Rampant Sinister Bunnies...

Why do people not turn their highlights on in the rain? Unless you drive a glow in the dark car, I fail to comprehend how you've arrived at the notion that being rear-ended is an additive to your cool factor.

How did Jamie Lee Curtis become an expert on what my personal digestive track requires? Did she get a PhD in Zaedah-health? If so, can she cure the odd dry spot on my left palm via commercial?

Who decided that I should receive Viagra e-mails EVERY SINGLE DAY? I may be confused, but I'm fairly sure my parents, friends and medical professionals can't all be wrong when labeling me a girl.

When did the record industry stop churning out the best little nonsense one-hit wonders? Remember Mexican Radio, Fishheads, Future's so bright (I gotta wear shades), One night in Bankok, Turning Japanese, Cars and the perennial favorite, Safety Dance, My meaningless quirk died out with the 80's?

I suppose I'll Wang Chung Tonight in a headlight glow while slurping Activa on a Viagra high.

A Word on Staples...

We, as an obnoxiously unaffected society, don't give nearly enough consideration to the little things that make Planet Earth such a smashing place to eat dead pigs and stuff. Man, can you tell I'm craving bacon?

Simple pleasures, folks. That's all I need (aside from George Clooney, a Ferrari and a private island on which to enjoy the preceding items.) But I'll settle for courteous staples.

Here's the thing... Being a regular gal with aforementioned simple needs (Do Ferraris come automatic), I believe I should be able to stumble into my place of employ and join several pages of nonsense (such as Medicare claims) together with no more effort than I put into my hair. Which is none.

Is this lofty goal unreasonable? Apparently, Staples believes it is. Why is it that I'm utilizing the very latest model of Staples stapler (exact model to your left), filled to bursting with Staples staples and...

JAM?

Why do I get three at once and each contorted in a different direction (which is rather like a staple orgy and nothing you should be contemplating)? And they admit it! Note the 'L' in the above Staples logo and you'll see how 32.7% of my stapling attempts look. Lopsided, like a deformed alien with half a brain and marbles in his shoes. Is it so difficult to get a matched pair of office apparatus and have smoothness rule my day?


To recap, I'm using Staples staples in a Staples stapler and it all goes pear-shaped. Maybe Milton had it right? SWINGLINE ALL THE WAY!

The curse is contagious...

There goes another dream, withering under the glaring sun of celebrity statistics. I shall never win an Oscar. Partially because I have not now nor shall I ever act in a public forum, save for sheer and utter innocence when I get pulled over. But mostly because it's become apparent that winning the naked gold dude is bad for one's relationships.

Exhibits 1 through umpteen: Halle Berry, Reese Witherspoon, Gwenyth Paltrow, Helen Hunt, Kate Winslet, Hilary Swank, Angelina Jolie and now... Sandra Bullock.

Maybe their men get jealous of how adoringly they're gripping that undressed hunk of precious metal? Maybe it's because Oscar, rather than using his arms to cover his nakedness like any sensible person, uses them to do a little chest-pounding? He's saying, 'now that she's got me, you can take a hike.'

I don't watch the Oscars as a general rule because they usually celebrate movies I have both never seen and frequently don't care about... (war dramas and romantic comedies take the fun out of living, folks). But next year, should I break my fast and observe ladies wearing my year's salary on their wrists, I shall pity the best actress winner as I would a kicked puppy.

Obviously, it's better for my love life (which I don't have) that I'll never receive such a coveted and manly object (for which I have no space). I am resigned to the notion that the closest to Oscar I'll ever get is this one:

Oh well... At least he's got his own place.

Oh, To Be Legal... *UPDATED*

This is my car...











And this is the money I will spend today on said shiny little blue guy...










The concept of car inspections is, to my feeble brain, akin to exploding subatomic particles. Or filling out tax forms. Or VCR manuals. And other equally difficult, mind-ripping experiments in human foibles. Who decided my happy, innocent vehicle needs gruff, unwashed hands wandering about his curves, seeking imperfections for which to charge me? Why does someone else have to put a stamp on my transport to declare it fit for duty?

Lil' Neon works just fine, thanks. When he's spitting up fumes and vomiting essential parts, I'll bring him in for service. Yes, I'm aware his check engine light is on. Has been for nearly a year and it hasn't stopped him from zooming down the freeway and shredding through yellow lights with the greatest of ease. Why must I pay an extra $92 for the privilege of knowing that the light is on for no particular reason?

It's a conspiracy. A ploy to take my hard-earned cash for which I slave at a desk for untold hours. See, here's me working terribly hard...


What more proof do you require that I shouldn't have to inspect my car? In protest of this intrusion, I waited two months beyond my expiration date to get my new set of stickers. Because when the state has a sticky hand in my pot, I like to make them work for it!
_________________________
Failed???

So I have to take Lil Neon back in a few days when they have the correct replacement parts for my fuel system leak. Plus two tires were deemed insufficient to handle road duties. Anything else, guys?

But with my luck...

It's a classic phrase in our family, as shared genes ensured we would all enjoy the delight of world-off-axis luck. It peppers the end of many sentences and if there's decent, unlaminated wood around, we're a group of hard-core knockers.

Example: For the last six years, I've wanted to rid the enclosed porch of the dinky mutant fridge we've been afraid to toss (because during the apocalypse, our household would be saved by having somewhere ancient to hide). Having come with the house, it's yellow (which is the first thing the manufacturers did wrong) and roughly the size of the common aardvark. Undersized lettuce feels cramped in this thing. We'd bought a shiny new energy star fridge, tall and gleaming white and the butternut munchkin was assigned eternal guard duty on the porch.

Yesterday, my seester and brother in law gave up a portion of their day to remove said unwanted monstrosity. YIPPEE!!! Bulk item trash day isn't for another week, so I figured (as delusional people do) that it could sit for a week out in the open for all to see what I've endured (avert your eyes!) and soon it would be gone.

But with my luck...

We got a wind storm today. YIPP-freaking-EE!!! A rip-snorter, as dad would say, that is sure to blow the yellow mutant over and into the street, thus (with my luck) landing on a passing motorcyclist who (with my luck) is an accident lawyer. Then I'll wind up (with my luck) living in the fridge prior to the coming apocalypse because (with my luck) it's too ugly to be kept in the evidence locker.

The Bombs of Doubt...

You know how you do something brave and inspired and all manner of nifty and then ATTACK!!!!!



Bombs of second thoughts drop from nasty little planes that follow you around all day, pelting your scalp with doubts, true of aim and entirely unpleasant. And then, the Mushroom Cloud of Regret...

Ohhh ahhh... pretty.

But maybe it's just me.

I've completed a very difficult task, one that anyone who's ever met me (which includes those who sadly have) would find unlikely. Namely, I stood up for myself (see dissertation on doormats several posts back to properly appreciate momentous occasion). Yes, gentle readers, I strapped on a bright and shiny pair and went about the reclaiming of something terribly precious to me.

Peace. And quite possibly sanity.

But as with all really great, awesome and otherwise fabulous victories, there's the aftertaste best described as Hmmm... Sure, I secured my peace. Okay, I've got my sanity (such as it is) but were my actions worthy of pride? Did I abide by my own needle-pointed rules of conduct? Did I, in the most general terms, act as a decent person?

I may have to wait until the bombs quit smacking into my head before I can formulate a sufficient answer to that. Until then, my peace has drawn me a bath and I shall go soak in sanity...

Zeus tested... Zeus approved!

Please note above Greek God and his mighty lightning bolt... The Olympics, which fills our screens at present, was begun to impress this guy. Does he look impressed? As we practice it now, poor Zeus must look down from whatever cloud has tickled his loins to behold this...



That can't be comfortable.




So, in honor of Zeus and (perhaps) in an effort to bring him something more entertaining, I believe the Olympics is due for an overhaul. Under Zaedah's administration, we'll do away with the boring, the lengthy and yes, the unsightly (take another gander at above shot).

First up... Dolphin racing. Grab your friendly marine mammal and put him up to the gate. Aaaaand they're off! Of course, this will all be done humanly because that's just the kind of people we are. The winner will be fed fresh fish. Oh, and the dolphins will get stuff too.



Next: We shall cater to the criminal element in us all by a handcuff picking tournament. Speed and creativity will be essential in this competition, as participants will be hand chosen from our incarcerated population. The winner receives the Erik Weisz medal and a 'get out of jail free' card.




For the kiddie demographic, I suggest a marble-shooting contest. Only the stakes shall be higher than the average schoolyard pastime. While not endorsing violence in an arena, there's nothing wrong with a little incentive. The bullies will be lined up outside the playing circle, ready to... deal with the losers. The winner gets to keep his teeth.

There are many other entries that the committee will be reviewing. Shoot-apple-off-head archery, swine riding, applying-makeup-in-a-speeding-cab, scorpion eating contest and my personal favorite... reciting Shakespeare while skydiving without a parachute. Viewer ratings will plunge straight off the chart and into the unbridled atmosphere.


Everyone will get into the spirit of these revamped Olympics.




The strangely beautiful...





And the downright scary.






So please, gentle readers, vote for the Zaedah Olympics. Choose your extremely non-exotic locale and let the games begin!

The Nature of Nature is... Rebellion!

Outside the windows of my office lives the above row of trees. Being an amateur photographer (neon-bright emphasis on amateur) I've attempted to secure an artsy shot of these trees in their mostly uniform appearance. 'Mostly' because they have a rebel in their ranks.

I'm rather partial to the daring tree who stands fourth from the left. She (because wild children deserve some sort of gender designation) sticks her leafy tongue out at the others who feel that green's still in even after autumn gets traction. But our girl's a fan of red and isn't interested in waiting until the fashion police say it's okay to begin the traditional turn. Nope, she's breaking out early.

Of course, with the ravages of snow and the inevitable balding, she's as naked as the others. But autumn will return months from now and she promises to trade her future emerald for splashy red before the rest can chastise her.

Good for you, Tree!

Wisdom of Zappa...

Two weeks after the blizzard of 2010 deposited a cushy 17 inches on my poor lawn, we still tromp over the mounds of white stuff. I'm one of those "bring it on" snow-enthusiasts but even I have had enough. I'd like to start a letter campaign to evict Father Winter.

The stuff won't freakin' melt!

Princess Vespa (Spaceballs) had an industrial sized hairdryer that garnered its own luggage. I should very much like to borrow it. For only the power of the mammoth beast of electric fury could turn these stubborn inches of sinister, compactness into sweet little puddles. The problem we're facing now is a bit of unsightly technicolor that has crept into the once-virgin fluffiness.

As previously noted, we have three gigantic dogs. In the natural order of things, big dogs leave big... messes. Lets face it folks... if they could flush, local busybodies wouldn't have to post reminders to pick up after your adorable bundle of killer fur. My yard is the glaring reason why clean-up is not only good for visual aesthetics but necessary for the sanctity of one's shoes.

Fortunately, no one wants to picnic in the snow, handy thing since my property looks like we've been using lemon snowcones as weapons. (And don't get me started on the tootsie rolls bullets). Look out my kitchen window and take in the ice formations, majestic cardinal and the splotches of spilled lemonade. Thanks puppies!

I'm reminded of the stirring lyrics of one Frank Zappa... "Watch out where the huskies go and don't you eat that yellow snow."

Yeah... about that.

Valentine's Day. Is there a more puke-worthy holiday? It's the sort of made-up, commercial fund-fest that only romantic sods and jewelry/flower/candy shops can get behind. Bitter? Not me! Well, maybe a little.

Because you may not know this about me (which explains why I don't receive nearly enough pity) but my last boyfriend was in the dark ages of 1999. Yup, a decade and a millennium ago. I've gotten a bouquet only once and that was by an ex-fiance who should have remembered that I'm allergic to flowers.

Today I received a Facebook note from a new friend (Thanks JF) who invited me to celebrate SPAD (Single Persons' Appreciation Day), an inclusive affair in no way limited to one 'special person.' Which is great when you don't even HAVE one.

I'm told the official color of SPAD is navy blue because it's not as unappealing on the masses as red. I actually changed my shirt to honor this bit of information. But regardless of the acronym or the color of my attire, I'm still alone for yet another Day of Lovers.

But not entirely...

Today I have officially adopted the foster cat formerly known as Reuben. As of today, he is called Zhander (poor creature, having to abide by my Z theme) and many hugs and treats were bestowed upon my furry Valentine. Hey, he's more loyal than most guys I've dated, so don't knock my choice of companion. He won't kill me with flowers, fatten me with candy or even care if my hair is brushed. I now have his fur all over my navy blue shirt and it feels a lot like love!

Yup, they bathe in Blue # 40

If you're like me (and I know we've had that discussion before), you wait until the craze dies down before sneaking through the backdoor into a fad. Call me a Phenomenon Procrastinator but, being one of those anti-establishment types, I'm not waiting at the front of the line to jump on any blockbuster bandwagon. I tend to loiter somewhere in the back where they're selling eight day old hot dogs in soiled newspaper.

Mind you, there are exceptions:

A fascination with Zachary Quinto put me just a scant few paces off the head of the line to see Star Trek. And Lord knows I saw Sherlock Holmes on opening night because, quite frankly, Robert Downey Jr just plain works for me. But a movie about CGI-ed blue people isn't likely to motivate me to brave the after-Christmas crowds, especially at a two-and-a-half hour running time. I mean, have you met my bladder?

So I waited, sitting comfortably away from the tumbling debris of shattered records (though it was a delight to see Titanic sink from # 1). Until today, when the biggest smash of all time (or some such) was no longer in the top spot and I had some chance of getting a decent seat. 3D? Why not. $11.50 a ticket? Ouch.

Okay, fine, whatever... it was good.

A story that reincarnates the age old tale of the white man coming in hoards to steal native land? My Cherokee daddy will be pleased. A tale of living as one with nature and striving for balance? Mother Earth advocates will celebrate. A bunch of buff blue guys scampering about in thongs? Sign me up! That the natives are victorious feels a bit like vengeance against those whom my ancestors could not defeat.

Oops... perhaps I shouldn't have spoiled the ending, but then again, the box office assures me that everyone else on the planet has already see it.

Why I oughta...

There are some days when one wishes for a mountaintop and a set of operatic lungs from which might issue forth a seismic bellow the likes of which ensures an avalanche that demolishes the populace below.

It seems to me that one would need a quality phrase to shout in order to secure the greatest amount of damage...


"I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore..." No, that's been done to death.

"You're cruisin' for a bruisin'..." Nah, wouldn't even scare the Beach Boys.

"insert vulgar flip-off here..." Nope, no one would buy that from me.

So I've climbed the mountain and stand tall-ish at the ledge, viewing the world below that I shall obliterate with my Mariah Carey banshee yell, armed with my most cunning phrase...

WHY I OUGHTA!!!!!

Who's that sickly chick? Oh, wait...

I've recently been blessed with new friends on Facebook... the kind that have never met me, which is generally a good thing for them. The joy of social networking is the chance to learn about the other grasses, greener or otherwise, when the ol' homestead patch gets a little dull. The downside is that the cyber-me is even stranger than the real thing.

I took a little time today to look at the pictures on my page. These are typically there to serve as an overview of that which I hold dear; my family, my furries and the evidence that I do, in fact, leave the house occasionally. Unfortunately, what I found is not necessarily the representation of myself that I'd prefer. Exhibit A:



The last time I saw limbs that stick-like was, well... the last stick I saw. And the fact that this is one of those rare moments when my cane snuck into the shot makes it even worse. (see post several links down for the rant on canes). And then there's this beauty that we shall dub, per acceptable sequential order, Exhibit B:



I look like a cancer patient, which should be offensive to cancer patients everywhere. The eyes are so sunken, they're planning an escape via the back of my head. Those Cherokee cheekbones are sharp enough to slice bread but (from an outside's view) I appear to never eat such things.

Granted, I've always been small. I once reached a staggering 112 pounds but that's been quite a few years (freshman ten and all that). But I can't account for the rest of the issues. In a recent post, I extolled the perils of growing old and I now see the proof that I wasn't just typing Dixie that day. Man, I need an intervention!

This is the image that people who 'friend' me will see; a skinny, gaunt and apparently ill chick in desperate need of a meal and potent medication. But seriously folks, it's not so bad in person... I think?

Surpassing the Numeric Value

If I were an inventor, I'd spend gazillions of the government's money to build a sci-fi machine. Revolutionizing the global landscape, my gadget (which I'd naturally name after myself), would perform the most significant task ever crafted for something less than God. This creation would be assigned the world-saving job of pinpointing the exact moment when I got old.

Seriously.

It's well known among the people who know me (which includes those who do) that I have more gray hair than should be planted upon the head of anyone so young. Should someone measure out my hair, currently of an appalling fishing-wire texture, with my mother's not-entirely-brown variety, mine would outweigh hers. This seems wrong. And just a bit like punishment.

But it's not just the follicle matter. Remember when our teen-aged purchases always included Stridex, Clearasil and other pimply dohingies? Residing now in my shower stall is a tube of face cleanser marked 'tone and renew.' This product and others like it promise to revive the wicked witch skin and reclaim the once-smooth surface from the angry crows scratching their lines around my eyes.

It seems I skipped a step somewhere. If you were like me (and I pray to holy Jesus you weren't) you couldn't wait for the end of the pubescent pestilence known as zits. We can accept that one day there will be wrinkles and such - in that distant future where we all eat rice pudding in the nursing home - but there's supposed to be a space in between where we all wander the earth with the airbrushed look of fresh-baked supermodels. Apparently, I leapt over that blessing in a single bound. Honestly, I'm TONING AND RENEWING people!!!!

I've always looked younger than my years. A few years ago I got stopped by a cop near my house. He turned one of those sun-in-a-can spotlights on me and then laughed. Laughed! Apparently he thought I was a twelve year old on a joy ride (my family will tell you that Mr Law Enforcer added 'boy' to his description but I've blocked that part out). But now, with the old hag hair color and early eye lines, I fear my looks are surpassing my numeric value. Gettin' old, friends.

But, as daddy would say, at least I'm still gettin'.

In which dating turns (really) ugly...

VH1 should be renamed. Remember when it showed (oh, what do you call those brightly colored, three minute thingies?) videos? Unfortunately, the channel has cordoned off a scant one hour of programing specifically related to those thingies and the rest has become a haven for those who just can't get enough CELEBRITY DATING SHOWS!!!!

Are you one of them? They have help for such folly... I think it's called A LIFE!

Seriously, thirty beautiful women - lacking actual careers and, dare I surmise, marketable job skills - strap on their hair extensions and fight over the species to your left. Seriously, would you date him? And when I say fight, I mean erupt in b***h slapping, hair-pulling, 'your momma' insults and the ever popular backstabbing. Really, how do these chicks manage to walk upright in stilettos with a machete so deeply lodged in their spines? Many of these long-legged samples spackle on enough make up to lend a conservative visage to drag queens and we're supposed to root for them based on the displayed talent of cattiness. (anyone remember New York?)

After one season of clawing past whiners to win the gold-toothed heart of Flav, a new batch was summoned from a porn casting couch to battle for the prize to your right. Apparently, Bret's time with Poison didn't introduce him to his eternal angel among the groupies. Have you noticed that despite multiple seasons of both Emmy-worthy shows, neither fella has found true love? Why? Because everlasting devotion isn't grown under the unflattering lights of reality TV. You've got a better chance of finding your soulmate stocking the nut aisle at the local Whole Foods. Naked.

I remember dating (through the haze of a decade's sabbatical) but I don't recall ever having to lower my shame tolerance and compete for men who are clearly in it to rekindle their dwindling celebrity. The women must pole dance, take lie detector tests to prove their love (having been nurtured for two days) is true. Let's face it, the guys aren't looking for forever... they, like their suitors, are on a quest for fifteen minutes and since the viewing public digs a catfight, they'll get it.

Stop watching, people! It only perpetuates the mind-numbing cycle. After all, the aforementioned New York got her own show and now we've got season one of Ray J, who must be a celebrity of impressive caliber since I've never heard of him (though at least he doesn't hurt my retinas). You have to wonder what sort of person needs to go to such lengths to find a date? Surely even Match.com would accept an account from B-listers.

And I have to wonder why I, who protest the existence of such fare, know so much about them?

Trippin' ain't just for hippies...

Some mornings, it's tough to wake up.
Some mornings, it's tougher afterward.

Here's a rundown of a typical post-snooze saga as played by myself (in the unfortunate lead) and my supporting cast (strewn about the stage).

Exit bed - trip over snoring 70 pound ZaedahDog for whom getting up is like being drafted.
Head to closet - cut off by Zazu, who only wants affection when I have other plans for my hands.
Leave room - kick 'black cat in the dark' Zorro who, in general, sees this as quality cuddling.
Shower time - fall over bubble lovin' Zimba who insists on drinking out of every running faucet.
Breakfast - sloppily dodge as Reuben climbs up leg in an effort to secure love regardless of pain to human.
Walk through living room - stumble around Bugg and Stitch, who believe we all paid good money to see them... you know... boink.
Check water bowls - Collide with massive Willow, a German shepherd who is convinced she's the size of a newborn lightning bug.
Feed the maniacs - perform webble wobble dance as the herd comes running like divas at a Gucci giveaway.
Search for seating - only to find it's all be taken...

The unmentioned animals (oh yes, there are more) are patient stagehands waiting until the dust settles from the multiple collisions before making their daily debut. Needless to say, I am a canvas of bumps, bruises and occasional contusions, painted fresh everyday by artists plotting their masterpiece of carnage!

New New Year's tradition...

You knows the smoldering ash of age has snuck into your bloodstream when Dick Clark stays up later than you do.

For the last few years, I've sworn off watching the once terribly exciting Times Square ball drop due to encroaching factors beyond my control. Like excessive yawning. And the fact that, really, it's not that exciting. I've never actually gone anywhere on New Year's Eve, an issue born of my staunch 'no drinking' lifestyle and the shameful truth that I've never been a party chick. It ain't me, folks.

It's taken me three decades to buck the trend.

I did, in fact, go out!

My good buddy Dennis and I visited the ancient Keswick Theater outside Philly, an establishment that opened in the rip-roaring year of 1928, when even Dick Clark wasn't alive (debunking the myth that the man's first NYE countdown was done before Moses stopped to ask for directions). According to my butt, the seats and accompanying padding (or lack thereof) are original to the building. We were crammed in with 800 of our closest neighbors to watch a live performance.

I'd like to pause and thank Dennis for introducing me to Mystery Science Theater. You know, that late lamented gem that showed the worst that cinema has to offer while the silhouettes of a host and two robots skewer the plot, characters, dialogue, settings, props and cliches with rapid-fire jokes. They makes Ed Wood films watchable in a way only Prozac and Jack Daniels could before.

Last night, we spent five glorious hours absorbing three stellar films (War of the Insects, Samson and the 7 Miracles and Legacy of Blood) presented live with original riffers standing live on the stage before us. Yes, Locke... we got to suck in the same air as Joel, Crow, TV's Franks, the original Servo and Pearl. While sitting on torture devices (did I mention they need to remodel the seating?)

They paused for champagne (no thanks) before midnight and we counted down, afterward embracing friends, strangers and that guy dressed like Dr Forrester (Okay, maybe we didn't). It beat gazing upon a ball who's only true claim to fame is merely reflecting the principles of gravity or, as has been my custom of late, staring at the backs of my eyelids. The evening was delightful, a first in what I hope will be many more new years starting interestingly. I'm only sad we weren't able to meet the actors after the show. But in their honor, I leave you with the image Dennis and I have come to appreciate as a staple of sanity in a crazy, mixed up world...

They don't just hold shoes together...

Does your wallet look like mine? After a lovely Christmas with family and friends (and Sherlock Holmes and chipmunks), I have scanned my purse and found exactly one piece of lint. Couldn't even afford two!

But cast no worries upon my stubbly shadow... I'll get by. Because along with jujitsu, filleting and slow poisons, I possess the skill of the Shoestring. Not a member of this elite art? Allow me to enlighten you.

Can you fill to bursting three bags of groceries on a mere fifteen dollars? That's Shoestring, baby!

Can you squeeze an extra fifty miles out of a tank flashing the deadly empty warning? That's Shoestring, baby!

Can you pay bills, feed eleven pets, buy presents for nine nieces and nephews and still pay your physician copay without hitting the credit card? All from one paycheck? That's... you get the picture.

Momma's been doing it for years, layering the craft of creative shuffling with the talent of thrift. I learned at the feet of a master. Despite an empty account, a cleaned-out change jar and no further revenue for two weeks (darn you bi-weekly employers!) I am surprisingly comfortable. Because I spent wisely, I have food, gasoline and no impending bills. I have utilized every knotted rainbow Shoestring at my disposal. The trick is not to trip.

I am super-uber-comfy-ish. Which doesn't mean I won't hug the calendar on payday!

Yes, but for 24 hours?

What is it with the holiday season and movies?

I dare say no single day has garnered as many cinema experiments as Christmas. If it isn't in the title, it's weighing down the plot with the thickness of figgy pudding. Santa, elves, reindeer and the occasional grinch are unavoidable today. And, of course, we have 24 back-to-back, unending hours of Ralphie and the Quest for a Dangerous BB Gun.

"It's smiling at me!" (Ralphie's dad and the duck)

I'm not opposed to catching Snoopy and Jack Skelligton as I ramble through channels. Quite the opposite. But how many Santa Clauses does it take to complete Tim Allen's career? And no, I don't want to see Arnold and Sinbad slugging it out in the aisles nor every drawn-out, sap-coated version of Christmas romance that Lifetime can think up (it ain't just 'women in peril' on this day).

And that's just the small screen.

Apparently, the sugar high from too much pie keeps people up Christmas night (that or the spiked egg nog) because throngs of over-stuffed patrons will fill the theater tonight. The mere fact that we've all maxed out our credit cards buying STUFF (see last post) should make movie-going the least viable choice. I mean, $4.00 for a teeny box of Even More Sugar? The cost of a slushy is the equivalent of my electric bill and the smallest popcorn they serve would feed Nebraska. And you must take out a loan to pay for it.

Having said that, I shall be among the... um... fruitcakes.

Yup, as part of my Christmas prezzy from my roomie, we shall traipse merrily to the local big screen to see Sherlock Holmes (my choice). See photo below for a sizable reason for the trek. I hope the movie's as good as Mr Downey looks but regardless folks, it's a night out requiring no down payment from me and therefore I will tug down my santa cap and go. Although, with a 10 pm start time, I should be getting home at right about... tomorrow.

Mall Santas Don't Try Anymore

When experienced as an adult, Christmas has a tendency to lose a little something in translation.

Remember the magic of waking in the morning with the taste of anticipation and suspense warring on your tongue? Perhaps you still believed that a hefty fella could fit down your chimney (provided you had one) or that a thick gloved man could jimmy open the back door without setting off security alarms (assuming you had those) or at the very least that a red-attired dude could squeeze through the bathroom window to the obliviousness of your neighbors (despite them being ex-Russian spies like ours).

How fast did you fly out of your covers, creating enough static in your Superman or My Little Pony feety pajamas to fuel the mid-Atlantic region, and zoom (and I do mean Zoom) to the living room where tree and presents and grinning parents await? Even the realization that Santa did not bring the goodies did not deter your enjoyment of, shall we say, GETTING STUFF.

Because that's the name of the commercialization game, right? STUFF.

But not in our household. Being on the lesser end of the economic pool as we were, the gifts did not reach the ceiling. Our tree was not real, rather a three-and-a-half foot contraption weighed down with fake snow. And there was, let's face it, not many ways that a giant red-clad jolly guy was sneaking into a single-wide trailer without waking the entire neighborhood (since they were, like, six inches away).

But here's the thing...

We always got what we wanted. The spirograph, hoppy hop and sit & spin were among my still-favorite surprises. The tree was always beautiful, with the red garland dad insisted on, hovering over the more perfect platform you've ever seen (and I'm talking lit buildings, tee pees and a jet black train). Dad would spend eternity and back on the pine fencing, gluing one piece at a time until the old fashioned trim wound around the full length of felt-covered plywood. They don't do THAT at the stores!

One year, my mom-mom bought my sister and I porcelain dolls. Even in the throes of Alzheimer's, she knew that I should have the brunette one while my sister got the blond one. Even today, when I look at that doll I get goosebumps.

As an adult, it becomes mandatory to hand the magic off to the next generation. Now we are the engineers, helping Santa down the chimney, through the door or past the window. We wrap until our fingers spit curses for the paper cuts. We get manhandled by the crowds when, like this year, shopping had to be put off for a 12-20 inch snow storm. And we're the ones who grin as our offerings are torn open while simultaneously praying that the present doesn't end up at the bottom of the toy box by next week. There's a bit of competition amongst family members now; who'll have the preferred gift?

I don't have children (other than the furry sort) so I play Christmas with the nieces and nephews. I suppose it's not the same, but it's what I've got and being the Cool Aunt doth so totally rock. Still, when I scoot from my bed tomorrow morning, I'll be missing the feety pajamas, the tree and the surprise. My house will look no different, the price of having tree-climbing cats, destructive dogs and no kiddies for whom to deck the joint out.

Oh look... the melancholy fairy!

I'm not complaining. Because I have memories of close knit Christmas mornings where five people who really only had each other in this world would Oh and Ah over the number of presents that somehow my financially struggling parents managed to buy. We were never disappointed. And we had each other, something we lack a bit right now. I think that's the womb from which my melancholy has sprung. But my parents still have that same snow-covered tree and while there's no platform this year, there's always the chance next time. My parents' tree-topping angel, the same one they had thirty nine Christmases ago, has never needed a bulb replacement. And I'm still greeted with warm hugs when I arrive for Christmas dinner, although such squishy embraces are a year round thing.

The point? Hang on, let me search under the white tree for it...

Oh yes! The point is that Christmas is no longer surprising, but that shouldn't mean the magic is lost. Santa still drives by on the back of a fire engine, waving to the shivering masses at the curbside and if you close your adult eyes, you just might feel a little something mingling in with the sirens and exhaust fumes. Today my roomie and I entered the Super Walmart (I know... tragic) and a departing woman offered us her cart. Roomie took that as a trick to avoid putting her cart away and that may be so, but I've got just enough holiday spirit to think perhaps she was just being kind.

Because kindness is a big chunk of what the season is supposed to mean (along with love and peace and all that rot). In the end, it's a choice... will you see the worst in human throngs mobbing every aisle in a world where Santa never really came down your chimney (or door or window) or will you accept that, in the midst of commercialized madness, there's still something to be gained by childlike faith and enough optimism to fill a stocking?

I choose to cultivate Holiday Happiness!