Because I couldn't let the last post of the year

Be about Mel Gibson's BJ demands, I thought I'd show you what Beau was able to crank out in mere hours. I wish I had a tenth of his talent.

 

 

He does portraits (pet and human) too. At reasonable prices. Hit me up in the comments if you're interested.

I hope your holidays are wonderful, and I'll be back in '11, full of stories about Christmas dinner with Grandma (always a treat), New Year's Eve, and the inevitable torture at the gym that will follow my insane gluttony this season (I had two cinnamon rolls for dinner last night--but they were small, so they only count as one, right?).

Merry Merry, Happy Happy, and All Good Things to You!

But FIRST...

I'll say right here that Mel Gibson's racist, misogynist, threatening remarks are NOT funny in context. He's got a biiiiig problem. He needs therapy. He needs rehab. Hell, he needs a muzzle and an exorcism.

But there's one theme that continues through those rants that becomes remarkably funny: his perpetual obsession with being blown. This obsession culminates in two unforgettable quotes (and many more variations on this theme):

1. But FIRST... you will blow me!
2. But I deserve to be blown first!

About a month ago, Beau and I decided to watch RANSOM. Crazy Gibson aside, it's a pretty good movie.

And Beau and I came up with a way to make it even better.

We discovered that you can insert But FIRST... you will blow me! after pretty much any of Mel's lines in the movie. And, for some reason, this game does not get old. You can do it for two hours and it's still funny.

GIVE ME BACK MY SON! BUT FIRST... YOU WILL BLOW ME!

I had a dream

In the dream, I was in crazy-good shape thanks to my recent gym and pedometer efforts.

Then I woke up.

Sigh. 

Wookies need not apply

I glanced through the treatments available at a local spa and chuckled when I got to the cost breakouts for waxing procedures:

• Brows - $15
• Underarm - $25
• Brazilian Bikini $60 and up
• French - $50
• Bikini $30
• Full Leg $90
• Half Leg $45
• Men's Back   $50 and up
• Men's Chest   $50 and up

*Special circumstances may incur extra charges.

As you might have guessed, it's that last bit that piqued my curiosity. 

What constitutes a special circumstance? And can they tell just by looking at you when you walk in the door? How mortifying it would be to disrobe and hear Oh my God. I'm gonna have to charge you extra for this!

Or... is a special circumstance more of a bio-hazard situation? 

My mind reels!

 

Teen *Effing* Mom

I'll admit I've never watched this MTV "staple." First of all, it just sounds depressing. Who wants to watch teen parents saddled with responsibilities for which they're not ready?

Second of all, why is MTV glorifying teenage pregnancy? The show has been a ratings supernova for the channel, so I'm sure their reps have a big line of bullshit ready, saying that the show is a cautionary tale.

And it should be.

Except now I hear that little teenage famewhores everywhere are getting knocked up on purpose in an effort to get on the show.

Great.

So if impressionable youngsters are so eager to emulate what they see on MTV, I've got some programming ideas/titles for the channel:

• I'm a High School Graduate!
• I Use Birth Control!
• I Keep My Knees Together!
• I'm Going to College!
• I'm Nice to My Parents!
• My 16th Birthday Party Cost Less Than the GNP of Sweden!

Grrrrr.

Smilin' like the cat who ate the canary

Beau will probably be irritated that I'm posting this, but he can get his own blog and post stupid things  about me if it really upsets him (she typed, knowing full well that he won't).

Last Christmas, I paid the adoption fees for a kitten for Beau (he already had a cat, but that one doesn't like me, so I decided to get him one that would).

So now, when I'm out and about, he sends me pictures of what she's doing. They always make me laugh.

 

 

 

Hazy watches TV with her stuffed pet squirrel.

Hazy looks for a good deal on a used car in the Post.

... in a tree!

It's not Christmas until you've heard this!!

I'm about to betray my own kind

But if you ever hear I was an English major in college... in casual conversation, you should probably either walk away or tune out the rest of the chat as best you can. Ex English majors who did not get teaching, reading, or writing jobs (and even some who did) can be absolutely insufferable.

Not only will they TELL you they were English majors, they'll bend over backwards to PROVE it to you (whether you care or not). And they will likely do it in the most longwinded and boring manner possible.

I'll let you in on another secret, we're also very likely to go into the classics section in the bookstore so that we can stand there, smile to ourselves, and think to I read that one and that one and that one! We can do it for hours, so tread lightly in that section. :)

I think it's kind of an ego thing. We don't major in English to get the million-dollar jobs. We do it because we like to read. And, in lieu of the fat wallet, I guess we're driven to show off our fat brains.

So beware of English majors at cocktail parties. Don't say I didn't warn you!

Holiday party update

The office holiday party was on Friday night.

It was lots of fun. And, because I was sober that night (I didn't want to leave my car there overnight), I got quite a show.

But I'm not writing to dish about that.

I'm writing to express how proud I am that nobody wore the Urban Outfitters fancy-underpants ensemble to the party!

There was one ice-skater dress (I honestly don't even think that those two worked for the company), but I'll let it go in the spirit of gratefulness. :)

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!