that I didn’t ask you for the right thing this year.

Sure, I loved the foot bath with the detachable comfort pads that can double as missiles in the hands of untrained guerilla warriors, and the electric carving knife you must have used to hack your way out of the jungles of the North Pole.

They were ideal gifts, if not exactly what I specified on the order form, but I understand your strict no-exchange policy is based on a platoon of elves who have given up a season of toy-making extravaganza for a heady round of celebratory drinking on a southbound ice floe.

However, gazing around at the faces of my family members in the soft glow of candlelight, I’m reminded that I am surely part of a group somewhere that knows not to plug three space heaters and a Dragon Master’s ring into the same power strip.

I’ve thought about it a long time and I’m sure that somewhere there is a family wrapped in individual lamb-print Snuggies, perched on a fluffy couch devoid of a protective coating of animal fur, watching Partridge Family reruns and humming “Come On Get Happy” in resonating harmony.

I still have faith that it is possible to watch an entire television show without missing the first ten minutes because you have to get to the next level before you can save your game. Surely even the Black Ops guys can hold their focus while I watch Wheel of Fortune.

My real family doesn’t have video games. They play interactive card games for entertainment on Friday nights and nobody makes the yukky face and pouts when they draw the Old Maid. They can share snacks without shooting uncooked popcorn kernels through a straw to see who can put out the living room light first. And they never slop chocolate pudding onto anyone’s exposed flesh and scream, “Look what the dog did!”

So, dear Santa, I am writing an advance letter for next Christmas. For now, I will keep the family who finds it entertaining to spend three days of an expensive beach vacation in the hotel room watching Shark Week on public television.

I understand that the child who asked for the titanium Spork for Christmas could be under the influence of unnatural substances beyond my control, such as science fiction, but apart from joining forces with Dr. Every Which Way But Loose or Bill Gates or one of those other bizarre alien creatures, there’s really nothing I can do. Besides, I’m sure the Captain's influence is strong in that one.

But next year, Santa, I would like to find my real family, the people who do not consider a group viewing of the Monty Python movie, "Searching for the Holy Grail" to be a religious experience, who do not convulse into hysterics when someone utters the word “nutcracker,” and who does not claim ownership like a terrorist group when there is a blatant disregard for sensitive personal airspace.

So, Santa, I’m writing in advance so that you have time to complete the paperwork. If you could arrange a transfer, I’d be most grateful. I’ll have my purple flannel puppy dog pajamas and my original issue Partridge Family albums all packed and ready to go.

There’s just one thing. The Dachshund only likes the red bits out of the kibble and the ankles of UPS delivery men, but there’s none better for tracking errant rabbits or undelivered parcels full of Christmas cookies. The Labradors take turns helping to load the dishwasher and riding shotgun on the way to the dump. They need a sense of purpose to be happy; a job other than licking stray butter wrappers, unlike the tribe of children who can live happily with a refrigerator full of empty milk jugs, eating cereal with gardening implements when all the spoons are dirty.

So when you find my new family, would you find one for the puppies as well? You might consider a sled dog team instead of reindeer. Bo can jump over two recliners full of sleeping cats with the right encouragement, and while I’m not one to divulge personal secrets, a fast-moving tennis ball at nose height that just stirs the whiskers is a powerful force to resist. I’d keep the cookies hidden, though. He gets a little sluggish after a dozen or so shortbreads.

Thanks for listening, Santa. Sometimes a chance to express my frustrations is all I need for peace and contentment. Not this time though. This time I want action. Don’t even think about not granting my request, or next year your trip will be mighty short.

I’ve told the Dachshund that you’re really from UPS. Resistance is futile.

Amy

Neighborly Advice

Ten Commandments for My New Neighbor


Living in a duplex, I go through neighbors like a family of cats goes through a five pound bag of litter that freshens with every step, and I have some friendly advice. If you want to make a go of it in this neighborhood, you’ll listen up and not staple this list to the hood of my car like the last guy did. If you want a reference from him, he is residing peacefully at Happy Acres Memorial Gardens. Feel free to use my name.

1. Old tents and ripped cushions in lawn furniture may be acceptably repaired with duct tape. Back windows in old Fords or open wounds on small children may not. Neither is it a substitute for nails and a willingness to locate a hammer when your mailbox has been detached from its post. A mailbox trussed to a wooden spike by thirty rounds of silver adhesive looking like a tin can with a toothache causes undue stress in an already unstable housing market.

2. John Deere makes a wide selection of lawn tractors. That six month old goat you’ve got tethered to a hubcap with three feet of heavy links like he’s the anchor man on a baby goat chain gang is not an acceptable substitute. Let’s send you out on a short leash to get the morning paper and see if you affect a change of heart.

3. In the future, please Just Say No to the idea of mowing the lawn clad only in your underwear. Indulge in a roomy pair of gym shorts and you’ll find yourself zipping up the popularity poll in the neighborhood before you know it.

4. A privacy fence is for, well, privacy. Please don’t launch your youngest child over the top of the fence like a punted football to find out what we’ve got cooking outside. We are not responsible for stray grill marks.

5. If you have a taste for loud music, please play something I know or can understand the words to. Having the tune to a rap song I don’t know stuck in my head will lead to my hanging about in your bushes trying to find out what words sound like “scratch my itch.”

6. A swimming pool is commonly used for swimming. I’m sure your new bass boat will skip over the lake like a flat stone, but trying out your new motor in the above-ground will result in an appearance on Funniest Home Videos. Remember there’s nothing to impede your progress toward the slime pit across the street except that scraggly row of dandelions you call a flower garden.

7. Please don’t sneak over under cover of darkness to partake of the blueberries on my bushes. I’ll be glad to share. Just like you’ll be glad to share that mess of freshly caught trout with me next summer. Also, I don’t mind if your kids climb the tree in my back yard to purloin fruit. But keep in mind the results from a morning filled with little green apples leads to an afternoon filled with personal aerobics of a stressful kind.

8. I understand if your Uncle Earl had an evening of social entertaining that leads to a hearty headache the next morning. But if any more of his “nieces” ring my doorbell at three in the morning clad in leopard-print hip boots and a leather halter top and ask to use my litter box, I’m calling Animal Control.

9. This is the South. We surpass just about everyone in the number of per capita lawn ornaments. But those plywood cutouts of Granny bending over to show her polka dot bloomers have been done to death. At least get something classy like one of those windmills that look like the roadrunner’s legs are going in a circle. Roadrunners are like pearls. They’re always appropriate.

10. Close your curtains. The neighbors don’t need to know that it was necessary to summon the Jaws of Life to your home for the sole purpose of retrieving your wife from the Jacuzzi.

11. Here's an extra commandment, just because I'm feeling festive. If your idea of decorating for Christmas is tying a sprig of mistletoe to the beltloop in the back of your pants, walk slowly past my driveway. I have a large dog who has issues with anything sporting a bushy tail. And by the way, unless your name is Jeff Foxworthy, we don't require proof that you're a redneck.

Attached you’ll find a request for samples from your garden for quality assurance purposes, a form for proof of vaccinations, and a sterile baggie for DNA testing. Merry Christmas and welcome to the neighborhood.

Festive Fish Stories

I can’t think why I gain weight during the holidays. I’m sure to eat a balanced diet from every food group: food made with cream soup, food made with Cool Whip, food that combines fruit with marshmallows in a creative way, and food that distant relatives make. And I’m always careful to use garnishes, such as triple chocolate cake in hot fudge sauce, with discretion.

But here I am again, straining the seams of my purple puppy dog pajamas and forcing the elastic in my stretchy pants to call for reinforcements. To take the stress off my seams, I generally go easy in the “food that distant relatives make” category.

What is it about seeing people only once a year that makes them think they can try out their experimental recipes without fear of retribution? Everybody has an aunt on a health food kick that makes everything with soy milk or an uncle who specialty is peanut butter casserole, but my family members have a special place in the Food Terrors Hall of Fame. (Their motto is “Smell This!”)

In honor of family unity, I have always suffered through the asparagus jello of a forgotten time, but from now on, I’m taking a stand on the Spinach and Raisin MangoTomato Balls.

I find that I can resist:

1. Any dish that combines candied cherries, chipped beef, and spices I can't pronounce.

2. Any dish that blends chocolate chips with any type of canned fish product.

3. Any finger food that leaves a residue on my hands that requires turpentine to remove.

The Captain always tries to find a way to avoid the experimental food festivities. Last year a friend asked him to go fly-fishing over the holidays, but instead he spent time in the local emergency room where they applied a topical medication that smelled like trout.

But now I’ve concocted a secret weapon. So next time I’m faced with Sauerkraut and Strawberry Casserole or Better Than Roadkill Chili, I’ll whip the top off the mason jar I’m keeping for such an occasion.

“What’s that?” the Captain asked me when the mixture etched a skull and crossbones on the inside of the jar.

I grinned and waved the jar tantalizingly under his nose. He jumped back. It takes less than that to make hardened criminals spill the details of their secret stash.

“Whoa. What IS that? Your great-grandaddy’s moonshine?”

“Better than that. My brother’s carp bait. He got the secret from Uncle Bud.”

“What’s in it?”

“I can't tell you,” I said, resealing the lid and cushioning the jar in a box lined with packing peanuts to insure the integrity of the solution.

“It’s an Old Family Recipe.”

“Oh.”

“As a matter of fact, that’s what killed Uncle Bud.”

“What did he do, eat it?”

“No, he went fishing on Christmas and Aunt Edna found out.”

Santa's Special Forces

I don’t know if all the recent news feeds about America raising a nation of obese children is true, but from the looks of things at the mall this past weekend, Santa’s gonna be opting for knee replacement surgery after Christmas.

One kid in line looked like an egg in a snowsuit. It took three elves and two recruits from Mall Security Special Forces to hoist him on to Santa’s lap. If that Humpty Dumpty had fallen off the wall, there’s not a frying pan in the kitchen at IHOP big enough to make an omelette with the remains.

And I don’t know what kind of insurance the Elves’ Union has, but I hope it’s not an HMO. It’s hard enough to get a letter of referral in the North Pole, much less finding an orthopedist with access to load bearing replacement joints.

Of course, Santa isn’t exactly a graduate of the Jillian Anderson school of fitness either. I don’t know what he does during the off season, but he might need to consider having one of the elves whip him up a Wii Fit for the North Pole break room. Before long he’s not going to need magic reindeer. He’s going to need a magic forklift with a widescreen GPS and axles that handle extra jolly loads.

And let’s get real. Who among us believes that any animal with a name like Dancer or Prancer is going to make the cut for a team of high-performance reindeer that has to fly around the world in one night? Those guys might make the top three on Dancing with the Stars, but they aren’t the go-to alpha males for endurance muscle.

I’ve checked all over Amazon.com to find the real story of Santa’s team, but the closest I found was Reindeer Games for Dummies featuring Rocky and Bullwinkle, which sounds a lot better than Prancer and Dancer. In the South, those are the sort of names that get you beat up every day at recess. Sooner or later these guys are going to have to bulk up or risk losing their Sponge Bob lunchboxes to disgruntled reindeer outcasts.

I’d like to peek into Reindeer School to see what sort of screening process is in place. Somewhere there’s a two-ton reindeer named Tiny belting back Budweisers and watching the Olympic Reindeer Games saying, “I could have been a contender.” That’s the sort of animal I want watching Santa’s back.

So you might want to stay in on Christmas Eve. When Biggie Claus mounts that sleigh like Paul Bunyan at the helm of his big blue ox and starts calling reindeer names at takeoff, you might be better off not knowing who they are. Guido might think you’re looking a little too longingly at the Hannah Montana doll in Santa’s bag. One peek at the moon on the breast of the new fallen snow and you could very well wind up in the Polar Protection Program.

Rest assured that come Christmas morning, all will be well. Because as sure as there’s not a mouse stirring in the land of Nod, there’s nobody better making sure a sleigh full of packages get to their destination overnight.

But make it easy on Santa and leave him a spot in the driveway. Those chimney landings are tough on the knees. And Prancer's already wearing a wrist brace for carpal tunnel.

Crime Scene Christmas

I thought it be would tough Christmas shopping for the boys once they got past the Toys R Us stage. I used to be able to mark the days until Christmas by how many pages were left in the big toy catalog. Most of the pictures had long been shipped to the North Pole for use as instructional material by elves specializing in sophisticated foam weaponry.

The boys are now in their second decade of intense and dedicated toy shopping. These days they want electronic games that feature goal-oriented ninjas, indiscriminate assassins, and more than a few species of vengeful undead.

Nothing says Happy Holidays like a man in black greeting passersby with a six inch throwing knife and a hearty handgun.

When I was a kid, we’d strap on holsters with six shooters and clap cowboy hats made of felt on our heads. You’d have to chase the bad guy clear down to his front porch before he’d admit that he was dead. These days you’re a virtual assassin who can wipe out a planet with a rapid fire Remington and a hamster wheel of death.

As the guys rent newer and more sophisticated video games to see which ones they want for Christmas, the sounds of the season fill my house: swords ring out in duels, gunshots ricochet through quiet villages, gleeful laughter meets the brother who triumphs in the zombie apocalypse.

It reminds me of lunch with the relatives.

It’s never safe to venture into Uncle Joe’s airspace after he’s had his fill of giblet gravy. Even the Labradors avoid crossing into enemy territory at half past pumpkin pie.

So this Christmas we’ll deck the halls with a turkey leg fired high tight toward a platoon of retreating relatives. And if anybody tries to get away with the pumpkin pie, they’d better watch out. I’m a killer with an assault drumstick.

And I’m sitting next to Uncle Joe.

Special Delivery

For a while, the Captain of our Kennel discovered he could waylay any latent longings for new experiences in motherhood I might display with the addition of a new pet. Pets aren’t less expensive than children, but in rare cases their obedience training is actually effective. I am now the Angelina Jolie of the animal world. Presently I have six animals representing various cultures lounging on the living room furniture, ringing for takeout.

The cats are no trouble. They thrive on indifference. And aloe plants. Aloe plants that you’ve pampered and promised roomy new pots to if only they will “Live, please, live just one more day!” Shortly after a feline gourmet vegetarian meal, you will discover that fillet of aloe plant makes them puke fancy green spearmint gum-type designs on the new living room plush.

I can also keep up with the Labradors. Chunk a ball down the driveway and they will knit themselves into a scarf trying to be the first to grab it up and chew it like Double Bubble. Big dogs are easy. They know they’re dogs (okay, they also know they’re people and feel entitled to at least half of your sandwich, but that’s another thing entirely.) The thing is, they EXPECT to chase a ball and to be invited outside of the house for personal chores, such as watering topiaries and chasing squirrels. They come in the house to sleep or to help with the vacuuming or to beg for potato chips.

It’s the Dachshund that gives me trouble.

So far she has successfully trained me to retrieve a toy, give her a treat, and dress appropriately for carrying her outside under the umbrella in inclement weather. I’m striving for more complex achievements, but if she thinks I’m good for agility training, she’s going to be disappointed. I’m 51 years old. I don’t always make it safely through the hallway obstacle course on my 2:00 a.m. bathroom expedition. For me, agility is the ability not to trip over shadows and to open the bottle of pain reliever without calling for the Jaws of Life.

Occasionally, I will look down by my chair to find the little darling gazing up at me with the kind of eyes that would make Ebenezer Scrooge sign up as a Salvation Army bell ringer, attempting to assimilate me into her thought processes. Usually I’m not adept at picking up other languages, but now I recognize Dachshund for “play,” “treat,” and “let’s send the big dogs to live with your brother.”

As an added embarrassment, she doesn’t care for clothes like the movie stars' dogs do. Oh, she’s up for sleeping on your new sweater or dragging your soiled underwear through the dining room to pad her bed when company is passing the sugar bowl for tea. But she turns surly if you present her with a set of twinkling reindeer antlers at Christmastime, and no matter how nicely you ask, she won't let you tie the chinstrap in a fetching bow.

She once shunned a beautiful sweater, knitted entirely by the hands of her loving auntie, to shield her from the winter wind. She pulled her head and paws in like a turtle so that trying to dress her was like stuffing a sausage. And I’m quite certain that the thoughts parading through her stubborn Dachshund brain were particularly unladylike. I informed her straightaway that I knew a little Pug that would love to have that sweater, and with one look she invited me to pack it up and send it along special delivery. And the Labradors along with it.

I think I’ll need a bigger box.

Mowing the Legs

As a good Southern girl, I pretend to shave my legs regularly. I don’t mean I’m pretending to do it. I mean I don’t do it and then lie about it. It’s a little rule I have to improve the quality of my life. I don’t eat oysters, wash and wax my floors, or shave my legs in months that contain an R.

Times are changing, though. Instead of doing the floors, I just refinance and move when they get dirty. And forget about the R--these days I don’t eat oysters in any month that has a BP in it.

As far as legs go—and at 5’2” tall, mine don’t go very far—I find that a nice pantsuit is acceptable just about anywhere these days. If I need to wear a dress, I come down with the flu—the best fashion find since stretchy pants.

I tried alternatives to shaving and I’ve learned some helpful tips that will make it easier the next time I wax. This year we used my legs for Christmas candles the whole month of December. I’m not waxing again until I’m a cadaver. The temperature of my body should cool that stuff right down and cut down on the waxy buildup that gave my legs that dull finish during the holidays.

I find that sometimes shaving my legs is like mowing the lawn. These shins have been under cover since November and all manner of vegetation has sprung up in the intervening months. Who knew Virginia Creeper could move that fast? I don’t need a razor. I need a weedeater and the industrial strength size RoundUp. With a spray hose attachment.

That first time you try and take out the Bermuda grass can be an enlightening experience. And how did that thistle sneak in there, anyway? If the Captain wants a First Mate with smooth legs, he’s going to have to bring in the heavy construction equipment. I’ve got a wilderness area that’s likely to be covered by the Environmental Protection Act.

Until then, his razor is my razor. Women don’t get equipment like this. I need something for hacking through the underbrush; say a machete attachment. It’s not fair that the people who need the mulcher the most don’t have the option.

I emptied the grass catching attachment and swept a hand down one shin to see if any bloodletting spikes were apparent.

Apparently somebody planted a cactus garden when I wasn’t looking.

I reached for the phone and dialed an emergency number. What can I say? One of the most important things in lawn care is knowing when to call in a professional.

One Love, Two Beers

Now that the kids are old enough to tie my shoes and buy their own, we’re looking for family fun that doesn’t involve giant rodents serving pizza.

So one night when nothing was on TV but reality show reruns, the family headed to the auditorium for a country music show. All I can say is that things have changed since the Coalminer’s Daughter wore banana curls and evening gowns and stirred hearts with a sweet look and a warm smile.

The little chickie that bounced out on stage was dressed in jeans tighter than Glad wrap on gravy and had something besides coal coming down her chute. The music was so loud my ears popped, but I figured the Captain of my Love Boat was reading lips because his eyes never left the stage.

The next act was a young man about the same age as my knee brace, wearing a cowboy hat and a belt buckle. Everything else was airbrushed on and shook like the space shuttle on re-entry. If everything under that boy's hood hadn't been fastened down, he'd have thrown a rod.

Sons One and Two loved the show. They couldn’t hear a word I said to them the entire night. Nothing promotes family bonding like an enforced lack of communication between generations.

The next concert we attended was an outdoor concert in a cow pasture far, far away. It was easy enough to find using Google maps--we went straight down the Highway to Nowhere and turned left at Old McDonald’s farm. When the smell fogged the windows and the exhaust system starting spewing cow pie pellets like machine gun fire, we knew we’d arrived.

To many people, the idea of an outdoor concert involves finely crafted classical instruments blending together in layers of harmony, while platters of cubed cheese skewered on confetti-wrapped toothpicks perch on prepared platters waiting for a lady in a perfect black dress and hair as smooth as the mayonnaise on a tomato sandwich to take a tiny bite.

Welcome to Manure Fest 2010. This was the venue for Country/Rock at its best.

In 1969, concert-goers at Woodstock made it through overcrowded conditions, inadequate toilet facilities, and intermittent rain showers for three days of peace, love, and music at a dairy farm. After wading through puddles that smelled like the dumpster behind the Diaper Kids Day Care, watching grown men engage in a beer-soaked slapfest in the line for the Big Boys Room, and observing scantily-clad socialites stuck stiletto deep in Carolina clay, I have a lot more respect for the love-in generation. There was something flowing through this crowd, but it had less to do with love than with liquor.

Now while I’m the first one to admit that watching a beer-soaked neo-cowboy trying to balance his designer spurs on a flimsy folding chair is better entertainment than a Saturday night sitcom, I couldn’t help but notice that the entire office staff of the firm Bimbo, Floozy, and Skank was crowding the stage like it was an open audition for Hooters Goes Honky Tonk. I’m pretty sure one had pants designed by Snap On Tools.

But when the Zac Brown band came out and laid down tracks to America the Beautiful that were as smooth and sweet as icing on a sheet cake, backed up by expansive screens bearing footage taken on the band’s recent visit to entertain our overseas troops, the sweet smell of loyalty and faithfulness and pride washed away the smell of bitterness and contention and cow manure and what was in our hearts made us forget what was on our shoes.

I could never understand how Woodstock’s three days in a rainsoaked pasture could lead to warm feelings for anything but soap. But when a crowd of folks as diverse as a grab bag of grocery store candy rose together, hands in the air, and swayed like amber fields of grain to honor our country’s finest, my heart exploded like the Grinch’s Christmas morning cardiac growth spurt.

Zac and the boys played more songs, all of them as smooth and deep as the grass at the Masters. We sang along and clapped our hands and danced under the stars. And when the band broke into Bob Marley’s One Love, this crowd of cowboy contenders and Saturday night socialites cheered together for a world where peace was more than a refrain on the evening air.

The people cheered, hands stretched toward the stars like they could capture the harmony and bring it to Earth.

And the band played on.

Fascinating? Believe It or Not!

It seems like I’m at the top of everybody’s list these days. I figure it’s either because my name starts with “A” (that scored me a lot of unwanted front row seats in school), or it’s everybody’s naughty list, and when it comes to People You Don’t Allow Your Children To Play With, I’m the first one that comes to mind. (Okay, so I consider ice cream an entree and sprinkles the vegetable of the day. It's all about choices.)

Either way, I’ve been given awards by two really neat, cool people. Each award requires the reader to endure fascinating facts about me, and while I don’t mind ensnaring readers under false pretenses as a general rule, I feel obliged to come up with some interesting reading here. So bear in mind that these facts may tend more to the fascinating side than to the fact side, and that I am not invoking the “Satisfaction or Your Money Back Guarantee” on this one. Sit back and prepare to be amazed.

The Superior Scribbler Award from Stacey:
* Each Superior Scribbler must in turn pass The Award on to 5 most-deserving Bloggy Friends.
*Each Superior Scribbler must link to the author & the name of the blog from whom he/she has received The Award.
*Each Superior Scribbler must display The Award on his/her blog, and link to This Post, which explains The Award.
*Each Blogger who wins The Superior Scribbler Award must visit this post and add his/her name to the Mr. Linky List. That way, we'll be able to keep up-to-date on everyone who receives This Prestigious Honor!
*Each Superior Scribbler must post these rules on his/her blog.
(Instead of passing the award torch, I invite you to read the blogs of any of the talented participants in the Army of Ermas blog. They're terrific and I feel like the new girl whose clothes don't match but ended up in the sorority only because of family ties. I do have that one popular sister. I hate her.)

The Beautiful Blogger Award from Becster. As a requirement for accepting the award I am to share seven things about myself that my readers might not know, and then I'm to pass on the award to ten other Beautiful Bloggers! Ten? I don't have ten friends/family members/pets who would give me their telephone number. Don't get your hopes up here.

Fascinating facts:

1. I share a birthday with Abraham Lincoln. My kids think we’re twins. (Abe and Amy. It fits, right?) I told them our mother could only tell us apart because Abe parts his hat on the opposite side from me. And wears his beard shorter.

2. I’m not good with crafts. My niece gave me a glue gun for Christmas and I glued the bag closed before I could get the gun out. Now I’m required by law to keep the ammunition in a separate location.

3. I like to drive red cars. It’s a mother of two’s way of telling the world there’s more to me than apple juice and gym socks.

4. I like to wear blue jeans everywhere. It’s the white trash version of The Little Black Dress. Reeboks are my pumps. I have a matching wrap. It’s made by Levi Strauss.

5. If my mother weren’t already gone, she would dig her own grave with a grapefruit spoon if she heard me say white trash.

6. I drink Mountain Dew for the taste. That’s like saying I read Playboy for the articles. It’s really all about the rush.

7. I wish I could play the piano. I’d like to hit the ivories at high speed with Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy and leave steam rising from the keys once before I die.

8. Or I’d like to play the trumpet. Or the saxophone. Or the kazoo. Or name the letters for the notes of the staff without having to buy a vowel.

9. My kids think they know everything because they can program the TV, the computer, and the cell phone. But they don’t know that I named the dog the primary beneficiary on my life insurance policy or that he’s in charge of their trust fund.

10. My husband, the Captain of our Love Boat, secretly thinks that I’m bossy, that I like to do everything my own way, and that I’m adverse to change. I think adverse means the opposite of reverse and is one of the gifts and graces mentioned in the Bible.

11. I’ve been married twice. So far.

12. I live in a duplex with a husband, two grown boys, three dogs, and three cats. One of the dogs thinks she’s a cat, but that really doesn’t help the numbers any.

13. On Friday nights my kitchen hosts an assembly of trolls, thieves, and warriors. I don’t mind their games as much as the fact that a troll goes through groceries like Brer Rabbit through the briar patch.

14. I was inside a church that caught on fire. No one was hurt, but to this day, I can’t roast marshmallows without singing Nearer My God to Thee.

15. I don’t follow directions well.

Wailing Away in Mousketeerville

Our cats are indoor cats. To them mice are pink and fluffy and stuffed with hallucinogenic drugs. The Christmas catnip toy is still making the rounds through the living room, around the laundry basket, and under the kitchen table. Showing these guys a real mouse is like showing me a Prada bag. It’s fetching when compared to say, a wheelbarrow full of biological recyclables, but basically impractical for every day use.

So imagine my surprise, this year when I got a mouse for my birthday.

He wasn’t exactly a gift; more of a petite party crasher with a Hulk-sized case of the munchies. I was suspicious when I found the bag of Meow Mix under the sink had enough holes chewed in it to look like paper bag chicken pox. But when I saw a furry little flasher dart across the top of my kitchen cabinet, the festivities began.

I realized right then that “The Night Before Christmas” book is pure fiction. “Not a creature was stirring” is the biggest bundle of propaganda since the “new improved McRib” travesty.

It’s not that I have anything against mice. I’m Mickey’s biggest fan. But if a furry little guy dashes through my kitchen without benefit of red shorts, white gloves, or even a T-Shirt endorsement contract, I’m not going to be chiming in with “Why? Because we like you!”

In our house we favor the catch and release program for nature’s little trespassers. That’s because we are benevolent rodetarians. The Captain of our little drydock ark calls it something else under his breath as he’s balancing on a kitchen chair to capture random moths, grasshoppers, and lady bugs with a paper cup. He greeted the new visitor with appropriate felicitations.

Then off he went to the Big Store on the Corner to bring home a humane trap. Humane is another word for living off h’ors d’oeuvres at our expense. He brought home enough groceries to feed the mouse masses in Hell’s Kitchen. I suspect some of the items are for the hunter as well as the hunted.

Just now this little guy is pushing the limits of our hospitality. So far he’s turned up his whiskers at every item we have on the menu known to entice little mice appetites, and I’m losing patience, not to mention the few ounces of water weight from the first sighting. If I want to Give a Mouse a Cookie, I’m going to get a picture book, not a reality show.

I realize it’s my birthday, and if excitement is what makes a party, one tiny mouse will do the trick.

But all in all, when it comes to special occasion seek and destroy missions, I prefer a nice card to shock and awe.