Virgil and Marty and Blessed be The Fruit of the Loom

Here we are at the edge of the precipice; the day before the great culmination of a month’s worth of baking, shopping and decorating. It’ll be over quicker than a groom on his wedding night. But that doesn’t make it any less fun.

This morning I opened the last of the advent boxes on the calendar, and inside was a little gingerbread man with Bruce Campbell’s face pasted on the head. It was pretty cool. Norton assured me I could eat it because he’d printed it with edible paper or something along those lines – but I’ve seen the stuff that he eats, and I’m also pretty sure in elementary school he was the kid who ate paste.

I won’t take up much space today because a) I don’t feel like spending all my time on the computer today and b) it’s Christmas Eve.

When I was a kid I loved Christmas Eve, it was the anticipation more than anything. Although we didn’t have the best presents under the tree there was always something there from Santa. It may not have been what we’d asked for (almost always not) but it was usually something we could use. Invariably it was underwear or a tooth brush, and one year our stockings were full of mandarin oranges - and nothing else.

Whenever I hear certain Carols I think about my little brother Curt who with the ears of a kid heard things a little differently. He was always perplexed by Verge. There was Mary, who was the mother of Jesus, and Joseph, the wise men and the shepherds and all the animals but who was Verge? Because they always talk about the Verge and Mary but you never get to find out about him.

Anyways, the way we used to think of Christmas as kids shouldn’t be too far away from how we act as adults. So here’s hoping there’s a least one pair on gonch under the tree this year.

Merry Christmas to all, and hope they don’t fit too tight.

Bittersweet Emily Jane and Christmas Candy Caning

I have a lot of mixed feelings as Christmas approaches. I like Christmas, but some days all I seem to conjure up is a rather warped reflection of memories superimposed over a thin layer of hope that smells a little bit like a fresh litter box.

Today is the 17th and should be a happy day because it's a Friday, and marks the start of the last weekend before Christmas really hits in all its glory. Back in 1973 though it was a Monday and I was ten years old.  Mom and Dad had been fighting the night before (which wasn't exactly news, as they didn't hide it from us kids that's for sure) and that morning Dad left for good ... although at the time I was told he was going on a business trip. He gave Curtis a kiss and them he mussed my hair, squatted down on his haunches and whispered in my ear that I was the man of the house now and to look after baby Curt.

He gave my hair a last ruffle then he got in his old truck and drove off.  Three guesses as to what kind of truck it was.

Mom who was always tightly wound and a cracker short for a cheese plate was never the same.  I'm not sure where this is going, or why I'm bringing this up.  This is supposed to be cathartic or something, who knows maybe it is.

Anyway that day I went to school, and came home to was an empty house.  No big deal, I had a key and it was after all the 70s.  We invented the term latchkey kid. I remember watching TV, although I can't remember what I watched.  Chances are it was Gunsmoke or H.R. Pufnstuf.  We didn't have a lot of choice, and as far as Pufnstuf goes but me a break, I also watched The Banana Splits.

Anyways the time dragged on and I started getting hungry, and still no Mom.  After a while I figured I'd make myself a hot dog.  Mom always had a package of wieners in the fridge.  We were allowed to eat them raw if we wanted.  After all it was the 70s.  However, I wanted a boiled hot dog, so I put on some water.  After a few minutes it was boiling, and as I went to take the lid off, I burned my fingers on the steam, and when I pulled my hand back I caught the handle of the pot that was sticking out over the edge of the stove.

You can kind of figure out what happened next.  In hindsight I was pretty lucky.  I made more of a mess than anything, but I scared myself silly.  Of course timing being everything, this was the moment Mom decided to walk through the door.  There I was standing in the kitchen bawling my eyes out with water all over the floor, some on me, a wiener in one hand and pot lid in the other.

There's one thing Mom's the world over have in common. They cover ground in a hurry when they want to.  Little Curtis was standing there, eyes like two saucers and he was holding on to an over sized candy cane.  Mom rushed over and I put my arms out in the universal "pick me up and cuddle me" gesture.  What she did was grab me, bend me over and spank me - with what would have been my candy cane.

Of course later she was sorry, but at that moment I was as scared as I'd ever been.  The grown up in me kind of understands why she snapped after years of trying to hold things together and provide for us (in her own way), but the ten year old in me has never forgotten or forgiven her. 

So today for dinner, as it's been every December 17 since I moved out on my own, I had hot dogs for dinner.  It mark's the the day I became a man.

Pushing Buttons and Ringing Bells

I decided today was a good day to do some shopping. It's not like I have a lot of presents to buy. There's Margaret, my Mom and then I buy a fistful of scratch and win tickets for those "Oh shit I need a gift" moments.

Normally I shop alone. Yea with nobody else. And when I shop alone, I prefer to be by myself (with apologies to George Thorogood). So what happens? Norton wants to tag along. Rather than let him bug me, I just let it slide. I drove to the mall in relative silence other than the radio, and once there I just did my purpose driven walk thing. First off I went to the sexy store, I have no idea what it's called for real. It's just the sexy store. Margaret likes pajamas and I like her in pajamas - which is funny because when she's in them she doesn't actually get to wear them for long ... cough, anyway - moving on. There was a nice cozy pair on the womannequin that I figured would fit her, so I bought them.

Next it was off to the lottery kiosk to pick up a half dozen tickets. Then it was off to find Mom her gift and since 1991 I've been getting her the same thing: A fruitcake. Who says I'm not thoughtful? Its a gift that says you're a nut loaf, and its soaked in alcohol. They have a lot in common. I have no idea if they let her have it in prison - but I've never had one returned. Apparently Mom is up for parole for her last brush with the law in a few months. We'll see. I usually get a call asking for money just before she gets out.

Anyways, I'd done what I'd set out to do, but Norton was looking decidedly cagey. I was heading back to the van when Norton stopped. I kept walking, but after a few steps my conscience, that most evil of internal devices, made me stop. I shit you not, there was a tear in his eye.

Shit.

"What's the matter boy?" Calling him boy usually gets his goat something serious, but all I got was a lot of nothing. I thought I saw a lip quiver, but it was hard to tell in that light.

"I don't know what to get for Fiona." His girlfriend, and if I am to be honest a nice kid.

"How about a fruit cake?" again no response. I didn't have time for this, I wanted to go home and watch some TV. Besides, I had to fish the tinsel out of the litter box - it was starting to look like a French disco. So I opted to buy some time. "Has she dropped any hints? You know pointed stuff out, mentioned anything?" Of course she had. Come to think of it Margaret had been dropping a lot of hints too. But at the moment dang me if I could remember any of them. I looked at the bag with the PJ's. I was pretty sure this was on her list.

Norton was in think mode which meant I could steer him. Which I did to the nearest exit. As we walked out the door we passed one of those bell ringing Santas. He gave us a jolly "Ho ho ho" and rang his bell in my ear. I threw in the change from my pocket and kept walking.

Now Norton had me second guessing myself, but not for long. When I got home I wrapped up the PJ's feeling confident I was going to be the hero of Christmas. I also got Mom's gift in the mail.

All in all I was feeling quite pleased with myself.

But I couldn't quite shake the feeling there was something awry in the land of Chapman.

O Tater Tots and a Parked Tree in the Front Room

Sunday afternoon I went to look for a tree.  I'd gotten the Fargo back during the week and despite the damage to my wallet I have to admit that the old girl was running better than it had in ages.  The weird clunk from second to third was gone, although going up hill the motor laboured and wheezed - you could almost hear it saying, "I think I can, I think I can."

Margaret and I went to one of those "You Cut" places that seems to charge by the inch.  Still, Christmas only comes around once a year and to be honest I've never really outgrown the holiday.  I love to decorate for Christmas, although I draw the line at tinsel.  Cats and tinsel are a very bad combination. I have a terrible memory from my childhood of our Siamese cross running around the house with several inches of tinsel trailing out its backside. What was worse was when Curtis dared me to pull it out.  Which I did and it was quite possibly the longest piece of tinsel in history - I should have taken a picture and sent it to the Guinness people.  Have I mentioned I have three cats?

I digress.

So we cut down a nice seven footer, and tossed it in the back of the truck and I put it on the porch to dry.  Margaret stayed over for a while, and convinced me that "Eat Pray Love" would be fun to watch on a Sunday evening. To quote the inimical Forrest Gump, "that's all I got to say about that."

Anyways I got home this evening from running a couple of odd jobs to find Norton and Margaret in the living room stringing up lights on my tree.  Margaret came over and gave me a hug and a kiss, and Norton was grinning. "Hey John, look it's a Christmas tree!"

Last year Norton and Margaret decorated the tree while I was out at a job, and I returned home to find the two of them grinning like lawn gnomes at a garage sale. I threw a major hissy fit and let them know in no uncertain terms that it was MY HOUSE DAGNABBIT (I actually said dagnabbit, I don't know where it came from, but out it came) and tree decorating in my house was to be done by me when I said so.  I even remember stomping my foot once or twice.

Here we were a year later and thing one and thing two were decorating the tree - without me. Margaret sensing I was about to throw another wobbly quickly pointed out they were not decorating at all.  They were merely staging the tree and no actual decorating could occur until the lights were on anyway. Norton nodded like a bobble head.  I looked and sure enough the boxes marked "tree decorations" were on the floor. Unopened.

"Well let's get decorating." I pulled over a box and started taking out ornaments. Most of what I have has come to me through various yard sales and hand-me-downs. I prefer to think of the stuff as vintage.  I have stuff that's never been opened, and through the years I don't think the tree has ever looked the same twice.

We were about fifteen minutes in when Norton's tummy gave a growl that made once of the Clarence's jump a little. "John, what's for dinner?"

"Gee, I don't know Norton.  You've been home all day, what are you making?" Margaret made a face at me.  It had been a long day, and I wasn't about to go fix a big dinner. "How about breakfast?"

"Oh yummy, breakfast for dinner." Norton actually clapped his hands. 

Margaret didn't seem to be offering to cook, so I took her silence as a yes.  The tree was looking pretty decent and was mostly done by the look of things.  Although how much of this was due to me and Norton and how much was Margaret re-decorating when she thought we weren't looking I'm not sure. She'd probably say "A lot." Me, I'm not so sure. She's a typical tree Nazi and won't rest until she's conquered the tree all by herself.

From the kitchen I called out to Margaret and Norton, "Pancakes, bacon and eggs okay?"

Norton called back, "No hash browns?"

I looked in the freezer and found a bag of tater tots. "I got taters."  I could hear clapping again. I always get the urge to throw a fish at him, but it would be pointless.  I shuffled around the kitchen getting things going, and after about half an hour I wandered back into the living room to see what was going on.

"John, look what we found!  Isn't it awesome.  This is totally cool.  And the cats love it!"  The tree was delicately decorated with discretely placed strands of tinsel.  No clumps, none of the haphazard blobs that was the calling card of my childhood efforts. This was almost elegant in its execution - it was definitely Margaret's work. Be that as it may, it was still tinsel.

Where did they find tinsel? I didn't even know I had any - which just goes to show I really don't have any idea what's in those boxes. Norton was dangling a piece in front of Clarence who was on his back and trying to catch it with his front paws.

I couldn't watch.

This will end badly.  I just know it.  There's a lot of days between now and Epiphany when the tree comes down.

At least I was able to put the star on the tree, despite Norton trying to call dibs.  After all, my house - my tree. Tinsel and all.

Cabana Cowboys and Idiots

Today started out with so well. December 2nd yielded another gummy zombie, which I had with my oatmeal. Norton didn't look pleased. Apparently the way the advent calendar works is we alternate days. I just figured it was mine and all mine (insert maniacal laughter here). He just sat there pouting, and wouldn't touch his breakfast. "Its too hot." he said grumpily. Which I thought was a load of shit because mine was just right.

I didn't have much on the go today so I decided it would be good to go out and perhaps do a little Christmas shopping and wander through the shops. It's not like I really like shopping, but I do enjoy people watching and besides it would get me out of the house.

Norton's list was still hanging from the fridge, so I took it down on my way out of the house. I figured I'd just deliver it. This was a mistake on two counts. First I touched the list, which I assume gave Norton the idea that I was taking said list with me shopping so I could fill his stocking with love and happiness on Christmas morning. Second Norton took this as an invitation to come along with me, because no sooner had I plucked the list when he shouted "Shotgun!"

Norton in many ways is what an inbreed golden retriever would be like if it was a human. As we drove into town I was expecting him to roll down the window and stick his head out. I'm glad he didn't because it was pretty cold outside. When I'm driving I'm not a great conversationalist. It's not that I'm concentrating or anything it's just that I'm not a great conversationalist. Norton on the other hand is a constant jibber jabberer.

For whatever reason he was on a social justice kick today. "John, did you know that the Nobel Peace prize is going to Loo Zaboo this year? I mean all I'm saying is give peace a chance."

I couldn't help it, I rolled my eyes. Which launched Norton into fresh stream of bumper sticker observations about the world and odd lyrical misquotes from old Bob Dylan songs - I have to assume was unintentional because I'm pretty sure he has no idea who Bob Dylan is.

He was driving me crazy. I needed a drink, but it was too early for a drink drink so I opted for coffee. "Norton, want to grab a coffee?" I didn't really expect an answer because I was looking for a place to park. They says there's a Starbucks on every corner, and that's not too far from the truth. I'm not the biggest fan of their coffee but it'll do in a pinch. We walked in, Norton was still mumbling away and I was doing my best to ignore him. After waiting in line a few minutes a happy smiling face asked "What can I start for you today?"

"I'll have a coffee please. Black."

"Will that be dark, or mild? Room for cream?"

I'd learned the hard way after suffering the explosive diuretic effects of their dark roast the last time I'd had their coffee that this was actually a serious question. "Mild please, and I'll take it black thank you."

Norton on the other hand knew exactly what he wanted "I'll have a vente Cabana Boy..." I think that's what he said, it was followed by more gibberish I didn't quite understand, but to the trained ear of a Starbucks barista it was plain English.

So we sat at a little round table where Norton launched right into a series of bold statements that left me somewhat dumbstruck. It reminded me a little of the conversations first year philosophy students have about whether they really exist or not. He was so earnest that I bit my tongue and tried not to resort to my usual response which was "Norton, you're an idiot." What I said was "Norton, the problems of the world today can be summed up in one word: Cows. Cows are the root of all the world's problems."

He was about to say something but I cut him off. "Norton, tell you what. You stop talking I'll look at your list, and I'll get you something. Okay."

Norton grinned like an idiot and did that zipping the lips thing and pretended to throw away the key. It was pretty convincing. He made a point of unzipping to drink his "coffee" and rezip after he was done.

The rest of the day passed in relative silence.

It's Beginning to Feel a lot Like I Should Be Doing Something

December 1st marks the descent into the hornidays. Or as Margaret calls them, "The Twelve Lays of Christmas." Oh wait, I'm getting ahead of myself ... and am about to back myself into a very dark place with only one exit. Just to make it more uncomfortable the way out looks like a giant raisin that can dilate. This type of observation, when I make them at kitchen table, is usually followed by Norton covering his eyes with his hands and say, "Oh John puts bad pictures in Norton's head."

Dang I'm still in the dark place ...

Time for an obloggitory mulligan.

December 1st marks the descent in the holidays (so far so good). Now, I like Christmas - it's a wonderful time, and things usually slow down enough for me that I can take time to enjoy myself and actually decompress while others get themselves wound up into walking stress balls. Norton on the other hand approaches Christmas with the enthusiasm of a nine year old. The little bugger has been living with me a couple years now and after the initial surprise he sprung on me when December rolled around, I've been nervous about going to be November 30th.

I woke up this morning to bells. Little dingle bells ... twelve of them, attached to three very unhappy looking cats. Norton had made tiny tinfoil boots for the cats and tied a small bell to each foot. The cats were spastically lurching across the floor, the bells making a noise that sounded oddly like “Bang on a Can” by Steve Reich.

Christmas music was playing somewhere in the house. I got dressed and went to the kitchen to make myself some breakfast and feed the cats who were tangling themselves in my feet. I went to open the fridge where I noticed something new hanging from the general clutter of notes, cartoons and unpaid bills. It was a note from Norton. Actually that’s not true – it was a Christmas list. I’d have to remember to drop this in Mrs. McCleary’s (I still can’t think of her as Barbara) mailbox.

When I sat down to eat Norton came in grinning like an idiot. He was holding something behind his back. After a minute or so of just standing there waiting for me to bite he handed me a large flat wrapped gift. “Happy December first. Open it!”

I did.

It was an advent calendar. Okay this is where I have to admit this was no ordinary advent calendar. It was obviously home made, but it is something that I am sure will come out every year. It was an Army of Darkness Advent Calendar.

“Well, open the first window already!”

I did and inside was a twisted up black gummy bear.

“It’s one of the zombie army dudes. Pretty cool huh?” I had to admit it was pretty cool and I was looking forward to opening the big window on December 24th.

As much as Norton irritates the shit out of me, he’s slowly grown on me. He’s more the annoying little brother than the kid you’d beat up for lunch money and over the next couple of weeks his infectious love of the holidays would rub off on me, and I hate to admit it, but he’ll make things interesting around the house if not fun.

The cats on the other hand won’t go near him …