Do you think I have some kind of issue that I am taking time out from Christmas to blog? I think I have blogged every Christmas since I started this rather all-absorbing hobby, and for that? I am weird.
My mother and stepfather got here yesterday, and here is the part where everyone's gonna say, "Oh, your mom is so cute!" Yes. I KNOW my mother is cute, okay? And that I look nothing like her and that I am a dog. I realize that part. Did I ever tell you about my wedding day, when everyone stampeded to me to tell me, "Your mother looks beautiful." WHOSE DAY IS IT?
Anyway, I like how it looks like she is wearing a wreath on her head. Did you see my pink wreath?
June. Being a really-super-gay gay man at Christmas since, you know, birth. June. The Elton John of Christmas.
As has been the prevailing theme this year, my mother and stepfather immediately said, "Open one of your presents right away," so I did. It was a DVD player! As you may or may not know, I have not had one all year, and have lived like a cave woman, with my club and my loincloth and my pointy Wilma phone.
Mostly they had me open it so my beleaguered stepfather could put it together, and why are men always stuck with tasks such as this? And then after we all watched Its a Wonderful Life, for a new and different experience. We all said the lines before they got there, such as, "Say, brainless" and "George, why must you torture the children" and one wonders why we watch it when we could mime it in its entirety.
Also, and I hope you are holding on to your hat, but I commenced to cooking.
I KNOW!
Note my ease and naturalness in with kitchen implements. I made macaroni and cheese, and as I said in the comments, if any normal person made that for Christmas Eve dinner, people would say, "Oh, is she dying of something? That poor thing. She cobbled together what she could." But when it's ME, my family was all. WOW! Get the CAMERA! There's FOOD in the kitchen and stuff!
I know, right? Who is a chef? Low expectations, people. You gotta underachieve and then everyone appreciates you when you don't.
Nothing says yuletide like pink plates.
After dinner, we went to my neighbor Peg's church because going to TinyTown just seemed like too far to drive after my mother and stepfather had driven 558549399 miles and all. Peg is a member of the choir and I know a lot of her fellow Preses--when she has parties, her church friends drink 7&7s, which they call a "Pres," as apparently it's the Presbyterian drink of choice.
It was a really fancy church, and the pastor had on Burberry pants, I am not making that up. Eventually they handed out candles and dimmed the lights, and as I do every year, I said, "I'm having an aneurysm." Because what's more hilarious than that?
Anyway, my mother turned to me and with the wisdom of Solomon said, "We're going to sing Silent Night now."
Really? Do you think?
I do not have kids. In case you hadn't noticed that. So maybe I am wrong about this theory. But I think if you spend a few years teaching someone how to wipe their arse and to, you know, not breathe under water and not put their tongues in sockets, it's hard to turn that off.
"I was thinking we'd all break into Beer Barrel Polka," I said, loving myself for that as much as I do my annual aneurysm joke.
At the end of church, they gave us all angel ornaments.
Isn't that the most beautiful sentiment?
Anyway, today we, you know, opened our gifts, as one is wont to do on Christmas morning. And if you read this blog and sent me a gift, could you email me your address? I got so many lovely things, and some of you said, "Open it right away" and some didn't, and I am just telling you I need everyone's address to write thank-you notes and I don't wanna leave anyone out. So could you just do me that large favor, please? Thank you. Otherwise I will feel guilty for the rest of time.
What would have been lovely is being able to put my gifts under the tree all this time, then anticipate what they could be, like, you know, normal people do. People who don't have Edsels.
However, I am a person who has an Edsel, so everything had to be traditionally piled on the piano and corner cabinet. Just like in the days of yore.
Oh, and this is apropos of nothing, but my mother brought a chair that belonged to my grandmother. When Grammy owned it, it was kind of a burgundy naugahyde, and if my friend Iain is reading, he may recall making out with Beth on it circa 1980.
Santa came to the dogs' stockings, and I wonder if this picture could be more violently all-Christmas-all-the-time. I took this about three hours ago and Talu is at my feet now, STILL CHEWING, and she managed to steal poor Edsel's bone and has that under her foot, too. Because she is full of the Christmas spirit.
Santa also came to my stocking, via me getting something for me and putting it in there. Oh! Was I surprised. As are all of you, I'm certain. Wait, it's pink? It's vintage-y? It has a cat on it? And girly flowers? Who would have KNOWN?
I also got myself this, because I adore me and I adored this cup. Both items I got at my friend Kit's store (Design Archives, because the three Greensboro readers who read this are going to STAMPEDE there and make her a millionaire, thanks to me and my plugging).
Other people other than beloved me got me gifts. Seriously. I am so easy to buy for. Is it pink? Does it sparkle? DONE! The bracelet is from Aunt Mary. The rings are from my stepsister.
And remember in the fall, when I so blatantly guilted my mother into giving me a mud-trapping rug? Got it. Note the destroyed candy cane already mussing it. No idea where Talu is and why she is not viciously guarding it. She is probably in the other room castrating Edsel over the other bone.
Okay, I must go shower now and continue with Christmas. I hope yours is going swimmingly, unless you do not celebrate Christmas, in which case I hope your Sunday is easy like Sunday morning.
XO,
June
