In a departure from previous years around this time, I’m going to try not to bitch about Christmas.
HAHAHA. I crack myself UP, I tell you.
I am, however, going to try to bitch about NEW things about Christmas, instead of the same old “I hate airports, I hate my annoying stepfather, I hate buying presents for people at work that I don’t give a shit about” rant.
First, let’s discuss Christmas music. It’s ok. Once in a while. Maybe while you’re decorating the tree and drinking lots of (heavy on the Jack Daniels) eggnog (which, despite someone’s assertion, is NOT made from elf cum). Or when you’re opening presents. Or some such nonsense. But not everywhere you go, for fuck’s sake. And especially not at work.
(An aside in re: the trip to Starbucks. I think that Lando is just jealous, because the geeky little Starbucks dude gave some props to the ride (although it’s creepy as shit that they have a camera on their drive thru order screen) and then gave me a larger Eggnog Latte than I ordered. I ordered the eggnog because I’m not sure how I feel about minty coffee, though Lando did let me have a sip after I thoroughly wiped my mouth and it was not horrible…and because I already had a gingerbread one. I will have to say that the eggnog one kinda tasted like the gingerbread one….perhaps a little richer and creamier, but still with a major hint of nutmeg. Look, Starbucks employees. That doesn’t get you high unless you ingest a LOT, and even then, it induces puking, or so my entire high school debate team said. /end aside.)
The paralegal next door to me has been on a Christmas kick for the last three weeks. The office building has hired minstrels of some sort every fucking day at lunch. (One of them was practically acoustic-guitar jamming on “Silent Night”, which is all kinds of wrong anyway.) The stores pipe that shit right down your throat, and it’s usually some muzak-y Mannheim Steamroller horseshit that’s a perfect complement to the throngs of screaming parents and children.
The real problem with Christmas music is that it gets stuck in my head worse than that stupid-ass Backstreet Boys song (“I want it thaaaaaat way”). I’ve been humming “What Child is This” all fucking week. Maybe I should make up some new Grinch-like words:
What mall is this
I’m shopping at
Filled with annoying assholes?
Where Yuppies breed
And come to feed
And make fun of my fat rolls?
This, this, is really hell
Filled with lights that are blinking
Help, help, I hate this hole
I’d rather be out drinking.
So buy your presents
Then dash to find some cover
From shopping mobs
Who have no jobs
But have a nice, rich lover.
This, this is hell on earth
With tinsel and piped carols
Stop, stop the insanity
Or I’ll plug you full of airholes.
I so have a future in lyric writing.
As Lando did point out in his blog, we did go Christmas shopping, and it did take us forever to buy each other gifts. Lando ended up with 4 of the remastered Cure CD’s with B-side extras (which have been on his Amazon Wish List forever), and I ended up with this little trinket:
I’m not usually much of one for jewelry, but I’d been feeling the need for some girly sparkles lately. I never put up a Christmas tree (why bother, as I’m not ever home on Christmas, and my cats would just destroy it anyway, and while I’m all for entertaining the little heathens, Christmas shit is way too expensive to be cat toys), so maybe I’m trying to be my own Christmas tree?
I usually like presents to be a surprise…I’m generally pretty good at picking things out, I think, and the best part is getting someone something that they really like but weren’t expecting and getting to see the happy face, but this year, I was too poor to shop before I got my bonus check. (Actually, that’s every year. Who the fuck am I kidding? Most of my “surprise” shopping ends up for birthdays.) The bonus check arrived Friday, and Friday night was “fun with laundry”, so Saturday shopping it was.
I suppose I could have saved us both the stress and just said “fuck Christmas,” but I have it in my twisted little skull that a present is a way to show someone that they mean a lot to you…as long as it’s something that they really want and wouldn’t do for themselves.
I’m treading perilously close to The Sappy Land, where one might get stuck, so let’s move on to some random funny stories:
My other new office neighbor is Mr. Meeting. Mr. Meeting is, in Seinfeld-speak, a “loud talker.” Mr. Meeting has lately been talking loudly about everything. Including his prostate. But the funniest thing is that, every single evening, right around 5:30, he calls his house and asks what the “situation” there is. From what I can’t help but hear, it usually means “do I need to stop and get food on the way home?”
The other day, I went to lunch with CB, and we saw some most disturbing shit at a local florist. There was a little fake dead-looking bird in an ugly brass pot, and a ginormous pile of floppy, limp teddy bears in all different colors…and it was just laying on the floor in the display window. CB attempted to document this on her cell phone, but the pictures wouldn’t e-mail, so alas, you get none.
My dad is so clueless sometimes. He usually sends e-mail from work, but has a personal account for whatever reason…and he sent me an e-Card. First, his message on said e-Card was a little “WTF? Have you been on the same planet as I have for the last 15 years?” (He suggested church. And I think he was serious.) But that only amplifies the irony of how (unintentionally) obscene his e-mail address is.
I’m sure he thinks it’s something about fishing or hunting. I wonder if any of his friends will tell him that it has other meanings. It’s not like my dad is ignorant of porn…my brother used to find it in his closet.
P.S. I have (obviously) changed blog servers, for now, because I’ve decided I’m not paying Diaryland any more money. I know that you just changed over to this one…and it looks like you copied your archives….was there a speedy shortcut for that, or just hours of tedious bullshit that we all know I’m not patient enough to do?