The snow came Christmas night, giving us the first White Christmas (maybe not Christmas morning, but we'll take it) in six decades.
By tomorrow, it will probably be all but gone. Such is the ephemeral nature of snow in the North Carolina piedmont. But, hey, we'll take it, because snow is fucking awesome and puts me in a good mood whenever it arrives.
Plus, I was able to make a new friend, Albert, the Dapper English Snow Gentleman.
As promised, I went and got the family's Christmas tree last weekend.
*sighs*
I ended up going to Lowes...which, as I've mentioned before, isn't a suitable place to buy things like plumbing supplies, wood screws or light bulbs. Naturally, a Christmas tree is a perfect thing to buy from there, right?
Well, it seemed so. The tree didn't look too bad. Of all the twigs trees left, the one I selected was the best-looking one. So, I hefted it up, much to the delight of my children who were impressed by my feat of strength, and carried it up front. An old man asked if I'd like it trimmed a little bit and if I want the bottom branches cut off. Well, sure, I would, I said. I set it in the holder and then watched as the old man picked up an electric chain saw and could not figure out why it was not working.
"You may want to plug that in," I pointed out to the old man. He chuckled, plugged the saw in, and cut my tree. He then proceeded to mutilate the bottom part of the tree as he chopped off smaller branches with all the grace and dexterity of a drunken rhinoceros.
I took the tree, paid for it, and headed out to the car where I had to toss it in the back--Lowes, help you tie something to the roof? Perish the motherfuckin' thought. We drove home and I prepared lunch for the children and then decided to try my best to get the tree on the base. However, there's no hole in the base, so I have the bash the fucking base onto the tree, which doesn't go so well because all I can find is a rubber mallet and a flooring hammer. At this point, I'm a little incensed, but I finally get the tree on there far enough I feel it won't fall over.
I brought the tree in and watered it, twisting and turning it so that the thin spots were as hidden as possible. At that point, my hands were covered in sap and rosin, my arms and face were scratched by the needles, I had hit my head on the back hatch to my car, and my patience was at an end.
The following day, after letting the branches of the tree settle, I sighed at how shitty the tree looked. It's not that it's a bad little tree, Charlie Brown, it's just that it's not very wide. And it's a bit...uneven...gappy even. But, it's a tree, and it's indoors, and that's what it's about, right?
So, I started to put the lights on the tree when I suddenly realized that the outlet in front of which I parked the tree doesn't work. I didn't swear--too much--at this miscalculation on my part (read: boneheaded mistake because I didn't remember that half of the outlets in my living room don't work). I finally found an extension cord, plugged in the lights and strung the lights around the tree. Unfortunately, my glasses are so old and so bad and so scratched that it actually hurts to look at the lights of the tree because they are so blurred. My wife fixed the lighting issue for me.
I left the decorating to the kids, and they did an admirable job with it. It might not be the White House Christmas Tree or the Rockefeller Christmas Tree, but it's good enough for us. I'm sure Santa Claus will find it suitable for present deposition on Christmas morning.
That is, if I can find where I put the tree skirt after I washed it last year...
With all that in mind, I think this might be my last real tree, as this could be the most annoying one that I've had to buy and set up so far. And when the time comes to take the tree down, you can be damned sure that I'll be firing this little phrase off when I need to dispose of the body. Or bough. Or whatever the fuck it is.
I've already switched my Facebook profile picture to reflect my esteemed opinion of this photo. I don't know how they could make this better or more Christmas Card worthy. Maybe put a Santa Hat on the walrus? A Christmas tree in the background? Mistletoe over his head?
I don't know, but I applaud the people who did this. It's comedy gold. It works on so many levels. It's genius.
Okay, it's a walrus eating the hell out of some cake in the shape of a Christmas tree. I think it's made funnier by a) it being a walrus, an animal with a name just as silly as its appearance and b) the fact that the walrus has no thumbs, and therefore must dive face-first into his snack.
How I long to be the walrus...
If I had time, I'd print this out and slap a Merry Christmas on it and send it out as a Christmas card. At the very least, it's a helluva lot better than a cartoon drawing of a puma fist pumping his excitement over my birthday.
Screw the snowy chapel picture, Saint Joe. Next year, I want funny walrus pictures in my electronic in-box.
Or, better yet, funny walrus movies...
Is for you to shut the fuck up.
I like Christmas music. I honestly, actually, truthfully do. I don't mind at all when a couple of the local stations fire up ye olde carols in the middle of November and don't stop until Christmas evening. I'm fine with it.
I'm not fine with the fact that the programming manager at the local station doesn't realize that more than five Christmas songs exist. Yes, I, too, love me some Trans-Siberian Carol of the Bells. I don't love it seven times an hour. I don't love Dan Fogelberg's Same Auld Lang Syne at all. Well, maybe once, but that's only to remind me how much I don't like it.
And, please, Baby It's Cold Outside is a Date Rape song, not a Christmas song. She wants to go home, and Dino slips something in her drink. She finds it hard to resist. When Dean's saying "it's cold outside", he means his dick is cold outside of his pants. 
But...but...if he's singing it to Zooey Deschanel...well...I totally understand.
I just wish--my one, true holiday wish, Santa--is for these radio people to understand that there's more Christmas music than the same ten songs that they play over and over and over and over again. Dean Martin is great, when he's not drunk and/or trying to slip a little something something into baby's drink, or ass, or both. Frank Sinatra has more than just one song. And while I do enjoy the smooth jazz stylings of the Merry Christmas Charlie Brown soundtrack, it gets old. Fast. Especially when it's on repeat.
You guys ever hear of the Binger, Bing Crosby? He's like Dean Martin, except not drunk all the time and--as far as I know--doesn't try to drug some young woman into a "white Christmas" and his "holiday inn", if you know what I'm saying. If you don't, well, you need to catch up on your classic Christmas movies. Commie. Also, what the hell? Barenaked Ladies made one helluva Christmas album a few years ago, with new songs and traditional. And it's awesome. Try throwing that in every once in a while instead of another rendition of Frosty the Snowman.
The one, however, that galls me the most is Mariah Carey. *shudders visibly*
It seems every commercial break, those slow, stupid notes are picked out on a synthesized keyboard and she starts in with her bad porn moaning. I scream. I curse. I switch the channel to the other Christmas station, only to catch the ass-end of "All I Want for Christmas Is You". It's time to go Oedipus on my earholes.
I finally shut the radio off in the car the other day. I only listen to the Christmas music now when I'm driving with the kids somewhere. Otherwise, I have audiobooks that I listen to, and some of the subject material is a little...coarse...for their tender ears. That same day I stomped into the house after enduring Mariah Carey three times in the span of an hour's drive. I had had enough. My nerves were shot. My ears were bleeding. There wasn't enough alcohol in the house.
Trying to escape the merry jolliness of the holiday, I went to the kitchen to start making dinner. My kids were flipping through the stations on the television and turned to Nickelodeon. I stepped into the room for a second to ask a favor of one of them.
What should greet me, but Miranda Cosgrove singing..."All I Want for Christmas Is You". I fell to the floor in the fetal position and wept. Openly. My daughter had the kind grace to change the channel.
You know who Miranda Cosgrove is, right? She's the "star" of Nickelodeon's tween show, "iCarly". Personally, I don't watch "iCarly". The judge was pretty specific in his ruling about that. *shifty-eyed* He also said I couldn't really discuss it openly. *polite cough*
In what I assume is Nickelodeon's answer to Demi Lovato, Miranda Cosgrove also sings. Naturally, she decided it was imperative that she pollute my airwaves with another rendering of that abortion of Christmas music. And while I'm sure she's a fine singer and all, I just wish that she had chosen...well, anything else.
So, basically, all I want for Christmas is for that fucking song to die. To go away. To disappear and never be heard from again.
Like the chick that Dino slipped the mickey to shortly before realizing he had overdosed her and that someone had better help him move this fucking body else there would be hell to pay. And while you're at it, freshen his martini. It is Christmas after all.
