Wake me when it's Groundhog day.

Actually, being a citizen of the great state of Pennsylvania, I enjoy Groundhog day, and have actually been to the Groundhog Zoo in Punxsuatawney. One of these years, I will actually go there on February 2, and partake in the drunken revelry (and really, is there any better kind). Mmm. Groundhog.

Anyway.

On to the holiday suckitude.

1. I am about sick of people kvetching about businesses using a generic "happy holidays" or "season's greetings" instead of "Merry Christmas". There was a big snitty article in our local paper about this topic today, and it's something that's making national waves, up to and including a boycott of such stores by one group. I'm only going to say this once, so listen closely.

1. There are actual non-Christians out there. Many of them even live in the United States! (Gasp!)

2. There are people who celebrate holidays other than Christmas.

3. These other holidays also happen to fall during the month of December, or near to it.

4. These other holiday celebrating peoples generally do not have a sign on their foreheads that says "I am not a Christmas Celebrating Individual".

5. In order to wish a pleasant greeting to all persons celebrating a holiday during these winter months without reciting the entire litany of Christmas, Hanukkah, Festivus, Kwaanza, Solstice, Yak Shaving Day, and so forth, it's simplest to just say "Happy Holidays" or "Seasons Greetings".

6. Instead of being upset, simply take the greeting- Happy Holidays, for instance, and apply it to your particular holiday. There. Wasn't that simple?

Now, I hope that was easily understood. Nobody's trying to take Christmas away. You can still put your nativity scene on your lawn, wear your angel pins, and sing "Oh, Holy Night". In fact, I encourage you to, if that's how you feel your faith is best expressed. Writing snitty letters to the editor and generally being rude to your fellow human beings is probably not what Jesus had in mind for His birthday. Whatever happened to "Peace on Earth, good will toward Man"? (and wo-man, but hey).

There. This concludes the culturally sensitive portion of the blogging. I now bring you to the hate-filled ranting, already in progress.

I hate the mall and everyone in it. Especially Santa.

Yeah, you. You fat bastard.

See, I've had it in for Santa ever since I was six. See, despite what you read here in this blog, I'm a shy person. Always have been. I don't turn into a mouthy evil beast until I am behind a computer screen, or know someone very well. Well. When I was six, I lost one of my front teeth. Not both. Just one. Typical. And, of course, when I get my chance to sit on the fat dude's red furry lap, he thinks it will be "cute" to force me to sing "All I want for Christmas is my Two Front Teeth" (directly causing me to write a new song, years later, titled "All I want for Christmas is my Two Front Teeth, Buried in Santa's Jugular"). Did I mention this was in the middle of the mall? In front of approximately the entire town? Um. Yeah. So, thanks DuBois Mall Santa 1983, it's all your fault.

But I digress. I hate my local mall for one reason. Ambling.
Seriously. If you are window shopping, for the love of Pete, get your nose up to that window, and leave an aisle somewhere for those of us who need to powerwalk from Lane Bryant down to Suncoast, of I am coming through there throwing elbows, and kneecapping people who will not move. The trip would have been slightly more tolerable, had I been able to find what I was looking for. As it was, I ended up with a pink skirt (instead of black pants), which was only 11.00 (and that was a Christmas Miracle.) I still have to find a sparkly black top to go with it. I also ended up finding (and paying a hell of a lot more than they were worth) the gloves and scarf my mother wanted. However, I could have probably found that stuff, or something similar elsewhere, and saved the mental scarring.

Although, it could be fun to go there Christmas Eve, and do "Full Contact Mall Walking".

hee


On a June Cleaver note, I made "festive chocolate pretzels" which are really neither festive, nor very pretzely, but someone saw them in the paper and just had to have them, and Wilbur Bud Blossom Cookies. Wilbur Bud Blossoms are just like regular peanut blossoms, but infinitely better, because they use Wilbur Buds instead of Hershey Kisses. (Allow me to illuminate. Wilbur Buds are like Hershey kisses, but they are infinitely smoother, come in milk and dark varieties, and are made locally- so they're available in the bulk section of nearly every grocery store. It is physically impossible to eat Hershey Kisses after one eats Wilbur Buds. They're that good.) That was about the extent of my domesticity today. Yesterday, the Tree went up, and I wrapped my gifts. I just need to finish G. Monkey's (and Mr. G. Monkey's, and Monkeydog's) stockings, and I'll be officially ready.

Freakin' Amazing.

I leave you with this story, sure to warm the cockles of your frostbitten hearts (or something like that).

I can't remember if it was the same year or not, it probably was... Around Christmastime, we hauled out the gigantic hot-oil popcorn popper. You know the type, perhaps, pour oil into the bottom, dump in the popcorn, and put the big dome on top. The whole thing would get really hot, but when everything was done, you could turn it all over, and eat right out of the dome, if you were so inclined. Anyway... I was an inquisitive child, and watching the popcorn pop was right up there with catching the Muppet Show. So I was reeeeeeeeal close. Did I mention the dome gets hot too? Really, really hot? Flesh-Searingly hot?

Yeah. Dumb me gets too close, and my nose gets onto the un-be-lieve-a-bly hot popcorn popper dome. I wind up burning the tip of it, and having an attractive heart-shaped red scarry thing in all the Christmas pictures that year.

Did I mention my parents love to bring this up every time we make popcorn? Luckily, microwaves don't get that hot. Heh.