Ok, now its time for everyone to make some sort of insane New Years resolution. I have been waiting until I was 80, then my resolutions would be to eat all fried food, gorge myself with chocolate, bed every man I can get my hands on, but damn, I've done that. Before, my resolutions seemed like ramblings made after drinking too much champagne on New Years Eve, and saying the next day, I don't believe I said that! What was I thinking?!?

This year, like every year since I turned 12, I want to lose weight. Yeah, yeah, saying is one thing, doing is another. But, as time rages on, I find my body not cooperating with me as it used to do. I say, let's walk around the block. My body says, Oh, man, we did that last week! I say, ok, let's just do some stretches, and climb on that cardio machine. My body says, I didn't buy the cardio machine, I said you wouldn't use it, so don't expect me to jump on that torture machine! Just pretend you did, and worry about it later.

My body constantly whines. I'm too tired, my back hurts, I don't feel good, I just want to lie here and do nothing. God, what a bi-atch.

I guess I'll just have to use force. Make it listen to me. I'll deprive it of food and the simple pleasures it has come to enjoy. I'll starve it if I have to. Then we'll see whose boss around here. It thinks I'll just go along with whatever plans its made. It doesn't realize I have a mind of my own. I guess it's really my fault though. I've spoiled it, gave in to its little whims for too long. Like all the chocolate it has been consuming. The TV, the books, that damned recliner. I should have put my foot down long ago, but it wouldn't let do even that!!

Well, it may have a few miles on it, but its time for a complete overhaul. It sorely needs a complete tune-up, and not that computerized bullshit. This is not one of those new model bodies. This is one of the older models you can tinker around with yourself. You know the kind, pop the hood, stick something in that little doo-hickey when you give it too much gas. Point it downhill, get it rolling good, jump in, pop the dooflopper, and, if you're lucky, it will crank right up. I got some tools, and I know how to use them, dammit.

So, body, prepare yourself! Your ass is mine.

In the very wee hours of the morning, I was thinking. It doesn't happen often so I wanted to record it here for posterity. I was thinking about the war in Iraq. And I thought, we've come full circle again. We are back in the times of the Crusades. We are trying to turn the "infidel" into a good Christian. Our brave men and women are fighting a holy war. A war we don't understand, will never understand, and, apparently, don't want to understand. Well, we do, but the powers in government turn a blind ear to reason.

A holy war. Unbelieveable. There is no communist threat to world peace here. I don't think the Iraqi people are going to build a bomb and throw it at us. No, wait, maybe they can use a catapult. That is a required weapon in a holy war. Yes, there are terrorists in the world. Yes, they have cause death and destruction in the US. But, do they all live in Iraq? We don't know. Why is Sadaam really on trial? For crimes against humanity? For thumbing his nose at the President? The crimes he committed were against his own people. If I'm wrong, please correct me. Does anyone else see the madness in this whole scenario? I don't like to get political in this blog, because I have been there and done that, and writing about it doesn't seem to help. Voting doesn't seem to help that much either.

Case in point. Our government is more concerned with the lives of the gay community than solving the fiasco in Iraq. The question of whether a same-sex marriage is recognized by the state was the biggest topic in most elections this past November. I believe if you can find anyone who you care about and cares about you enough to want to become your life partner, and make it legal, you are without a doubt blessed. But even here we have started another holy war. Because some people interpret the bible in their own pecular manner, we decide who can marry who. But, wait, isn't there a separation of church and state? Wasn't that why we got kicked out of most countries and migrated here in the first place? And what did we do then? We started another holy war. Against the American Indian, our new infidels. They worshipped in a different way than we did. Don't think about how they respected all living things, and lived in complete harmony with their surroundings. Let's forget that the beauty of their culture was probably the closest thing to peace anywhere on earth.

Maybe the Iraqi's have become our new Native American infidels. Maybe we just have trouble accepting that its not our place to decide how others worship. I think we should give up on the whole concept of holy wars. It doesn't seem to work, solve anything, and just causes death and destruction. Let the Iraqi people fight their own war. They have been doing it for years, so they seem to have an idea about how to do it. Our troops do not need to fight this war, this holy war, for no other reason than that a president has a personal vendetta. Let him fight his own holy war. He can take Congress with him. We can arm them with all the weapons they need. Hell, we'll even give them combat pay. They can paint a white cross on their armor and storm the walls for all their worth.

Damn if I wouldn't pay good money to see that.

Twas the Day After Christmas

*Twas the day after Christmas,
And all through the trailer,
There were boxes and bows
And bubble wrap paper.

There were toys everywhere
And that blasted guitar!
Whoever bought that one,
I'll make him see stars!

I in my blanket
My cats on the bed
Roscoe, the gray one,
Kept pawing my head.

Get up! He was saying
It's time we should eat!
So I climbed from my bed
House shoes on my feet.

I stumbled to the kitchen
Falling only three times,
I got them their cat food,
Stopped their catty whine!

One guest still asleep
On the sofa, and there,
There was the little one
With the pretty blonde hair!

Up with the sun, she
Climbed out of bed,
Turned on the TV,
Sat on the guests head.

"Get off me!" he cried!
Still trying to snooze.
Well, good luck with that one!
This one you'll lose!

The blond little girl
Sat beside him instead,
Contenting herself with
Just punching his head.

We all still remembered
Her screams of delight!
Her running and jumping
From morning till night!

I ventured forward,
With silence and glee,
"I can probably take her.
She's smaller than me."

A pillow, I thought,
Would just be the thing
Just over that mouth,
What peace it would bring!!

How one little girl
Just six, and so fine
Could drive us all mad
With that ear-piercing whine?!

"Stop!, get a grip,"
I chastized myself.
She's sweet and a child!
Get hold of yourself!

She's watching TV
She's quiet and calm
Best enjoy this peace,
This silence, sweet balm

To poor fractured nerves
From yesterday's madness.
It won't last for long,
I thought with great sadness.

Why one day a year
Do we torture ourselves,
Cause of some hateful Santa,
And his mean little elves?

He stops by our house
Leaving chaos, such strife!
And then the mean bastard
Sneaks off in the night!

Its not her fault,
I reminded myself.
Its that blasted ole Santa
And his sorry ass elfs!

I promise myself
Next year will be better.
I'll whip Santa's ass
With his boots made of leather.

I'll give him a beating
He won't soon forget.
And I hope he'll remember
What house he was at.

But until I catch him

And give him his due,
I hope that your Christmas
Was as hectic for you!!

*This was written by a demented old lady, and does not represent the views of the blogger. Well maybe they do, but don't get your underwear in a bunch. You weren't here!!

Santa, I've added another gift to my list. I have been reasonably nice this year. Actually I haven't done jack-shit this year. So please, please, if you can't bring the other gifts I requested, bring me this: I promise I will take good care of it, feed it, water it, and take it out everyday to play. I'll give it place of honor on my bed, and promise not to break it. "Santa Baby, Santa Baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight".......

If you loved Bobby Darin, you have to see the movie "Beyond the Sea". It is magical, wonderful, and makes you fall in love with Bobby Darin all over again. I'll take the actor, you take the movie.

December 22, and I'm getting behind in my Christmas dinner schedule. I want to make some cookies, pumpkin rolls, and somebody please remind me to take Mr. Tom Turkey out of the freezer! The first time I cooked a turkey my ex and I bought it the night before. It wasn't completely thawed out when I started cooking it. About eight hours later, I took it out, and began slicing. When I got toward the bone, it was still a little pink. But I served it anyway. Thankfully we didn't die. When I started to scoop out the stuffing, a bag of something came out with it. On closer examination, it proved to be a neck, a few lumps of something, and a slimy thing that for some reason I immediately identified as a liver. "Hey," I said, "I probably was supposed to take this out before I stuffed it!" My ex decided he didn't want any turkey that year, but he did ultimately ate a few of the top slices of white meat.

You learn as you go, I guess. My mother would not allow anyone in the kitchen while she was cooking. So, those mother-daughter cooking sessions just didn't happen for me. My mother was what many people would describe as "high-strung". So, your best bet was to steer clear of her in the kitchen. But, now, I often think, how in the world did she manage to cook for 6 kids, prepare the meals she served, and stay sane with no indoor plumbing. We did not have any water that came into the house except that which was brought into the house by buckets, or pails, if you prefer. I started my turn as a water toter at the age of six. I think that is why I have long arms. We walked about a hundred yards or so, to an artisian well, and dipped the water out with a bucket. Being small, I was doing good to get half a bucket. In the winter you sometimes had to break a slight skim of ice on the top of the water.

The water was the best tasting I have ever had. Clear, cold, pure, and clean. No water I have had since, even the bottled kind will ever compete with that clear exquisite taste. Of course, not that I appreciated it at the time. I was too busy hating the fact I had to tote it. I was always terrified of falling in, head first, and drowning with my feet sticking up.

When I finally married and had my first apartment, I loved my sink. It amazed me that I could turn on the faucet and water would magically appear. I have since lived in situations where I didn't have water, due to a power outage, ice storm, or not having the deep well hooked up. But, I knew how to be resourceful. I caught rain water in buckets to wash clothes and dishes with. Drinking water I bought in jugs. I knew what to do. Thanks to my early experiences.

I used to dream as a kid that I would be rich and famous and buy my mother a new house with all of the modern conveniences she wanted so much. But, I didn't. Become rich and famous, I mean. In certain circles I may have been infamous, but never famous.

Getting back to the turkey, I decided I needed to learn a few things about this thing called cooking, so I bought many a cookbook, and found I could follow directions reasonably well. Since then I have cooked a lot of turkeys. Some good, some not so good, but all edible. But I miss calling my mom, and talking to her about what I was cooking for this day and that. When I go out shopping I always want to buy her a magnificent Christmas card, or I think what would she want for Christmas. She has been gone for 10 years now, but those thoughts don't ever go away.

Anyhoo, I best get off my butt and start doing something. And, please God, let me remember to take that damn turkey out of the freezer!

For lack of anything better to do, other than read Dean Kootnz new book "Brother Thomas" from the Odd Thomas series, I watched a show on TV called Top Chef, on the Bravo channel. It is a regular reality series, and I discovered I loved it. You get so caught up in the race to prepare the food, see which team wins, and, of course, you have your favorites.

Having cooked many a meal, and for upwards of 15 people, I understand the concept of planning. And I anticipate that something will go wrong somewhere, so you better have a back up plan. But what struck me so much about this show was the arguing and back-stabbing, the tremendous egos at work. Last night, the episode I watched one of the chefs, Mia, (pictured above) got upset and walked off, and rightly so, I might add. Well, her complaints were valid, and her actions were noble, but I would have liked to see her stay. She left so another person could stay. I think she was just basically sick of the whole shebang. I have quit jobs for the same reason. But, then, I work best when I know what the job is, and just do it, without anyone telling me do this, or do that. Give me the details, and let me go.

And, having been involved in team efforts as well, there is always someone in the crowd who has to have their way, or has to be an asshole, or just gets on your nerves. Sometimes, its probably been me, I imagine.

But, back to this show, some of the foods they prepared, though they sounded quite tasty, would probably make me puke. But the effort that went into it all was amazing. If you haven't watched this show, check it out. It was fascinating.

And, "Brother Thomas" is an excellent book. I love Odd Thomas. A wonderfully human character.

And now for something completely different. I am an anglophile. I admit, I own it, and I accept my actions and take responsibility. I haven't entered a 12 step program yet, but I'm thinking about it. I love anything about Elizabethan England, the reign of Henry the VIII, and Henry the II, (think the Lion in Winter) and all of it. I love British comedies, the old ones especially, like "Are you being Served?", "Keeping up Appearances", "As time goes by,", and of course Monty Python, Faulty Towers, and anything on Masterpiece Theatre. One of my favorite movies is "Remains of the Day."

Its an addiction, I think. The first time I watched Benny Hill, I fell in love with the completely insane antics and humor that is British at its best (worst?), who knows, but I like it. And once upon a time, I actually entertained two british sailors in my home. Ok, get your mind out to the gutter...It wasn't like that at all.

We lived in Pensacola, FL, my husband was a flag driver for the admiral, and my boys were 18 months, and 7 months, respectively. We lived in our first home, meaning it had a mortgage and our payments were at that time, and with our income, a budget breaking $200. a month. We had a tiny stove, refrigerator, and one air conditioner in our humble living room. Our neighbors slept all day, and entertained all night.

Ok, back to the story. The Prince of Wales came to Pensacola for whatever reason, and my husband met some of the sailors, who had sailed with him on the HMS whatever. Prince Charles almost got heat stroke while playing polo in 100 degree heat. What a twit!! Anyhoo, my husband calls me at 1:00 pm, or there abouts, and says he is bringing home two british sailors for supper. No, not one of those candlelight suppers, but the meat and potatoes kind. The house is a mess, crying babies, go no idea in hell what to cook, and wanted to cry. We had at that time, maybe three matching plates and jelly glasses. I started planning what to do. First, grab up the babies, go to the store, and get some steaks, three, (I decided to be a vegetarian for the occasion) and some salad fixings, and baking potatoes. Pretty much cleaned out the checking account. All the while figuring when the next payday was, how soon the bank would cash the check, and if my husband had written any.

Next I went next door, to my all night neighbors, and kindly asked if I could borrow four plates, and four glasses. Being the kind lady she was, she said of course, and did I need anything else? Oh, those were the good ole days...neighborly neighbors.

My husband arrived with our guests, and while they went into the "family room" to play pool, (yes we had a pool table, purchased with an enlistment bonus check, God, I was such a doormat then!!) I prepared the feast. Back then, the military did not do random drug testing. So, of course my husband was high as a Georgia pine, though I had forbidden such behavior. (Not around the babies!!) So, he started eating like he had jumped straight out of some WV holler, never exposed to the outside world. So, what conversation there was came from me, trying to feed two babies, who continually through their food on me, the floor, the walls, and the guests. I don't remember much about the conversation, only that we talked about fish and chips at one point. They complimented me on the salad dressing, and I jokingly said how hard it was to make it from scratch and then poor it into the little bottles. They believed me! I guess they were up there in the pines with my good ole darling husband. My husband finished his meal in record time, got up from the table, and went out to the "family room". He had not said a word during the entire meal. (What was I doing with this turd head?) The guests were finished, thanked me profusely, and followed him out to play some more pool.

I washed up, between chasing the kids, taking a peek now and then at the two Brits, and cursing my husband, silently to myself. I have to admit that the British accents were a major turn-on, and one of them stirred my female parts. I bathed the kids, breast fed the youngest, descreetly, and finally got them settled down. Ready to join the guys, I walked out to find them leaving. "Damn," I thought. "I don't even get to strut around in front of the manly brit!!) Not that I expected anything to come of it, or wanted it too, (well, who knows?) but, a girl can dream, right?

They said their good byes, my husband left to see his friends, and get high some more, and me and the boys were left alone. But, I pulled it off. I think. Now, all I had to worry about was whether the check I wrote would bounce.

Maybe someday I will get to England, eat some fish and chips, and wallow in British culture. Because, in spite of that experience, I remain to this day, dare I say it? a devoted, card-carrying, pompous, unswerving anglophile.

Prince Charles is still a twit, though.

My last post seemed to sound amazingly depressing. And I guess it was. I think Spadoman got it right. I lost my son a year and a half ago. And I can say I know pretty much how he feels. My son loved Christmas. The whole wonderful gift-buying, tree-finding, decorating and whirlwind hoorah. So, its really hard to get that feeling back. I remember at five, he starting having his own little Christmas tree in his room, and he continued to do so until he struck out on his own. He prayed for snow, but it never came. He always chose his gifts for others with great care, and he couldn't wait to open his own presents. He loved it all, and was able to impart that same spirit and joy to his son. We were much the same, then, in our approach and attitude toward Christmas. When you lose someone that close to you, as many of you who have already done, you develope a mind set that becomes something like before and after. Which, of course, means before he died, and after he died. The first Christmas after he died, I didn't want to do a damn thing. My oldest son and I, bought a few things for each other, but there was an incredible darkness and loss of feeling about the whole thing.

My son once told me that if something ever happened to him that I shouldn't worry cause he would be "outta here". And, being a Mom, I shushed him, and said don't even think about that. You'll be carting me to the old folk's home before that happens. But its so hard to let him go. A part of me still wants it be a mistake. A part of me still feels like I'll get an email, or a phone call, or he'll come walking through the door, saying, "Mama, guess what?"

This year, we have new members in our little family. My oldest son's fiance, her little girl, her son, and a friend, who stays in his room and comes out to eat. We are making an effort, I'm trying to put on that happy face, for everyone else, but I'm getting to the point where, if left to my own devices, I would say fuck it, bury my head under the pillow, and stay there.

I'm angry, so very angry, at God, at the world, and at myself. That sense of responsibilty never goes away. No matter how old your kids get, you still feel it is your job to protect them, and I feel I failed him. He was such a marvelous, fun-loving, intelligent young man, planning to become a doctor. And it all makes no sense to me. I know of many families here in the area where I live who are going through the same thing. My brother, who lost his son, says it never goes away. It took them almost five years to say the word "died". I can say it but what does it mean except he is no longer here?

I write this not to ask for sympathy, or to even expect anyone to understand. Maybe that's why I fall back on my memories. Because, really, in the end that's all you have. Each day creates a new memory, and I hope all of yours are good ones, and if not good ones, then at least something you can salvage and call your own. But I will say this. If there is some member of your family that you are feuding with, won't talk to because of this or that, or gets under your skin, or whatever, remember all of that is bullshit, just plain old bullshit. What matters is that they are family, and always tell them you love them. Anyone you care about, whether they feel the same toward you or not, tell them how you feel.

So, for my son, I will try to make this Christmas better, one he would have enjoyed. I know he would expect me to go on, and I'm trying, I really am. Maybe it does get a little easier, I don't know, but right now its pretty fucking shitty.

My sister-in-law, each Christmas, goes to the mausoleum, and places a little tree in front of her son's crypt. Its been ten years for them now, and that sadness remains. But they talk more about him, and even laugh about the crazy things he did.

My oldest son won't talk about it much. But he feels it just as strongly as I do. That look of what are we supposed to be doing? Oh, yeah, I have to buy some gifts. And I guess we should put the lights up. God, I can't wait till this is over.... You see the pain on his face. He drinks more now, and I don't think he knows why, exactly, but "Mama, I don't want to talk about this now...we'll talk later....ok?"

But we are trying, and I think that is important. For us, as a family, and for my wonderful son who died so young, but enjoyed every minute of his short life. I'll always keep him in my heart, my mind, my soul. I know where ever he is, he still keeps a good Christmas, and gives of himself the way he did when he was alive.

And if this post moves you in any way, do this for me. Go to the Red Cross, AnyMarine.com, or toys for tots, and make a small donation. A dollar will do. Or your favorite charity. Go to a nursing home and visit a disabled veteran. Put a smile on his face. Reunite with a distant loved one, and put all the old crap behind you. Or just stop and think about all of the people you love, and love them a little more. Make your Christmas as special and wonderful as possible. As I am doing my damnest to do.

Blessings to you all.

Things I still have to do before Christmas:

Call some friends, get some stocking stuffers, get the "Christmas Goose", and search for that illusive Christmas spririt that seems to disappear from the room just as I walk in. Its not that I don't have any excitement about Christmas, well, no, actually that's pretty much it in a nutshell.

Maybe its my age. Once you've done this for 40 years or so, you pretty much know the routine. I think one year I'm going to go camping or something, get away from all the Christmas hoohoo, and just watch the little animals play in the woods. Of course, with my luck, some bear will come up and decide to join me for the holidays, and so he won't eat me, I'll still have to lay out some kind of spread besides nuts and berries. It will be that one last onery bear that doesn't have the spirit either, and has decided to roam the earth instead of hybernating like all his good friends and neighbors. Maybe I could dress him up like a reindeer or something. I think thats probably a bad idea.

Maybe a Christmas cruise where I'll set around with other seniors and try to catch some old codgers eye, so we can trip the light fantastic. Of course instead of shuffle board we'll be doing morning aerobics and be two damned stiff and tired for anything else, popping that extra-strength tylenol for all its worth.

Maybe I could go on a bicycle tour of Europe, like the young people do, or Australia, that would be better. Hit the outback, get lost, and wander about for a week or so. Maybe run across a few of those spiders as big as a watermelon. Now, that would make my day. Of course I might meet some rich Australian sheep farmer who hasn't seen a woman in 10 years, and make his lights twinkle a little brighter. No, I'd probably run into some sweet young backpackers who would call me Ma'am, and offer to carry me back to the old-folks home.

Where is that Christmas spirit?!? No, wait, I see it, its right there, I can almost reach it....damn!! missed it again. Guess I'll keep trying.

Every year it was a big family tradition for my father to go out a week before Christmas and bring home the family Christmas tree. Off he went, with axe in hand, to bring home our beautiful fresh tree. Now, back in the day, you could just go anywhere where the land wasn't "owned" and chop down a tree. Then you brought her home, trimmed her up, and spent six or seven hours fitting her in the stand. (Could of been a him, I don't know..) But as the years went by, it seemed that all land was owned by neighbors or somebody looking for a mountain getaway. So, Daddy had to sneak off and get a tree. One time he brought home what we called the Charlie Brown tree. It was a scraggly little rascal, and my mother and me took one look at it, and starting giggling. Which of course made Daddy fly hot. We spent an hour convincing him that it was a wonderful tree, and no we didn't want him to throw it over the hill, or chop it up, or run out and chop down another one to satisfy "the ungrateful, and mean-spirited women." In the end, Daddy drilled some holes in the tree and stuffed some other branches in it, and once decorated, it became a beautiful little tree.

Years passed, and I had my own family. I heard from my brother about the latest tree adventure. My parents were older now, and my brother, having retired from the navy, had moved back home. This is going to sound cruel, but my brother and father, on their way to get a tree, loaded up some stray cats, and took them with them, so as to find a suitable place to "drop" them. Meaning they took the cats to turn them loose and let them find another home. They drove until they came to a what appeared to be an uninhabited stretch of woods, and not seeing any houses, they turned the cats loose. Much to their surprise, they all took off and ran under some old house they had not seen. As they were getting in the truck, a man burst through the front door, in a t-shirt and his underwear, and said, "Hey, why don't you come back and get your Goddamn cats!!" Of course they jumped in the truck and drove off, quickly, with their heads ducked down. Down the road aways they had to pull over to side, they were laughing so hard. My father, according to my brother, laughed so hard he almost swallowed his chewing tobacco.

They finally found a likely spot to look for a tree. Now, remember, they are breaking the law. Even if the land was owned by the state or some god awful power company, you weren't supposed to steal trees. However, they proceded into the wooded area, cautiously looking around, expecting a game warden to jump out and give them ticket or something. They found a tree, and looking around one more time, started to chop it down. Then my brother heard chopping when he wasn't chopping. He walked around, using brush and trees for cover, and saw several other lawbreakers chopping for all they were worth. So, there were other lawbreakers in the area. They got their tree and loaded up in the back of the truck.

A few days later, the cats started showing up. Just like a Disney movie they were finding their way home, and why not? Daddy always fed the cats, made sure they had a nice place out of the weather to sleep, and even if they all had the same name, (Cat), why should the cats fend for themselves, when an old man will do it for you? Daddy always said it was punishment for breaking the law, or either they man in the underwear tracked them down, and was just returning the "Goddamn" cats. It was shortly thereafter that Daddy took the plunge and bought an artificial tree.

My dear Mother's comment, "Well, at least we don't have to water it..."

When I was about 11, it was Christmas Eve, and it started snowing. Not "spitting snow" as my mother used to say, but a sure fire full-blown snowfall. Big beautiful white flakes tumbling down faster than you could say, "ah". I just loved snow, and on Christmas Eve? Perfect. I noticed down in the lower field, the kids were out slay riding, so I trotted myself down there. We had a tire burning, and the hood of someones pickup. We would start at the top of the hill, and everyone hop in, and away we went. It was cold as hell, but we didn't care. At the bottom, we pulled the thing up and did it all over again. I had a huge crush on a neighbor of mine, will call him Johnny, and of course I was at my liveliest, hoping he would notice me, single me out a little bit, but we just enjoyed the 3 minute ride down the hill, and warming up at the fire, when we climbed back to the top.

It grew darker, so we all headed home. I had to walk a good ways down a dirt lane as our house was a little farther. I just looked at the snow, gathering on the green pines, and the icicles hanging from the roof of the house. My feet were like ice, but I knew once inside the house, I could prop them up near the fire and they would warm up in no time. I was filled with the beauty and joy of Christmas, and wanted those moments to never end. A tall gawkey tomboy, I was, walking through a land of enchantment, feeling a part of the snow and the cold, and deepening twilight. I hated to go inside. I wanted to stay out in the snow, but it got colder, and my feet were numb they were so cold, so I reluctantly went inside.

The Christmas tree was all lit up, a few presents under the tree, and my sister and I made cocoa from scratch. You put some cocoa in a pan, slowly add milk and sugar, and heat it till every thing mixes together. It was marvelous. No microwaves, no boxes of Swiss Miss with marshmellows, just the old-fashioned home made cocoa. My mom was thawing out the turkey, and would get up early to stick the old bird in our old gas range. It all seemed so magical. At that moment, I didn't think about what we didn't have, only about how much we did have, and how truly fortunate we were.

Our old house was not so old anymore. The living room aglow with the light from the tree, turned our worn out furniture into something new and beautiful. It was magic. And the snowfall outside, the absolute quiet, nothing but the fire in the old gas heater, to break the spell. We always had to read the Christmas story, my sister and I, and sing carols. And of course we waited up for my dad, hoping he would make it home for Christmas. We knew he would bring oranges and apples, a coconut, walnuts, and hard candy. Such contentment, anticipation, and all that beautiful snow. A Christmas Eve I will always remember.

P.S. Santa, if you are really really busy this year, this model will do. While it is a little rough around the edges, I believe underneath it would be quite suitable for my purposes.

There has been a lot of talk recently about Larry's fake accent, the fact that he was born in Nebraska, and had a comedy routine under his real name. Well, all I can say is, imagine that!! He's a comedian, for god's sake, and if one bit didn't work, well, hell, let's try another. He may very well reinvent himself again. Johnny Carson started out as a magician. Steve Martin used to walk around with a fake arrow on his head. So, please grow up, and understand that entertainment is just that, entertainment. Let's get real, people.

Santa, if you can't find the model I asked for in the previous entry, well, this would make a great substitute. The same conditions apply. And this one doesn't even have to have hair!! The voice, though, it must be the talking model. (I'll let you know what I want it to say.) I already know what to pull to make it talk.

There is something so sensual about a totally bald man. Well, not totally bald, just the head. Well, let me elaborate...oh, hell, you know what I mean.

This is what I want for Christmas. You don't even have to wrap it up. It doesn't have to come with any other clothing, as a matter of fact, I would be satisfied if it didn't come with any clothes at all, as long as it is anatomically correct. And I want the full-size model. Santa, are you listening?

Christmas revisited

I thought I would be smart today. The cats woke me up at 5:00 am, just to be mean I think, so I stayed up. I decided I would get a jump start on everyone else and go to walmart for some Christmas things, you know, those things you had last year, and now have no idea in hell what you did with them? Well, to my surprise, everyone in southeastern Va had the same idea. I learned that Sunday morning is the day that all the young couples with kids in tow do their grocery shopping. It sure brought back memories. Of course when I was that young mother, and the boys were going in opposite directions, and I'm pulling two buggies, and saying, "Get your ass back here, right now, I mean it, come on now, I ain't playing, no you can't have that, come here, " which at this time, you leave your buggies and go get your younguns, and come back to find your buggies have been pushed to the side.

Oh, such memories. My boys were eleven months apart, and for the first twelve years after they were born, I don't think I ever stopped moving. I had a marvelous figure, but was too tired to even care. And, every Christmas I would rack my brain trying to figure out how to get them everything they wanted and still pay bills, and eat. Compromise is a painful thing at times. Those times when you took your bills and put them in a box and pulled out two, and paid those, and prayed for the best. But, no matter how tough it seemed, I look back and realize it was the best time in my life. I had both of my little boys, and sometimes my husband was there, saying, "Hell, I don't know what to do with them! They're too young to hunt..." But every Christmas we had a nice dinner, a tree, and presents for the boys.

As they got older, I would take them shopping so they could buy gifts for each other, and their daddy. My oldest got everybody a pair of socks, and something he had his eye for himself. My youngest, bless his heart, picked out something nice for everyone, but always got me something very touching. But it was all good. And it was wonderful to watch them as they got older, doing the same thing for their children.

Many times this last year or so, I have prayed please let me go back. God, just please let me wake up, and the boys are small, and we're all together again, but it doesn't happen. We just go on and cherish those wonderful memories. I'm learning everyday that memories are not so much the big things in life, its the little things, like walking through the grocery store and seeing a box of Keebler Club Crackers, and remembering that was my boy's favorite crackers, and wishing I could send him a hundred boxes. The little things. That's what stays with you the most.

Anger

Where does it come from? Lately I find myself getting angry about the service I receive when I go to a store to buy something. Today, I went to Rite-Aid to pick up some prescriptions. One is for Lopressor, a beta blocker, which I take for angina and for the prevention of a heart attack. It also lowers my blood pressure. I turned in the script 3 days ago, and called this morning to make sure it was ready. They assured me it would be ready in about an hour. I am anxious to get it because I had run out the night before, and the last time that happened I found myself at the er with chest pains. I took my nitro, and tylenol, couldn't find the baby asperins, but headed to the pharmacy.

When I got there, they said it would be a few more minutes. This is well past the hour I was told. So, ok, no problem, I'll just slip over here and do a little shopping, then come back. When I got back, I stood in line for about 15 minutes when the clerk behind the counter said it would be a little longer. And of course, I said, "Well what's the holdup? I turned in two days ago." Someone spoke up and said they couldn't fill it until today. Ok, I know this is bullshit, but I just say ok. Then I remembered they left some refills off of another medication I take. So, I mentioned it, they looked it up, and said ok they would correct it.

I said, "Well, you know, I have to wonder, if I have two refills and and my bottle says no refills, I have to wonder, where are the refills going."

The clerk said, "Well, they are not being used by anyone here." I said, "Well, how do I know that."

Then I realized the other prescription they said they were holding was one where I took one pill instead of the prescribed two. I said, "You know that doesn't make sense, because the insurance would have covered that one. Its been two months since it was filled."

She said, "Well it was in the box with the other one."

All this really told me was that they never really ran it by the insurance anyway.

One spoke up and said, "We'll, we've been very busy today." Ok, I understand that, but I have also worked on the other side of the counter, and I know when a customer wants their merchandise, whatever it is, they expect it to be ready when its supposed to be. I've been called about everything you can think of, but you just say I'll get it to you as soon as I can. You don't make excuses. And, you smile at the customer. Whether you want to or not. I think we should all realize that these people have a job because we patronize their company, store, or whatever you want to call it. And, yet, we are treated more times than not, like an inconvenience. I am just sick of it.

I did what my oldest son, who refuses to shop with me, calls "showing my ass". I think I did a really good job of that today.

Then she wanted to know if I still lived in West Virginia. No, I just like making the 6 hour drive to get my rx's filled at this particular Rite Aid pharmacy. I always have loved the scenic route. Somebody tell me if I am being a bitch about this or if it is something you experience as well. I just get so tired of being treated like sheep. "Stand here for pickup, stand here for drop off, stand here cause we just want you to". I feel like we're being treated like sheep. All that's missing is the border collies, snapping at our heels.

Ok, rant over.