Fa-lah-lah-la-lah-la-lah-lah-lah

This week has gotten me totally reminiscent of Christmases past. (Is 'Christmases' the right usage? IDK. It is now.) As I get older, Christmas loses it's luster a little bit each year. I don't know if it all just seems so redundant or what. Usually what puts me in the spirit is remembering how things were when I was a kid. My parents (my mama) were the total balls-to-the-wall Christmas people. I'm talkin' bout decorations ev-er-y-where. Regular towels and bathroom accessories were switched out for Christmas themed towels and bathroom accessories. Dishes had snowmen on them. Windows had fake candles in them. Multiple Christmas trees in the house. REAL live wreaths were made for outside that even had REAL fruit stuck in them. A well-lit village sat on the hutch that was so big it had its own zip code. There wasn't a doorknob in my house you could touch that didn't jingle. Then I move out and it's like, "ughhhhhh a tree costs $200? Oh HECK no!"

 

I will report that my living room now is happily decorated with a tree, stockings, village people (as in Mayberry, not Los Angeles-like my mother's) , and coffee table knick-knacks. But the only fruit in this house, I assure you, is an expired can of peaches in the pantry.

 

While I was a ridiculously spoiled to the bone child--let me rephrase that--While I AM a ridiculously spoiled to the bone child, I've always found 'giving' more exhilarating than 'receiving'. I like to think long and hard about the gifts I'm giving and I like to be dramatic with the presentation of said gift. One year, the grandchildren decided to get granddaddy (an avid hunter) a talking deer-head to hang on the wall. Did I mention we could get tacky with our gifts? As the entire family opened gifts at Mammaw's on Christmas night, I couldn't sit down because I was so wound up with anticipation over the fake deer. GD goes last, so when he got to his last present, I rounded up the family and we headed to the garage--because really, what woman wants a deer head hanging in her living room? And that goes for all animals, living, stuffed, or singing. When GD walked into the garage, we were all holding our breath for his reaction and I was bursting at the seams to shout, "YOU CAN'T SHOOT A DEER IN REAL LIFE, SO WE GOT YOU THIS ONE!" It was classic.

 

A few years ago, Mike and my cousin-in-law were slightly tipsy on a beach trip. They performed a spine-tingling rendition of Elton John's "Tiny Dancer" while, unbeknownst to them, I recorded their entire musical debut on my phone. At Christmas during their time to open presents, I plugged my phone into the speakers and blasted their botched version as I presented them both tiny ballerina (aka, tiny dancers) Christmas tree ornaments in front of the entire family. Hey, go big, or go home I always say.

 

One of my favorite shows has always been Modern Family. Cam--the insanely flamboyant gay guy is my all-time favorite character. His character is so much like me it isn't funny. Especially when it comes to dramatizing and flaunting when I'm around certain groups of people. I can't help it. It's just in me. My students have a program this week and during practice, I have to remember to tone it down a notch because sometimes my Cam is showing. He's always a Nazi for having things done perfectly and 'showy' (especially if his hand is in something). Today our students were practicing on stage and in the middle of a student speaking, I cut her off, walk up to her and say through clinched teeth just for her to hear, "Sugar, you better get on that microphone like it's a Hershey bar and smile like President Obama is sitting on the back row". Then I turned and walked away and mentally cringed, because I had opened my mouth and let a 40-something gay man come out. I apologized and the child wasn't traumatized. If her cheeks are still hurting tonight from smiling all day, well then, so be it.

 

Cam is also a fan of "themes". He'd be so ashamed if he came in my house right now because even though one room is decked to the walls, it's sadly lacking in other departments. However! A small Christmas miracle has occurred and tomorrow is Tacky Christmas Sweater Day for teachers. It's also the night of my team's Christmas dinner party--at a restaurant. In public. Like my mother, I can totally get balls-to-the-wall into a theme and while Lynette and Cam would turn their noses up my house right now, they would totally cry out in joy when they see my outfit for tomorrow. It's the epitome of 'Christmas tacky' and I'm so glad to be able to make them proud. How I acquired Mammaw's sweaters and 1990's puff-painted sweatshirts without totally offending her is beyond me--but I'm so glad I did. I'm proud to sport the clothes I remember her wearing when I was a child because it totally boosted my spirits and put me right into the jolly holiday mind frame I should have been having all along.

 

So! If you're having a hard time getting into the swing of things this season, think back to your earlier Christmas memories because I'm sure it will put a smile on your face. And as always, be grateful for what you do have-not what you don't. Except for tiny snowmen and reindeer statues in your bathrooms. Because you should be grateful Frosty isn't there anymore to stare at you while on the toilet.

 

 

 

 

BFF

I've been on a Facebook ban here in the last few weeks (with the exception of stalking purposes as needed) and have become OBSESSED with Instagram. I've basically gone from one addiction to another and instead of reading everybody's every waking moment on FB, now I get to see them through pics. Plus, I limit who I follow and who follows me so nobody's feelings get hurt when I delete them, which I was doing daily on FB. ANYWAY! One of my favorite authors posted a screen shot of her blog that had over 1 million views. She was flipping out, as she should have. Then I logged into my blog to write and I have reached over 8,000 views!!!! Is 8,000 anywhere near the ballpark of 1 million? Heck no. I'm so far away from the ballpark, I'm sitting in a restaurant across the street taking a sipasomething watching the ballpark on TV. Yet, I about spit out my imaginary drink when I saw my numbers tonight because I'm tickled pink. Are 7,000 of those views from me when I check to make sure everything is written appropriately? Probably. Do I care? Not even in the slightest. Y'all are freakin' fantastic and I love that you are interested in me enough to read my nonsense. And I'm even talking to the ones who just accidentally clicked on this; hey, every click counts!

 

This post is dedicated to something that owns nearly half my heart. Mike has a chunk, my family has a chunk, Los Cocos' Pollo con Crema has a chunk, but a huge portion of that particular organ is designated to my child, my best friend, my confidant: my baby dog, Rudolph (Rudy) Giuliani Peebles. Tomorrow is his third birthday and he is deserving of an entire blog about him, but he'll just have to settle for an article tonight. Some might say I probably have an emotional attachment that probably needs to be psycho-analyzed. A therapist would probably conclude that since I'm (human) childless, I've got a furry friend to replace that longing. However, if you know me, you know that I've been in love with this K9 since his breeder turned the corner with him in her palm.

First night

 

I've always been a dog person and my first true doggy love relationship was with my mama's Yorkie, Sparky. We got Sparky when I was in 9th grade and he, unfortunately, saw me awkwardly make it through adolescence. When I painfully went through the worst (at the time) situation of my life, that poor dog would come into my room at night, curl up beside me on the bed and let me cry into his fur whenever I needed him to. I probably should've listened to the dog's advice in the first place when he attacked my dirty bastard of a cheating boyfriend every time he came to my house. If your dog don't like 'em, you need to ditch 'em. That's philosophy I learned at a young age and stand firmly beside it to this day, thanks to Sparky.

 

As for Rudy, he's seen me at my best and my worst. There's not many things he can't do that an actual child can.

 

He begs for food.

 

 

 

He's nosey.

He wears clothes.

 

 

He laughs at jokes.

He goes on vacation.



 

 

He sleeps.

 

 

He models for 330 of the 430 pictures on my phone's camera roll, apparently.

 

He tries to emulate his mommy when she exercises.

 

He watches TV.

He gets in your personal space.

 

 

If this dog could go with me to work, it would only make me the happiest person on the planet because leaving every morning for eight or more hours is the hardest thing I have to do, most days. I'm convinced that God thinks I may not be able to love an actual real child as much as I do Rudy, therefore we haven't been successful in that department. I've also prayed these actual words, "God, if I can't have children, please let Rudy live forever". It's quite sad, actually.  And by that I mean, I've made fun of crazy people before but I'm a certifiable crazy dog lady at age twenty-eight. If I had extra money, you all would have gotten Panda-themed invitations to his birthday party tomorrow night where you would've been asked to wear tuxedoes (which color-coordinate with the guest of honor). In a nutshell, be thankful I don't have extra money.

 

Dogs have traits that people look for in other people all the time. Loyalty, companionship, good listeners, lets you walk around naked without making gagging noises, etc. Since I'm counting my blessings lately for the things I have, Rudy will have to be number two on the list. I can't speak highly enough of him and I certainly hope I've brought as much happiness into his little doggy life as he's brought into my little human one.