Monthly Archives: December 2011

On the 18th of December, Christmas gave to me…


Two Buck UpChuck.


On the 17th of December, Christmas gave to me…

Two Buck Chuck.

Which is the delightful moniker for the wicked cheap wine brand Charles Shaw, which I bought in an effort to save money but still get my Christmas spirits on (although here in Boston, it costs $3…but Three Buck Chuck just sounds stupid).

It tastes pretty much exactly how it sounds.

But it gots the job done…(hiccup)…

On the 16th of December, Christmas gave to me…


Just kidding.

I can’t actually prove it was Christmas.

I was just with Thanksgiving like a month ago.

On the 14th & 15th of December, Christmas gave to me…

Two straights nights of watching the cheesy “Holiday Favorites” queue on Netflix while wrapping the aforementioned dog-fur covered gifts.

INCLUDING my all-time childhood favorite “The Christmas Toy.”

When I was five, this Jim Henson made-for-TV movie was the shiz. And it made me believe for way longer than I’m willing to admit that my toys came to life when I wasn’t looking. It also made me cry when the slightly creepy-looking clown toy (SPOILER ALERT!) goes lifeless after getting caught being all non-inanimate.

(And 25 years later, it still brought a small (I said SMALL!) tear to my eye…stupid slightly creepy-looking clown toy).

And then I moved onto the Christmas Classics, which are collections of old (and I mean wicked old…not like you’re-a-teenager-and-30-is-old) Christmas cartoons and shorts. INCLUDING some delightfully (and by “delightfully” I mean “horrifically”) racist ones such as this one:

And one where it proves that whole “they don’t make things like they used to” is complete bunk (pay close attention to how the plot is centered on the quality of the craftsmanship of the toys…Santa was one lazy mofo back in the 30’s). 

And some that just creeped me out (especially because I was sober):

Although I’m thinking tomorrow I may just make an eggnog drinking game (have I mentioned how much I love eggnog?) out of how many things I spot while re-watching these that would make today’s organic-only baby food, Einstein Baby-loving parents of today crap their pants.

On the 13th of December, Christmas gave to me…

Carefully and lovingly wrapped gifts covered in dog fur thanks to the fact I wrapped them on my constantly-cleaned-but-never-quite-clean floor.

CORRECTION: On the 13th of December, Christmas gave to all my closest family and friends carefully and lovingly wrapped gifts covered in dog fur thanks to the fact I wrapped them on my constantly-cleaned-but-never-quite-clean floor.

You’re all welcome.

P.S. Buffy says you’re all welcome too. And he hopes you cherish his DNA this most merry of seasons.

On the 11th and 12th days of December, Christmas gave to me…

A series of emails.

From Amazon.

Alerting me that the majority of my online gift purchases will arrive promptly anytime between Dec. 20 and the Mayan calendar-predicted end of the world.

When I will conveniently be out of the state.

Merry Christmas, random looters in my neighborhood. Hope you enjoy those carefully picked out presents just lounging on my porch.

On the tenth day of December, Christmas gave to me…

A crappy LG Ally phone that refuses to download Angry Birds Seasons.

What’s the point of ALL OF THIS if I can’t KILL pigs trapped in vaguely wintry surroundings with various-sized birds suffering from slingshot RAGE!?!? 

So…what? I’m just supposed to kill pigs trapped in vaguely non-wintry surroundings!?


On the ninth day of December, Christmas gave to me…

A 14-hour road trip.

Across five states.

With a dog.

Who may or may not secretly be plotting how to take over the world.

Believe it or not, this is actually really good news. I just found out my husband gets the week before Christmas off, which means we can now spend the holidays with my family in Ohio (something which I have not done for five years). And although it would seriously make my writing so much better if they weren’t, my family is highly functional and loving and supportive and all that crap you’re not supposed to be when you are the family of a writer, who needs dysfunction to thrive.

But I’ll forgive them for their supportive and cynical-crushing ways because this trip means I can spend Christmas the way it was always meant to be spent: opening presents and then getting drunk and then eating a dinner you did NOT prepare and then dozing off on the couch as someone else does the dishes.

See, depending on your age, the holiday season can mean many different things.

As a kid, it’s all shiny, shiny lights and cookies and presents and big, fat men with beards whom you’ve never met but nonetheless are guaranteeing to do everything within their vast magical powers to make sure YOU personally have a very merry Christmas.

As a teenager, it means three weeks off school, the anticipation of your mom finally buying you those “ridiculously over-priced” (her words) pants with the vaguely suggestive word on the rear that you’ll just DIE without and hanging out with your cool, older cousin with the tattoo at grandma’s.

In your early 20’s, it means one month of never-ending rounds of eggnog and wine and seasonal beer and reddish-looking cocktails with cutesy names like North Poletini and Santa’s Sleigh Bomb at hip holiday parties and festively decorated bars. And then going to your parents where they feed you and give you lots of presents and do your laundry if you ask nicely enough and then give you all the leftovers to boot because you “look too skinny.”

But then, one day you’re married and 30 and BOOM! You realize it’s December but you wouldn’t know it from YOUR house, which still has up an odd mixture of Fourth of July, Halloween and Thanksgiving decor. And it’s all because YOU are suddenly in charge of MAKING Christmas happen. And that’s when you cross the threshold from “this is most wonderful time of year” to “no wonder there are so many suicides this time of year.”

Because now when that massive ball of Christmas lights roughly the size of Utah needs untangled, that angry, throbbing vein is appearing on YOUR forehead, and not humorously on your father’s. And now when you hear “Silver Bells” for the fourth time before you’ve even had breakfast, it is no longer “festive” but some sort of sadistic audio torture.

Suddenly, you’re Googling how much the going rate for a semi-decent kidney is on the black market in order to afford gifts for your husband, parents, siblings, nieces, nephews, in-laws and even your stupid dog because your husband thinks it’s mean if little Buffy doesn’t get at least one chew toy. Not to mention, now it’s a faux pas to not buy gifts for your mailman, hairdresser, neighbor, boss, co-workers, cousin’s baby, mother-in-law’s dog and the barista who serves you your Peppermint Mocha every morning.

And while before you always insisted that artificial Christmas trees were just so “bourgeois” and that when you had your OWN home, you wouldn’t be caught dead without a real pine tree, this year your corner is inhabited by a $19.99 three-foot tall fake tree that looks like it died of some horrible fake tree disease in 1974. And then you stuffed it with some pine-scented air-freshners from your car.

And even though you swore you were going to make gingerbread cookies from scratch this year, two minutes inside the store made you grab the closest pre-packaged desert-like item and SPRINT back to your car out of a not-entirely-unreasonable fear of being stabbed by a soccer mom with a candy cane.

But not this year. No. No, this year, I will be reverting back to my teenaged/early 20’s Christmas self. Complete with (fingers crossed*) the gift of pants with the vaguely (or even outrightly) suggestive word on the rear.

(*HINT HINT, mom)

On the eighth day of December, Christmas gave to me…


A hangover.

Kiss my arse, Santa.

One the sventh day of Decebmer, Christmas gave to me…


And yesh, I realize i just spelled that wrong but to bv honest, I don’t care. Becase eggngo is awesome.

Listen, you guys. I kno I’ve been kinda harsh on Chistmas these past few days but I’ve had an ephfany. And yes, I realize that is also not how you spell that word. but in my deffense, i have like 3 kinds of whisky in me. And like eggs and junk. To be honst, I’m trying not tothink real hard on what is actualy in this drink. Btu I jusr hit spellcheck, there was like a TON of scary red lines, so Im gonna just ignore it. Like how i ignore when the trash needs taken out an just keep sutffing more trahs in there until my husband gets home and finally does the adult thing and takes it out.

He’s awesome too. Alomst as awsome as eggnog. Hey! llok! I spelled it right.

Anyhoo, I know I’ve been all bah-humbug-ish but tonight…well, tonight I have the Chrostmas spirits in me.

Heh. Get it?

So, in conclusion, egggngn is awesome. Christtmas is aewsome. And you guys are awesome.

Only…whateber manydays left til Christmas.