Twas The Night Before Christmas, And Shit Got Weird

Overall, my Christmas holiday went a-ok, despite working through the majority of it, and spending the rest of it stressed out. I received some nice gifts, too - not too much where I felt like I had to bathe the consumer grime off my fingers, but I recieved a handful of items that I sincerely appreciated: a handmade necklace my brother gave me from his jewelry line, a hoodie with a kitty face on it from Laura, pajama pants my mom made from the Friskies cat food fabric I picked out when I was 14 years old, and a new scratching pole my dad made for my kitties, Sophie Bear Baby Ewok and Snorticus Maximus McAwesome Face.

. . . . . . .  WHAT?

The only down fall was that no one in my family bothered to tell me that Bah Humbuggery had been cancelled this year and that we were planning a legit gift swap. IT'S NOT LIKE I DIDN'T ASK, EITHER. So when I walked into my parents house with my boxes of chocolate and I noticed all the presents under the tree, I realized that, yep, this was definitely the year that I was going to walk away as the asshole, which was compounded by the fact that the "I love you, but fuck it, here's some money" cheque I wrote Laura was made out in her maiden name, because I subconsciously refuse to acknowledge that her ex-husband exists.

I did donate to a handful of charities in honor of my family after recalling the sponsorship of love Will n' Matt gave to the exploited babies in Cambodia in 2009 - you should probably read about it here. And although I knew that the money had gone to better causes than the accumulation of random shit, I still felt like that socially awkward relative who makes everyone personalized welcome plaques for their front entrance from recycled newsprint and raffia paper.

After experiencing a strange Christmas Eve, I was inspired, largely by Liz, to write my own version of Twas The Night Before Christmas, and I read it at my family's Christmas gift opening. Here is the internet-friendly version:

Twas The Night Before Christmas, And Shit Got Weird

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through my complex, not a creature was stirring, not even the usual suspects. I was alone in my apartment, feeling a little laissez faire, in hopes that dawn's sunrise soon would be there.

(Photo of Red Deer sunrise by TrevorGB)

The kitties were nestled all snug in my bed, while visions of the muchly missed, albeit diarrhea inducing, Whiskas wet formula danced in their heads. Snortie with her horrific hair cut, and I in my new cat shirt, lay lounging in bed feeling less than alert.

When out in the hall there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the door I flew like a flash, and unlocked the dead bolt, even though I looked like white trash.

The hallway remained quiet and dimly lit, surely to hide the shoddy construction that the owners won't admit. When what to my wondering eyes should appear, but an elderly woman in leopard print pajama gear.

Thinking her husband was ill, I responded with grave worry, But soon realized she had Alzheimer disease, and it was making her mind blurry. More rapid than an eagle, I grabbed my keys and my phone, and began a long journey through the complex to take the little old lady home.

(art work by Kelli Doyle)

"You're the only one who would answer your door," she said in appreciation,"That's because this place is full of douche bags, and human abominations." I asked her her last name, and she said it was Price,
so I tracked down the number of her suite through the intercom device.

Back up we went to walk into a strange condo and hope for the best, for if it were the wrong one, it may become one hell of an awkward conquest. The suite sat dormant and the little old lady swore it was not her home, but I continued on my mission and threw out a bone.

"Hello?," I called out, not once, but twice, and from the bedroom came the stir of a man-- her husband-- thank God almighty and his son, Jesus Christ.

"She's never wandered before," he told me, his face angered and worried. "You're going to have to go in a home," her face now shamed and covered in flurry.

We said our goodbyes and shared a melancholy hug, then I went to the lobby for a tea, where I met a man drinking his fourth egg nog mug. This was his first Christmas since separating from his wife, and while he was thrilled to have his boys with him, this wasn't the easiest time in his life.

He was excited to be done wrapping the gifts, even despite his recent down falls, although he admitted he wasn't good at this kind of stuff, and all the presents looked like "fucking footballs."

 

(watch the youtube video of Flippycat being wrapped)

And it was on this eve that I was reminded of my blessings, from the health of my family, to my wicked ass car and its heated-seat dressings. Some people score the ideal and their Christmases are cheered, for others, life goes on, and sometimes shit gets weird.

The Post Christmas Blog Entry

When you reach a certain age and you're childless, lacking a plump friend base, and your family is scattered around the country, Christmas becomes a bit of a chore. It's like having a hyped-up sales associate wearing one of those China-made Santa hats sit on your shoulder and constantly remind you that Jesus rocks, and on your other shoulder is a loud speaker blasting Michael Bolton's rendition of Joy to the World from his A Swingin' Christmas compilation disc. All you can do is grit your teeth and drink a lot.

Every year I unintentionally celebrate Christmas less and less. The celebration of Jesus was eradicated from my Christmas celebration in second grade when my Mom made the realization that organized religion was more disturbing than fulfilling. However, she still accessorizes the tree with her 1975 nativity scene-- the same one that my (now her) satanic kitty, Gloria, chewed Mary and Joseph's faces off of. Over the years family traditions have become less and less prominent. That's right, when you're twenty-six and have not bred offsping, Santa dies. And when Santa is your substitute religious figure, it can be disheartening, the kind of disheartening that makes whiskey and cigarettes seem merry. At least I didn't list prostitutes or heroin.

So the family and I kept it simple this year with the popular Name Out of the Hat gifting system. Worked for me as I was better able to avoid the shopping malls. I had full intentions of sending another care package to a hungry Ethiopian baby, and although I had hoarded a considerable amount of loot for Starvin' Marvin, I missed the deadline to have it shipped-- evidence that I really am a tool bag.

When Will and Matt were passing through town and we did coffee, Will asked if I scored any good gifts this year. I did not hesitate, as I do not hesitate now, to brag that Bear gifted me with a 32" flat screen. Just in case you missed that . . .

A 32" flat screen.

When I asked Will and Matt if they had scored any good loot, he told me that they had not done gifts at all. Why? BECAUSE THERE ARE CHILDREN BEING EXPLOITED IN CAMBODIA. So next time you gear up to brag about Christmas loot, whether it's crap you've given or crap you've received, don't forget the exploited kids in Cambodia. And don't forget to feel like an asshole. And if you didn't give aid to our dysfunctional world this Christmas, consider it in the future, and remember that shipping deadlines are important, too.

Bear and I were feeling bored on boxing day so we decided to go for a drive. What started as a leisurely drive in the country turned into an eight hour adventure through the mountains. We went through Rocky Mountain House and passed through Nordegg, which, after stopping at the Fas Gas and seeing their array of knives for sale, including a "Rambo" machete, we decided Nordegg would be a delightful place to settle down. If I could find some decent photos of the scenery, I would post some, but obviously the people of Nordegg are above frivolous technologies like photos and photo taking devices, and have more important things to do, like make jam perserves.

I had my camera with me but soon realized that my memory card remained stuck in my PC at home. We did, however, take a few photos with our phones. 

I believe this was taken before we entered the park, West of Nordegg.

Hwy 11, approaching The Crossing/ Hwy 93.

Headed South on highway 93, not too far from Lake Louise.

We made our way through Banff, then Calgary, and headed home on highway 2. The road was dry, and relatively quiet, and I was knee deep in a sinus induced wanna-be migraine, so I sat reclined in the passenger seat in the coping position. At one point I opened my eyes and saw a white Cavalier cut in front of us, then slow down to match our speed.

Did I mention that it was my car we were driving? My car, as is in the infamous Bon Jovi? The Mustang GT that deserves a certain amount of respect? If you pull in front of Bon Jovi on an empty highway, I sure as shit better be watching your tail lights disappear into the foreground. It's called not driving like Sophia from The Golden Girls. Got that?

When I saw the same Cavalier do it again twenty-minutes later, I used the Lord's name in vain and made some comment about how that [insert f-bombing] [insert explicit word starting with the letter "C"] needs to [insert f-bombing] [insert one more f-bomb] off, followed by another explicit rendition of the Lord's name. And then I probably dropped another f-bomb.

My typically road raging grizzly bear responded calmly, unnaturally calm, and said, "we'll lose 'em". I closed my eyes again and felt my body propel into an alter dimension. A place of speed. A rush so powerful it made the stars under my eyelids shoot like bullets from a submachine gun. I looked at the speedometer. Somewhere above 180 km/hr. I looked in the rear view mirror and the Cavalier was nothing but a memory. A wussy memory. Like those weiney dudes who dish shit but can't take it, and then you make fun of them, and then you forget about them altogether.

As soon as we had gained some distance, Bear resumed normal speed. Later on I opened my eyes to watch the same white Cavalier tuck in front of us and match our speed. Bear laughed, pulled into the passing lane, and once again put the pedal to the floor.

It became apparent that Bon Jovi had become a challenge to the Weiner in the Cavalier, and I took a break from wallowing in my sinus pain to share cheers of mockery with Bear. If we had not been strapped to bucket seats in a moving vehicle, we would have bumped chests, and chugged some beers, and done one of those complicated, man-homie hand shakes that require a step-by-step tutorial and at least thirty seconds to complete.

We were almost back in the city when we could see Weiner weaving in and out of traffic in attempt to. . . well, pull in front of us and slow down, I suppose. We discussed his desperation to impress his girlfriend who sat shotgun. We considered his commitment to the cause, and figured that he had probaby popped his collar at some point in hopes to improve aerodynamics. I pondered the size of Weiner's weiner and guessed that it was probably around four inches. Four inches at full attention.

Awww.

Bear and I were warming as our cold hearts felt pangs of empathy --poor Weiner. With Christmas spirit still tingling our jaded souls, we did our good deed and we let Weiner pass.

So kids, Christmas isn't just about scoring loot. Nor is it just about some jolly fat guy with a white beard, or a holier than thou skinny guy with a hippie beard. It isn't just about stuffing your face with caloric cancers, or wallowing in self pity over a twenty-sixer of whiskey. It's about giving back. Not only to the exploited kids in Cambodia, but also to the twenty-year old boys with minimal sexual experience who wear those f!cking multi-colored skate shoes that look like giant mushrooms from Rainbowland and who drive around in Cavaliers with something to prove but lack the inches of manhood to prove it.

Hope you all had a merry Christmas and enjoy the New Year.