the most wonderful day of

the most wonderful day of the year

up at crack of dawn
but not to greet Santa Claus
greeting puke instead

I expected to be awake early on Christmas morning, but I didn’t expect to be up at 5 am, sitting in the bathtub with a puking wee one.


The poor baby was hurling his guts out all day. He couldn’t stand up. His fever finally broke at 104 late in the afternoon. Possibly the saddest thing I have ever seen in my life was a feeble, puking, 2-year-old reaching out for his Santa presents, while laying prostrate halfway on the floor and in my lap.

By about 6 pm he was able to unwrap some presents and have a bite of applesauce. By the next morning he was good as new. For that, I heartily thank the baby Jesus.

Other than the uncontrollable vomiting, the scary fever, the sad baby, the horrified houseguests, the Christmas dinner we never cooked, and the newly discovered lack of towels in the house, we had a fine holiday.

How was yours?

oh CRAP should have sent


should have sent a card
I could overnight candy
is that stalker-ish?

Got a holiday card from The Agent Who Is Not Yet Mine! This is a good sign, no? The fact that I not only didn’t send him a card, but DELIBERATELY decided against it, irrationally fearing that it would overstep what I perceive as a tenuous, yet promising relationship, is a sign that I:
a) way way WAY over think stuff like this
b) am a crazy moron who should have sent a card

Or I could just get off my ass, finish editing my revisions, email the manuscript and say something witty about not sending a card because I was too busy hacking 68 pages out of my book.

That’s not very witty is it?


hahaha my brain is queso


my brain is queso
but it’s queso supremo
with ground beef and guac

I was watching TV last night (who am I kidding, I watch TV every night) and I saw about 40 different commercials for cars that have 10-year, 100,000 mile warranties. So I thought that if I was an unscrupulous used car dealer I might see if I could get away with a 100,000 year, 10-mile warranty. a-ha HA. Thank you. I’ll be here all week.

retirement watch out for bad


watch out for bad guys
they always seem to know who
is retiring soon

My father-in-law is retiring. Wednesday is his last day at work. Though I’m excited for him I’ve had to issue a note of caution. Anyone who’s watched any movie knows that when you go around saying “Only three days til I retire” it means something bad may befall you. A drug kingpin may rig a bomb to your toilet. You may get caught up in a bank heist. Possibly one of your arch enemies (or their spawn) will reappear and demand that you try to foil their plot to conquer the world.

The last three days before retirement can be very event-filled. Especially if you have to save the world (or even just your hometown). There’s not a lot of sleeping, and you have to keep muttering things like, “But I’m retiring in three days!” while you ride your motorcycle from rooftop to rooftop in search of the commie pinko nuclear weapons specialist who may or may not have stolen some government secrets from your briefcase while you two had an early morning tryst.

I hope my father-in-law realizes what’s in store for him over the next few days. It’s gonna be craaaaaazy.

clip clip clip found a

clip clip clip

found a nice new home
though eviction notice served
my poor, sad clippers

The only thing my hubby wants for Christmas is for me to stop keeping my fingernail clippers on the kitchen counter. I’m sure from the outside this seems like a reasonable request. But if you have seen the amount of fingernail clippers I’ve lost over the years you’d be shocked and horrified. You’d realize that the money I spend on fingernail clippers is roughly the same as the GNP of a small country. So by leaving my clippers on the counter I actually know where they are and don’t need to buy new ones every other day. This, in effect, saves a lot of money and can actually afford me to buy a nicer Christmas present for my husband (though maybe not as, I don’t know, personal).

But he would rather me spend Zimbabwe’s GNP on fingernail clippers and get them off the damn counter.

Fine. But there goes that Mr. Clean automatic car washer I was going to get him.

cookie casualties It took an

cookie casualties

It took an inordinate amount of time to make the cookies seen in the post below… and in that time the wee one and I managed to destroy our own clothing, the house and the dog.

For your enjoyment:

Well, shoot, the picture didn’t turn out that great – but in real life, his ordinarily black head is a nice and speckled gray.

“NO! NO! Get out of the living room with those hands!”

“What? The living what?”

dance cookies! went all martha-y

dance cookies!

went all martha-y
we made some gingerdancers
for the dance class kids

Our last dance class until after the holidays is tomorrow. Here’s a sneak peak of the cookies the wee one and I are bringing with us:

By showing the cookies now I have probably jinxed it all and will end up dropping them in the driveway or coming down with the stomach flu , etc. etc. and not making it to dance class. But I’m very proud of them and therefore must show them off immediately.

Please note that some of the dancers are in glorious dance positions – passe, and first position. There are some arabesques, too. The giant fat cookie is the teacher. I hope she’s not offended, as she is neither giant, nor fat.

Irony pretty silver strands flowing


pretty silver strands
flowing over limbs of tree
flat out forbidden

For some reason my husband hates those long silver plasticky (plastic-y?) strands of “icicles” you put on Christmas trees. Perhaps it is because he is the spawn of Martha Stewart’s equivalent (without all the lying and jail). Perhaps it because he is technically a Yankee. I don’t know.

My sister’s husband, who is also a Yankee, forbids her from putting icicles on her tree, too.

It is a mystery why our spouses hate the plastic silver strands so much (though by calling them “plastic silver strands” I get a glimmer of understanding).

On the other hand, I HATE AND DESPISE icicle lights on the front of people’s houses. Admittedly, when they first came out I loved them. And even now I still think the short, tangly ones are kind of pretty. But when every single suburban house in every single suburban neighborhood in every single state has icicle lights, well, I rebel against the uniformity of it.

My husband, of course, wanted to put icicle lights up on the house. Thanks to the generosity of my in-laws, we have a plethora of the lights now. But I stood firm. No icicles on the house. Lights, OK. Looking like every single house who voted Republican… no go.

So my hubby took the icicle lights and decorated the trees in the front yard with them. It looks gorgeous. I’ll try to take a picture and post it.

Anyway… icicles on the inside tree, forbidden. Icicles on the house, forbidden. Icicles on the outside trees, perfect.

And lo, unto us Christmas irony compromise is born.