Holiday Fair.

22 Feb

Slap my chestnuts on an open fire, ladies and gentlemen. I am ready for the holiday season. BRING IT ON!!!!

This weekend was spent in Hoisington (where the @#$% is that?), Kansas with Trenton’s family to celebrate Thanksgiving. There was also some pheasant/quail hunting involved. I tagged along for day two, not that I shot and/or killed any fowl, but I did get a workout that not even Stair Masters could compare to, so that was good, especially seeing as immediately after that I ate six pounds of sweet potato casserole, a baker’s dozen rolls, half a turkey, and four different types of pie. Yeah, I’m a model.

This next weekend will be spent in Council Bluffs con mi familia. Same type of deal, minus the hunting, and double the food. I’m in for a real feast. Go ahead and order me up a double bypass surgery, because the amount of gravy I am going to consume could kill a full grown Indian elephant in minutes. I’m not afraid.

Speaking of the holiday season, if it doesn’t start “beginning to look a lot like Christmas” soon, I will throw a bitch fit in the middle of a shopping mall for everyone to see. Why does the earth think it is April? It’s not April. It’s November–damn near December. Last time I checked the Farmer’s Almanac, we are supposed to be shivering out of our shoes, waking up to a blanket of snow with flurries in the air, and bundling up in wool and fleece before parading out into a winter wonderland at this point; not wearing short sleeves, playing tennis, and applying SPF. Come on, weather. Give me something. A cold front. A flurry. Frost. Anything.

…I’m desperate.

In other news, technology is my new best friend. Since The Weather Channel is not paying me $15 an hour to compulsively and repeatedly check the ski conditions in Vail, Colorado (really, it could be my full time job), I have now set it up where my phone receives a text message any time Vail is in a winter weather advisory (I just orgasmed), or is expecting snowfall of any kind. Seeing as I will be there in 11 days, strapped to my board and ready to go, there had BETTER be a shit ton of snow between now and then. Like, I hope that Mother Nature just assaults the state of Colorado with a blizzard not even Gary Leczak could comprehend. Bring it on, Frosty.

You know what I don’t get? Fat homeless people. Being fat and homeless is like being black and a hockey player. You can be one, or the other. Never both. If you’re as plump as a Thanksgiving turkey, but you stand on the corner with a cardboard sign that says “Anything helps, God bless,” you’re a walking lie. You’re not actually homeless. Why? Homeless people have to beg for scraps and leftover reject fries left in the bottom of peoples’ McDonald’s bags. I’m no scientist, but this is usually not the formula to becoming grossly overweight. Faker.

Remember sneaking out when you were in high school? Tip-toeing out of bed in the middle of the night, checking your phone six hundred times to make sure it was on silent as you crept past your parents’ bedroom door, taking half an hour to walk six feet. You feel like the sound of your breathing is louder than a Kottonmouth Kings concert, and you could swear that your heart is literally about to beat out of your chest. For some reason EVERYTHING sounds way louder than it actually is; like the creak of the door opening–sounds like a curdling scream to you, when your parents probably couldn’t even hear it. So afraid. That’s real fear, kids. You can’t teach that.

November seems to be a popular month for birthdays. I have sent out more birthday texts this month than any other of the months combined this year. We had an office birthday party for our sales manager at work last Wednesday. We did all the work appropriate customs–bought a cake, signed a card, sang Happy Birthday–the usual. When a group of people sings Happy Birthday, it always sounds so mournful. No one wants to be the karaoke star, so everyone sings a really low, nearly rumbling note. Everyone is in a different key, it’s awful. If I didn’t know any better, I would think I was at a funeral, not a birthday celebration. At the end, everyone feels semi-embarrassed for some reason, as if we had all just seen each other in a very vulnerable state, like in the nude or something, so someone yells “CHA CHA CHA!” to top it off and move the awkward situation forward. It is my opinion that we stop the tradition of singing Happy Birthday and pick up something new, like clapping. It makes just as much noise, and you can’t be off tune. “Yay, you were born several years ago!!! (applause).” It’s perfect.

Time for me to start online shopping. I wonder how much of my Christmas shopping I can tackle online. I hear slickdeals.com is a sweet place to start if you’re a bargain hunter. Time to shop.

“You can always make another baby!”

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