22 Feb

Every year, my sweet, thoughtful, overly festive and generous mother runs out to the department store in search of the perfect gift to give to each of our three immediate neighbors who she hollers at in greeting while scampering out to the mailbox or mowing the lawn. Every year, it is, for some reason, my job to deliver these gifts. For starters, I know none of these neighbors. In fact, I don’t even know if I actually know their names. I don’t talk to them, run into them in the super market, garden along side them in the heart of June, nothing. Still, she insists I play Santa Claus and deliver them by hand for her.

Every single year, the day I have to go deliver the gifts is the coldest, most blustery, frigid and icy blizzard conditions of the entire month of December. This year is no exception. As I peer out my kitchen window, I see tree branches encased in inch-thick ice, large spiky icicles treacherously hanging from the gutters, a blindingly white horizon, snow blowing furiously across the yard and street in front of my house, a good eight inches of snow, and a driveway that could realistically double as a figure skating rink. My lips get chapped just looking outside. Nothing about these weather conditions gets me excited to don my boots and coat and scuffle across the slippery ass driveway and then snow-shoe through yards to deliver these Christmas presents to my neighbors that I don’t even know. Nothing. That being said, who wants to make five bucks? Call within the hour. Serious inquiries only.

Yesterday at about 5:00 a.m. I randomly woke up in bed. I decided that since I was awake, I may as well get up and tinkle since it would be another five hours before I would actually get up. I crawl out of bed, trot off to the bathroom, and then crept back into the bedroom to find the lights on, which was odd. As I turned the corner, Trent was awake and had a small decorative box on my pillow.

Three weeks prior, he had told me that we wouldn’t be able to leave Kansas City to go back to Iowa for Christmas until after a meeting that he had scheduled for us both to attend at 3 pm with a financial advisor of some kind, saying that he thought it was a good idea for us both to go to before we got married and everything. I thought it was odd to choose that particular date and time, but I blew it off. ANYway, I open the card, and it says, “I would have to be a fool to schedule a financial planning meeting two days before Christmas, but we DO have somewhere to go this afternoon….”

Inside were two tickets to the Trans-Siberian Orchestra concert that afternoon! Woo! I seriously love them, especially their Christmas albums of course. So yesterday afternoon we headed off to the Sprint Center in KC, MO for show. Trans-Siberian Orchestra is like Johann Sebastian Bach/Pink Floyd/Edward Scissor Hands on acid. I could do without a lot of the story telling and slower stuff, and more of the lasers/hallucinogenic lights show/face-melting guitar solos/wicked head-banging violinists, but the show is AMAZING. Needless to say, I spent the majority of my morning downloading ridiculous amounts of music.

Who are the people that have to work all day on holidays such as Thanksgiving and Christmas? Every year, millions of employees stand behind counters at Wal-Marts, Hy-Vees, and AMC Theaters, scanning tags and tickets, making $9 an hour, while their families sit at home in their Snuggies, watching Lifetime movies, drinking eggnog, eating sugar cookies and scarfing down mashed potatoes. If they even havefamilies, that is. That’s my point–who are these people? I never know people who have to work on Christmas day, save my father who is a doctor, and no matter what the calendar says, people still get sick on holidays (idiots). If I had a boss, and they tried to tell me I was scheduled to work the 9-5 on Christmas Day, I would quit. My holiday festivities are far too important to me to miss out on to make time and a half at my shitty job.

Juicy Fruit is one of the most delicious gum flavors out there, but it has, by far, the shortest life. I feel like it loses its flavor while I’m still unwrapping it. Why haven’t the people up at Wrigley’s had a chit-chat with the people who make Orbit and figured out their secret long-lasting-flavor recipe? The same is true for Blow-Pops. The gum is so sweet, delicious, and rewarding when I finally get through the hard candy and uncover it, but within seconds it tastes like rubber cement and carpet. Anytime I travel in the car, I make sure I have stuffed my purse full of cherry-flavored Blow-Pops that I buy individually at gas stations for 10 cents apiece. Buying an entire bag of Blow-Pops in bulk is pointless, because the other flavors suck ass. Orange? Grape? Watermelon? I’d rather suck on a rusty nail. The only unfortunate thing about getting my suckers at places like Casey’s and QuikTrip is that I’m pretty sure I’m the only person that has touched those lollipops since they were put there in 1985. They always seem so dusty and old. Oh well.

Time to don my stocking cap and go deliver gifts to the neighbors.

Drew: “I always lick the pudding off the lid.”
Me: “People that don’t are insane.”
Drew: “Or really rich.”


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