My Personal War on Christmas. (It's a civil war)

Mark's beautifully decorated, yet cluttered, fireplace mantle.

There are things I like about Christmas. I like the lights, the decorated trees, the parties, some of the music, the liquor, seeing the half of my family that will show up on Christmas day. It could be such a great holiday if it wasn't for all the things I hate about it. Like the commercials that now start in September. Chicagoans aren't ready to give up on summer until mid-November, but there they are in September with Santa and gently falling snow, trying to sell you shit. I have learned to hate much of the music. Most of the holiday music that is played on the radio is bad. There is probably only five or six Christmas songs that I actually look forward to hearing. The rest suck, especially after hearing them ten thousand times. If I hear those fucking chipmunks one more time, I'm going to put my foot through the radio. And then there are the gifts. I really do not need a gift. Unless that gift involves alcohol, or food, or both, I would rather not get a gift. It will probably just sit around the house until I can figure out who to re-gift it to. Mark loves that part of Christmas. He loves the gifting part. Each and every Christmas that we have been together, he has instructed me as to exactly what gift I was to buy him for Christmas. Most of those gifts now sit unused in closets. And god help me, we now have a basement. Room for even more un-needed crap. I look around this house and I am amazed at how fast Mark has cluttered it up. So that is two reasons I don't like gift giving. It costs me money that blows the monthly budget, and it contributes to the clutter in this house.

So Merry Christmas, and Happy Holidays, but not Kwanzaa. I'm not going to celebrate Kwanzaa. I don't need another goddamned holiday intruding on the birthday that I don't celebrate on December 27th. Unless you are going to bring me alcohol, or food, or both.

I am a Horrible, Horrible Person.

I've noticed that in Chicago nobody respects the handicapped parking spots. Every place I go there are cars without handicapped tags parked in those spots. Friday afternoon I'd had enough of that shit. In our car is a man who has severe breathing problems and a legal handicapped tag. So as we pulled up to the supermarket there was one spot left in front of the store. That was when another car zipped into it, leaving us to go hunt for a parking space elsewhere in the parking lot. As we trudged past the car that took the handicapped spot, I noticed that it didn't have a tag to park there. My big mouth opened up before I even had a chance to think.

"I don't see any handicapped tag on your car."

I said it loud enough for the driver to hear me, but it was the female passenger getting out of the car that responded.

"He's just dropping me off."

"So do you see a sign that says, Passenger Drop-off Area, anywhere? Are you handicapped?"

"He's just dropping me off. We aren't staying."

"Because of you that man with COPD had to walk all the way across the parking lot."

"Oh don't be an asshole...  "

That did it, I lost my temper. Something snapped in my brain and I went for the nuclear option.

"Cunt."
Which she countered with....

"Asshole."

"C*nt."

"Asshole."

"C*nt."

"Asshole."

"C*nt."

"Asshole"

"C*nt"

She looked at me with hate in her eyes and hurled one last insult towards me.

"You're a pig!"

And that was the end of it. I am not proud of that moment. I really felt bad for losing my temper and using such a filthy word. I kind of wanted to find that lady and apologize, but I didn't. I did have plenty of opportunity to apologize, because every aisle in the supermarket that we turned down, there she was. Very awkward, as we both tried to pretend the other person wasn't there.

95

Mom with her birthday flowers from sister Sue.

Wednesday was my mom's ninety fifth birthday. A week before Mark and I had visited her and while we were there Mark asked her what kind of cake she liked.

"Oh,...    I don't know."

"Do you like white cake, red velvet, chocolate..  ?"

"I don't like chocolate.... no.. not that."

So Mark started getting fancy.

"I could make you a Lane Cake. It's got that filling made out of pecans, raisins, and bourbon, with a meringue frosting."

"What? What did he say? What kind of cake is that?"

"Lane cake, it's a southern cake."

"You know, I don't really like cake that much."

At that point the subject of cake was dropped. We continued with our visit and after a while it was time to leave. As we walked through the living room, we said our goodbyes and started out the door.

"Goodbye Ma, see you next week on your birthday."

"Yes, we'll bring you something sweet" added Mark.

"Angel food cake." was all she said.

As soon as we got to the car Mark started to fret.

"Angel food cake? Do you know how hard it is to make angel food cake? I'll need a special pan, it takes a lot of egg whites. Angel food cake is not easy... "

All that day, all that week, I heard the constant worry by Mark about angel food cake.

"I've only made angel food cake once in my life, and that was in high school."

I'd had enough, "MARK!" I hollered. "She won't even remember saying that! Mom won't be looking for an angel food cake." Although there was a good possibility that she actually would. "We'll stop at a bakery and buy an angel food cake. Quit worrying for krissakes."

On Wednesday morning Mark and I stopped at the Jewel Supermarket so that I could pick up some flowers, a card, and a cake. It was not an angel food cake. As I walked up to the checkout counter the nice lady ahead of us asked if that was all we had to check out. I told her yes, and she said that we could go ahead of her as she had a basket with much more to check out. While we waited, I chatted with her. I explained what the flowers and cake were for, and how my mom was ninety five years old on that very day. As she loaded her things on the conveyor I noticed that she had a bottle of whiskey.

"Looks like you're going to have a party too." I quipped smartly.

She smiled and answered, "Yes, every day I have a party. One drink a day, it's good for you."

"Well, you keep it up and you'll probably live a long life." was my brilliant reply.

"Yes, I think so. I'm ninety years old now."

She didn't look it, I was impressed. But I took her advice to heart, and best of all it turns out that I'm already on the right track. Only instead of whiskey, I have a vodka cocktail most evenings. And instead of one, I might have two. Maybe that's why my grandfather lived to one hundred and two years. I remember him showing me where he hid his bottle of whiskey in the basement so my grandmother wouldn't catch on. 

Mom with her birthday flowers from brother Dave.

I Call Bullshit

Yesterday morning, Mark comes into my office all out of breath.

"Alan, quick, Google V.I.Poo."

"What? I'm busy here."

"You can put that solitaire game on hold. Google V.I.Poo, hurry."

I'm not sure what the hurry was, but I obliged him.

"There, click on the Amazon link for V.I.Poo."

"What the hell is V.I.Poo?"

"It's a pre-pooping air freshener. It keeps your poop from smelling, and believe me, you need something like that."

"I need it? Really. Compared to you, my shit smells like roses. The damn paint is peeling off the walls after you use the bathroom."

"No, your shit stinks and I'm going to buy some of this V.I.Poo stuff for you. All you do is spray it in the water before you go, and no smell."

"That crap isn't going to prevent odors. The bad smell doesn't come from the turd in the toilet. Once it's under water it can't stink up the room. That's why there's water is in there, partially to prevent the smell."

"You're wrong. The smell comes from the toilet and this stuff stops that."

"Okay, one more time. The smell isn't in the water. The stink comes during the short trip from your ass to the water in the toilet. It is during that trip across that space that most of the odors are released. And then there is the problem of overage. When you poop so much that it mounds up and out of the water. That stuff isn't going to help you there."

"I don't care. I think you're full of shit and I'm going to order some."

So it doesn't matter what I say, Mark is going to order some of that V.I.Poo crap. I still think it's a waste of money. Judging by the reviews on Amazon, I think I will be proven right.

"This product stinks. Literally!!"

"the little donuts in the bowl would smell better than the spray."

"I sprayed as recommended did my business and walked out, the next person went in and loudly exclaimed 'who was in here? God! It smells like a skunk crawled up his ass and died ,boy he must have killed a fudge dragon in here!'"

"I purchased the lemon product, it did not live up to my expectations. It produced lemon scented poo."

And then there is this review.

"It is slightly nauseating and I would definitely prefer a more natural scent."

Weinersicle

Just as every other evening, it was time for walkies. I bundled up in the big Japanese woman's coat that Mark bought me (He still insists that it is a man's coat), put on my hat and gloves, then hooked Miss Scout onto her leash. Away we went into the nineteen degree weather. In this kind of cold I take the dogs on a truncated route, just far enough to empty bladders, yet close enough to get them home before their little paws get too cold. Now little Scout loves the snow. She also seems nearly unaffected by the freezing temperatures. She jumps into the deepest snow with gusto and runs back and forth across the sidewalk, sniffing and smelling, and often trying to eat the ice. She has a ball. Maybe too much of a good time because she forgets to pee and poop. When Scout's big outing is near its end I have to drag her back into the house because one more leap into the deep snow of the front yard is in order.

And then there is Chandler. Usually when I bring Scout back home from her walk, Chandler is at the door waiting for his turn. Not last night. Apparently when the temperatures drop below twenty degrees Chandler is over it. No walkies.

"Come on Chandler, let's go."

He just rolled over on the sofa and gave me a look. 'I am not going out in that strange cold shit.' He would not budge. When he has to pee so bad that he can taste it, I am sure he will go out in the back yard. It is so much easier for him. Just run out there, take a quick steaming pee, and run back inside before his little weiner has a chance to freeze. I can appreciate that.