My Christmas gift to Dad

My grandparents are puritanical teetotalers.

And they think everyone else should be too. 

Wine with Thanksgiving dinner? No thank you. I'm thankful for the fact that I don't NEED alcohol to enjoy a nice meal.

Wine on Christmas Eve? Blasphemy!  

A little champagne on New Year's Eve? Certainly not! 

You get the picture.
 
My dad and I, on the other hand, like to tip a glass every now and then. Grown-ass adults are allowed to do that, you know. 

I made the mistake of drinking a beer in front of Grandma and Grandpa once and they confronted Mom and Dad about my "problem." During this discussion, they let my dad know how disappointed they were that he taught me how to drink. (It couldn't have been any one of the thousands of kids I went to college with. Noooooo!)

So that's been the running joke over the years whenever Dad and I have a beer together. Here's to the day you taught me how to drink, Dad!

This year, as I was writing a Christmas card to my folks (I found one with a candy-cane martini on the front), I wrote the following inside:


Merry Christmas! Boy do I have a Christmas gift for you, Dad. I unearthed an old memory this year. On Grandma's and Grandpa's 40th anniversary, you served them pink champagne. Grandma told me that it "tasted like soda pop" and she might have even given me a sip. 

In other words...
GRANDMA TAUGHT ME HOW TO DRINK!!!

Methinks the holidays will be joyous!

How many?

Last night on my way home, there was an older fella in a super-expensive Mercedes who was all over the road. Dude, just because you own an expensive car doesn't mean you own the road. Anyway, he ended up behind me and he was one tailgatin' mo-fo.

I didn't hit the brakes... I just let off of the gas a bit, which really pissed him off.

When another lane opened up, he was quick to whip around me, giving me a dirty look as he did so.

And when I looked at him, all I could think was What's wrong with the side of your head?

When he got ahead of me, all was answered.

He had vanity plates that--I shit you not--said 1 EAR.

The horror!! The horror!!

So I went to the gym again.

And while I was on the track playing the butt-comparison game in my head (my butt's better than that one, that one's much better than mine, etc.--what else are you going to do on the track?), I noticed women starting to congregate in the aerobics area. One was there with her daughter. She was in her early 40s and she had on a Twilight sweatshirt that said Bite Me, Edward. Please. I wanted to smack her. I'm betting her daughter did too.

But the best part came after the class started. They warmed up to a classic piece of music. It was a mash-up, but (and may the good Lord strike me dead if I'm lying to you) one of the songs was the theme music from Halloween!

I heard on NPR

(Side note: isn't it annoying when people announce that they heard something on NPR? You know they're just bragging about the fact that they listen to NPR. But I digress.)

Anyway, I heard on NPR that Mark Twain smoked 20 to 30 cigars a day. I don't even know how that's possible when you factor in eating and sleeping, but he did (is NPR gonna lie about Mark Twain? I don't think so).

The great writers always seem to have unhealthy vices. Look at F. Scott Fitzgerald. He drank 20 to 30 glasses of scotch each day. (Ok, maybe not that much, but I'm probably close, considering the fact that he managed to drink himself to death by the age of 44 [before he finished The Last Tycoon, the beginning of which leads me to believe it could have surpassed even Gatsby]. But, again, I digress.)

I began to wonder what kind of unhealthy vices I could cultivate to enhance my writing skills (that's how it works, right?). I tallied up my unhealthier activities and came up with the joy I get from eating shredded cheese out of the pouch in front of the open fridge and the effortlessness with which I can sleep for 12 hours at a time.

That probably won't turn me into a Twain or a Fitzgerald, but it might make me a better blogger. Plus, I'll need something to do indoors when my cheese-eating, sedentary lifestyle makes it so that I can't make it out of the house without the jaws of life and a flatbed truck.

Never let it be said that I didn't suffer for my art. :)

Haiku of the day

To the Gap perfume
I unwittingly tried on:
O. M. G., you reek!

Don't forget...

I have Beau's permission to repeat this story (I think).

We all have a friend or two who has lived and aged... a little harder than the rest of us.

Last weekend, Beau stopped by an old friend's house for a visit. After the visit, on his way out, Beau saw a sign taped to the inside of the front door. It was a drawing of a smiley face with the message:

Don't Forget Your Teeth!

Beau had to ask about it (I'd like to meet the person who could walk by that sign without asking).

The friend's wife piped up and said "Oh, that's mine. My front two teeth are false. One day, I went to the store and forgot my teeth and my bra and I didn't brush my hair. And I ran into my boss! So now I have that sign to remind me not to forget my teeth."

Now, I've walked out the door and forgotten my keys or mascara or (very rarely, but I'll admit to it) deodorant. But TEETH? How could you forget your teeth? How could you forget your bra? What must her boss have thought? Yikes.

But, nonetheless, it's a good life lesson. Next time you're on your way out of the house, don't forget your teeth.

Your "reward"

On Sunday, I managed to drag it off of the couch and make it down to the gym (pauses, flushes with pride, pats self on back, resumes typing).

There's a little running track upstairs that overlooks the pool and circles around a little aerobics area.

While I was on the track (I would say that I was running, but we both know that would be a lie. I was speed walking; running's bad for the joints anyway, right?), there was a class going on. It looked medieval. There were step stools; weights; some sort of poles; reeeeeeally bad music; and--worst of all--a peppy, perky, skinny little sadist leading the bunch.

With every lap, I saw a new method of torture. Flushed faces. Looks of desperation. The smell of fear (or maybe that's just the sweat that they kept having to mop up from the floor).

Toward the end of my 40-minute trot, I heard one of the girls in the back of the class screech Ouch! This sucks! I wanted to hug her (but she was all sweaty. And she was a stranger).

And then the perky sadist said THIS: Of course, you're going to feel a little pain. But that's your reward!

WHUCK?

Pain is a byproduct of exercise, not the reward. WTF is wrong with her?

Pain is a reward. Humph! Screw that. My reward was the heaping bowlful of mac 'n cheese I wolfed down when I got home.

Spotted!

This gentleman, sporting flowing mullet, varicose veins, gloves, and shorts in December in Denver at Target.

And you thought this only happened at Walmart.

Of course, it's pathetic

But I'm wondering HOW pathetic it is that:

• I'm not that excited about the gym membership
• The ideas of being healthier and having a cuter butt are nice... 

BUT:

• The thought buying new sweatpants is what makes me happiest about the whole arrangement

Need a gift for someone special?

Fellas, buy the women in your life a Pink Stinger. It's a tampon-shaped taser. I shit you not.

It shoots out cottony tampon-like tasers that deliver 50,000 volts from 7 to 10 feet away (again, I shit you not). Just be sure your lady doesn't mistake one for the other. Yikes.

Ladies, I haven't forgotten you. If you're just plain stumped about what to get for the gentleman in your life, eschew the cashmere socks and electric razors. Just buy him a Lexus!

I loathe these commercials.