25 Days of Christmas: Day 12, Holy Crap, Where Is This Month Going?

Twelve days until Christmas and I have yet to finish anything that I have started; not my baking, not my shopping, not my endless nagging about how quickly Christmas is coming…

Nor have I watched one single holiday classic, I keep missing them on the regular television schedule and have been too lazy busy to pop a DVD into the player, all of which changes this evening; Hugh, the children and I are going to watch National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation while decorating the mess of cookies that I baked this weekend. This is a traditional event for us and, while it is occurring a bit later than normal, we are all looking forward to it and, by all, I mean the Man-Cub and myself; The Teenager has been rolling her eyes and whining about the prospect of doing it since I informed her of the plan yesterday and I wouldn’t exactly call Hugh’s sarcastic “great, sooo looking forward to that” to be a ringing endorsement of the plan, either.

Still, we shall soldier on.

Speaking of soldiers…

Threats of “cracking your nuts with one of these guys” may prove effective on one out of two of the cookie decorating naysayers.

Let us hope it doesn’t come to that.

25 Days of Christmas: Day 16, Miracle at the Hellmouth

I went to the Hellmouth today to do yet more Christmas shopping. Once I turned into the parking lot from the highway, I made my customary right turn and headed for the third row from the end of the building to park in my usual spot.

What? Like you don’t practice a parking ritual every time you go to your local Hellmouth. Puh-leeze!

Today, however, as I was driving down the row I was suddenly headed right into a compact car that was clearly headed in the WRONG direction and, let me tell you, those rows? They are narrow.

Have I mentioned how much I hate the Hellmouth? Have I mentioned that EVERY FLIPPING TIME that I go to the Hellmouth I am confronted with apathy, stupidity or both? And here it was, in the parking lot, before I had even crossed the threshold into the bowels of hell, stupidity at its finest.

My immediate reaction was to swear under my breath (or, you know, OUTLOUD). Next I mentally weighed my options for the moment when our cars squeaked by each other.

I could:

a. Flip the bird.

b. Paste a scowl on my face and let my expression do the talking.

c. Shake my head at the driver as one would an errant child.

As I was weighing the options, however, the woman behind the wheel did a most precious thing; she raised her hands up, shrugged her shoulders and made the “I’m loco” motion where-in you point your index finger at your temple and rotate it in small circles while simultaneously cocking your head to one side as your tongue lolls out of the corner of your mouth. Then she smiled the most radiant smile that I think I have ever seen and not only did I forgive her completely but I think I fell a little bit in love.

Right there in the parking lot of the Hellmouth, a Christmas Miracle!

Who woulda thunk it?

25 Days of Christmas: Day 17, All Is Well That Ends With Pizzelles

I replaced my pizzelle iron this morning with a newer make of the same model; two bucks says I find my missing iron five minutes after I am finished breaking in the new one....

Nope.

It is now several hours and six dozen pizzelles later and still no sign of the missing pizzelle iron. I have no idea what could have happened to it and I cannot dredge up the energy to be concerned about it any longer.

Besides, I haz pizzelles.

And, if the missing iron should make a surprise reappearance in my life, I will be able to make twice as many pizzelles in the same amount of time next year. Glass half full, yada, yada.

On a completely different topic, save for the fact that he also likes pizzelles; Hugh is traveling to Nebraska tomorrow to officiate his first ever college wrestling tournament. He’s really, really excited. And, nervous but, I keep reminding him that he will do great, and, on the off-chance that he royally screws the pooch; he will have an eleven-hour drive home during which time he can ruminate over whatever mistakes he made, allowing him to get over it before he arrives on our doorstep.

Also, I will have pizzelles with which to soothe his wounded pride.

Say it with me people, glass half full, yada, yada.

As an aside, how many times can I use the word pizzelles in one blog post? How many lights are on this strand?

I’d say it’s about even.

25 Days of Christmas: Day 18, All Otis Wants for Christmas Are His Two…I’m not Even Going to Finish That Sentence

Otis the Hardware Store Cat went to the vet today for his neutering; he is now officially two nuts short of a Sundae and, to say that he is unimpressed with this recent state of events would be a vast understatement.

He may forgive us, eventually but; the jury is still out.

Speaking of juries, guess who got a summons to appear for jury duty? I’m not worried about having to actually serve; announcing that I am married to a cop and that all defendants are guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty! generally guarantees me exclusion. Not that I’ve actually tried it but, I‘m confident that it will work out that way.

Hey, you know what is pissing me off, today?

Segue train just jumped the tracks on that transition, no? Yes.

Anyway, I’m very irritated because I cannot find my pizzelle iron. I only use it once a year and, the rest of the year it lives under the counter with the rest of the appliances that don’t see daily use yet, now it is gone. I have no idea what could have happened to it and I have looked everywhere for it on the off-chance that Hugh took his life in his hands at some point and moved it. No luck.

This could seriously undermine my ability to do good hair. No, wait, that’s from Steele Magnolias, what I mean is; this could seriously undermine my ability to finish my holiday baking which will undermine my ability to pull off another fabulous Christmas weekend.

I am almost as displeased as Otis. Because everyone knows that having one’s reproductive organs unwillingly removed from their body is exactly the same kind of horrible as not being able to bake delicate waffle-like cookies.

Exactly the same.

                                                   Otis would beg to disagree.

25 Days of Christmas: Day 20, Four Down and Four Meeeelion to Go

I’m talking cookies, of course. This weekend, despite being ridiculously busy with a host of activities (more to come on that), I managed to bake four different varieties of holiday treats. I baked chocolate chippers, drop sugar cookies, my mother’s oatmeal raisin cookies (known affectionately in these parts as Son-in-Law cookies due to Hugh and my brother-in-law’s love for them) and, chewy gingerbread cookies. I baked those particular varieties because they are the least time-consuming of my cookie inventory because, as I said, cah-razee biz-ay over here.

Crazy.

Saturday the Man-Cub and I rang bells for The Salvation Army for two hours in front of one of the local super markets. This is an activity we participate in almost every year and, like every other year; my heart warmed at the generosity shown by the people we encountered. Of course, it didn’t hurt that the Man-Cub wore his “dancing hat”, the one that plays Jingle Bells and waves around to the beat while perched on his adorable little head. Old ladies appear to love little boys in dancing hats; little boys who aren’t afraid to shake their booty in front of a grocery store for the entire world to see. I enjoyed it, too.

While we were ringing bells, The Teenager was at home, glued to her cell phone, waiting for word from Denver, where our Pirate football team was playing in the state championship. When she texted us to say that the team had won, we gave a little cheer and shook the bells harder. For the record, this is the team’s second state title in three years, not too shabby for a small school.

After bell ringing, I took the kids to see our community theater’s production of The Best Christmas Pageant, Ever. It was performed by the children’s theater group, comprised of local kids and they did a fabulous job. They may have actually salvaged any hope of The Teenager enjoying theater since she declared the play “Waaayy better than that thing you took me to see the last time”. So, yes, there is hope.

After the play we went out for dinner and then home where we baked the first two varieties of cookies of the holiday season. We also managed to successfully defend them from a raid by Hugh when he got home from officiating at a wrestling tournament in another town although, a new hiding place will have to be located if we are to have any cookies left for Santa come December 24th.

Sunday was spent preparing for the charter banquet for our new ASTRA club, which is the junior arm of the woman’s service club to which I belong and the club that I have spent so much time working with the last few months.

The banquet was held at our community center and we catered it ourselves, we being the women from my service club. With half of our membership, including three of our officers, in Denver at the state football championships, we weren’t sure how many people to expect but, happily, the team made it home early in the day and we ended up with all but three of our 23 members and were missing only one officer.

The banquet went really well and, despite stressing over how many parents to expect (Mini rant: Why in the name of good manners do people not RSVP to formal invitations that clearly ask for RSVPs? Why? Why, Dear Abby, why???? End mini rant), we had plenty of food, lots of support from the kid’s families and a really lovely event.

After which I came home, baked two more varieties of cookies, chased Hugh out of the kitchen approximately fourteen times and fell into bed, exhausted and with aching feet.

Tonight, round three of cookies baking, with plans for two more varieties; pizzelles and spritz cookies because, as The Teenager says, you can never have too many Christmas cookies.

Also, cookies are yummm-ay!

25 Days of Christmas: Day 23, The Traditions Live On

I came by my love of all things Christmas quite naturally, at the feet of my mother who also did the holidays in a big way. Every year, she baked too many treats to count, some more popular (Popcorn balls, how we love thee!) than others (does the world really need another fruitcake, mother?) but the important thing was; she made them every year. Without fail. Every year.

I’m a big fan of tradition thanks to my mother.

And, as I said, a big fan of Christmas. How could I not be? This was the outfit my mother dressed me in for my first ever holiday…

As an aside, doesn’t my mom rock the beehive? And, doesn’t my older sister look happy to have a baby sister to dote upon? Yeah, she got over that fairly quickly; in fact, I think the reason she looked so happy in this photograph…

…was that she was under the mistaken impression that I could be returned to the store from whence I came if only mother had saved the receipt. She did, right? She saved that receipt? Tell me you saved that receipt!

Its ok, eventually she warmed up.

Aside from baking delicious treats, my mother also made it a tradition to take us all to see Santa, Christmas wish-lists clutched in our chubby little hands.

Apparently, I should have asked for a tissue that year.

Of course, we had a Christmas tree every year; ours was fake due to my younger sister’s allergy to the real thing. Each year, my dad wrestled the tree down from the attic and engaged in a battle of the wills, Man vs. Tree; spouting his own bastardized version of curse words so as to protect our delicate ears from the real thing (sappo-mother was a huge favorite and, one I use myself these days. Try it! It’s fun!) until my mother gently requested that he run to the store to pick up some item she was in sudden dire need of at which point she would successfully assemble the tree, herself.

He said sappo-mother! Ha, ha, ha, ha!

And, on Christmas morning, she would pose my sisters and me with our holiday loot for a photograph to commemorate the day. I did that with my own kids up until just a few years ago.

In fact, I do a lot of the same things with my kids that my parents did with us because, as I’ve said, I am a sucker for tradition.

Indeed, last week, when Hugh was putting up our Christmas tree and Part A slipped out of Part B, and Hugh dropped an F bomb (and, Part B); I got a little misty because; he totally meant to say “You sappo-mother!” I just know it.

25 Days of Christmas: Day 24, Christmas Carols Are the Worst Brain Worm EVER

Last Friday I asked Hugh to switch the satellite station at the store from easy listening to holiday music, figuring that shoppers like to hear carols while sorting through holiday merchandise, except, of course, for when the carols are being piped through the store and the holiday merchandise consists of jack-o-lanterns and Power Ranger costumes, Hellmouth, I’m looking at you and, as usual, I digress…

…anyhoo, Hugh changed the station and the onslaught of carols began at the store. One song, in particular, has caused me many minutes of emotional turmoil because, the first fifty times that I heard it, I swore the lyrics contained the phrase, “It’s Christmas, time to lick the donkey” and I was like Dubbya. Tee. Eff? Lick the donkey? Is this some strange pagan ritual of which I am completely unaware?

And, no…on the fifty-first playing of the song, I actually went to the office to view the station monitor which is when I learned that the title of the song is Dominick, the Italian Christmas Donkey and, a quick search on Google provided the actual lyrics of the song which include no mention whatsoever of licking the donkey. Here is a small sample, just in case you have never heard the song and totally think I am making this shit up.

Hey! Chingedy ching,
(hee-haw, hee-haw)
It's Dominick the donkey.
Chingedy ching,
(hee-haw, hee-haw)
The Italian Christmas donkey.
(la la la-la la-la la la la la)
(la la la-la la-la la-ee-oh-da)
Santa's got a little friend,
His name is Dominick.
The cutest little donkey,
You never see him kick.
When Santa visits his paisons,
With Dominick he'll be.
Because the reindeer cannot,
Climb the hills of Italy.

And, yes, the hee-haw, hee-haw sounds pretty much like one would expect to hear issuing forth from a donkey.

So, no licking; mystery solved. You know, other than the part where I have to ask myself what the hell a donkey has to do with Christmas.

Maybe the Italians know.

                                                                Hey, paisons! It's time to lick the donkey!