Deck the Halls.

I LOVE Christmas music. For those of you naysayers who complain about hearing it everywhere, I have to say that that's one of my favorite things about the holidays. In truth, my college roommate and I used to start listening to it as early as September while we'd decorate our dorm/apartment for fall. In fact, she sent me a text the other day telling me she was decorating for fall while listening to Christmas music and no one else seemed to understand such bizarre behavior.

This past Monday I turned on the radio in my car and was thrilled to realize one of the local stations finally started playing nothing but holiday-themed music. YAY! Bring on Rudolph! Here comes Santa Claus! CHARLIE BROWN!!

But of course, there are those that occasionally come on that make my ears bleed. Worry not, the list is relatively short. But here it is, for your reading pleasure!

5. "Wonderful Christmastime" – Paul McCartney

Before you send the lynch mob after me, I LOVE THE BEATLES. “Something” is one of my favorite songs, I’ve considered the possibility of someday getting something Beatles-related tattooed on my body somewhere and as I write this particular paragraph, I’m listening to my ITunes on shuffle and “The Long and Winding Road” came on.

That being said, I have to be honest and say this is song SUCKS. It hurts me to say this. I feel like Paul, knowing full well that he is adored and has legions of fans, decided to experiment and write a truly crappy song to see if his followers would bite. As much as I love me the Fab Four, I can’t get behind the shitty synthesizers. And I’m sorry Paul, “ding dong ding dong ding dong ding dong” does not constitute a credible song lyric. But I'll give you a pass and choose to believe that this song came as a result of some low-quality psychotropics.

4. "Do They Know Its Christmas" - BandAid

I applaud Bono’s charity efforts. I really do. But I don’t get how certain groups (cough-coughPETA cough-cough) seem to think the best way to get to people is to make you feel like an asshole for having a better lot in life. And when the original songwriter has gone on record saying it's a shitty song, that's when you KNOW it sucks. And if that doesn't convince you, check out the original album art:

"Who invited those shirtless dudes? Didn't they see the invitation said 'black-tie only'?"

With such eye-rolling lines as “Tonight thank God it’s them, instead of you”, and “There won’t be snow in Africa this Christmas” I really do have to ask who came up with this trend of writing Christmas songs that make you feel bad. And on that note...

3. "Christmas Shoes" - Newsong

My mom and I disagree every year on this one. She loves this song, and I hate it. For those of you not familiar with it (lucky you) I’ll give you a quick rundown: Narrator is doing some last minute shopping. Narrator is not feeling Christmas-y (what a douche). Narrator notices dirty kid in line in front of him buying shoes (taking pains to point out that not only is he dirty, but he is ‘dirty from head to toe’. Making him an even bigger douche).

Also, to me, somehow the 'dirty kid' is Pigpen.

Dirty kid is too poor to buy said shoes for his dying mom (who is dying on CHRISTMAS EVE. Are you suicidal yet?). Narrator plunks down a few bucks so mom can enjoy shoes for a couple of hours before she snuffs it. Narrator learns the true meaning of Christmas is not to spend time with your loved ones because life is so short, but that you must buy them as much useless shit as possible, like cheap shoes, right up until they die. Because that’s what’s important. Merry Christmas.

2. "Dear Mr. Jesus (Please Don’t Let Them Hurt Your Children)" - Powersource

(Note: Before you denounce me as a terrible human being, I just want to point out that I’m not making fun of child abuse. Just this song and the sanctimonious dick who wrote it.)

I first heard this song during the holiday season a few years ago, and it still confuses me. Not only is there no mention of Christmas anywhere in the lyrics, but every single line makes you hate yourself as a human being.

Dear Mr. Jesus, I just had to write to you

Something really scared me, when I saw it on the news

A story 'bout a little girl beaten black and blue

Jesus, thought I'd take this right to you

Dear Mr. Jesus, I don't understand

Why they took her mom and dad away

I know that they don't mean to hit with wild and angry hands

Tell them just how big they are I pray

Please don't let them hurt your children

We need love and shelter from the storm

Please don't let them hurt your children

Won't you keep us safe and warm

Dear Mr. Jesus, they say that she may die

Oh I hope the doctors stop the pain

I know that you could save her and take her up to the sky

So she would never have to hurt again

Please don't let them hurt your children..

Dear Mr. Jesus, please tell me what to do

And please don't tell my daddy

But my mommy hits me, too.

Nothing says ‘Merry Christmas’ like a 6-year old singing about how mommy hits her.

1. ANYTHING BY MANNHEIM STEAMROLLER.

This one-man band/atrocity came into existence in the 1980’s, and Chip Davis still hasn’t realized that no one gives a shit about synthesizer heavy music anymore. ALL of MS’ music sounds like someone drank too much eggnog, busted out their Casio SA-76 and then tried to play a crappy rendition of “Deck The Halls”. In the dark. Oh, and that person is deaf. If Christmas were a video game, the likes of Eartha Kitt and Bing Crosby would be Xbox (or Playstation. Or Wii. You get it), and Mannheim Steamroller would be Atari, or some other old-ass console whose video games all look like pixilated diarrhea.

Honorable mentions:

"Merry Christmas with Love" by Clay Aiken.

It’s Clay Aiken. Enough said.

"Santa Baby" by Madonna

Every time I hear Madonna’s whiny, pouty rendition of this Eartha Kitt classic, it makes me want to run over her with that ’54 convertible. Besides, someone like Madonna can’t get away with singing lines such as, “think of all the fellas that I haven’t kissed”.

"Santa Claus is Coming to Town" by Bruce Springsteen

The Boss blurting out “SANNA CLOTHES IS KAMANA TAN” does not get me in the Christmas spirit. Nor does the 10-minute intro where he seems to be unsuccessfully trying to get the audience all riled up for the band's next number.

That does it for me, childrens. And to all a good night.

27

I've always found the idea of birthdays to be a little off. On the anniversary day that we made our debut, everyone stops and makes sure to congratulate and celebrate us on our "special day".

But technically, on that day, Mom did all the work.

Today, 27 years later, my mom is in the kitchen, hurrying to finish a large pot of posole and some tacos al pastor, my favorite foods, for the friends and family arriving later. She's been at it since yesterday.

She cooks for me in lieu of a birthday gift, despite the fact that 27 years ago she already gave me THE gift.

And yet, she still does all the work.

So while everyone else is sending me text messages and Facebook posts wishing me a happy birthday, I'd like the be the one who says,

Thanks mom.

Creating the Crazy

My fellow Harry Potter Nerds will enjoy this.

As many of you know, my Halloween costume last year was EPIC. I told no one of my plans, so when I showed up at my friend Cindy's Halloween party dressed as an Oompa Loompa, let's just say the costume was a hit.

Seeing as how I find myself still unemployed, I had plenty of time for this year's costume.

This year's costume was Bellatrix Lestrange.

This was no small feat. I went to costume shops in search of the right Bellatrix costume, but none amounted to what I had in mind. So I had to make it myself.

The inspiration.

The end result.

How did I do, my peeps?

The Final Countdown

(Note: Sorry I've been absent, y'all. I'm currently in week 5 of my MAS program, and it's kicking my butt. Not complaining. It's awesome! But it does take a fair chunk out of my week. I miss recreational reading.)

Everyone has a bucket list. That lift of Stuff To Do Before You Bite The Big One. And it occurred to me that I, too, have a list of stuff I want to do before I get murderized. Some of it might be a bit more unconventional (or boring) than others, but what do you expect from me?

Also, because I am an organizational freak, mine are listed by category.

Places To Go:
1. Ireland. Everyone has that European location they dream of visiting. Most people want go to Paris. Italy. Potheads go to Amsterdam. I want to go somewhere cloudy, with lots of green fields and sheep. And beer.
2. New Orleans. For the history. I'm weird like that.
3. Boston. Cook's Country is filmed here.
4. Australia. Possibly steal a dingo, and threaten bratty children with it. "This thing EATS BABIES!"
5. A taping of Saturday Night Live.
6. La Tomatina in Spain.
7. Oktoberfest in Germany.

People to Meet:
1. The Pope. Give him a high five. For no other reason than to be able to say, "I hi-fived the Pope".
2. Laurie Notaro. She is one of my favorite authors. She also happens to be one of my favorite authors who is still alive.
3. Hugh Jackman. Pure indulgence. The man is HOT. Plus I hear he's a nice guy.
4. Coldplay. This requires no explanation.
5. The President. Why the hell not?
6. The Dalai Lama. For a fist bump.

What I'd Like to Learn
(Those of you who tell yourselves you want to learn the meaning of life, I'll help you: The Meaning of Life is life itself. The good and the bad. Me writing this useless drivel? That's the meaning of life. Everything from getting the married, getting divorced, your car breaking down, getting the dream job, Being constipated, to picking your nose. The meaning of life is to LIVE IT. Ok I'm done.)
1. Modern Major General. I want to learn all of the words, and be able to recite them correctly. I would also like to learn the words to "It's The End of the World (As We Know It)".
2. Cheese. As you already know, my mom is the Cheese fairy. And I would like her to teach me how to make this wondrous dairy product so I can try it myself.
3. Quilting. I am beginning to think I am secretly an old woman. Shut up.
4. Learn to swim. Right now I can only manage to flop around like a retarded octopus before someone comes to my rescue.

Experiences:
1. Get married. (That's right, I have a sensitive side! Pick your jaws up off the floor. It's filthy.)
2. Produce a kidlet. Possibly adopt one.
3. See a musical on Broadway.
4. See the LA Philharmonic.
5. An actual white Christmas. With snow.

Things to Do:
1. Pet a goat.
2. Ride a horse.
3. Ride an elephant.
4. Get a Nikon SLR camera.
5. Zip line.
6. Cook an entire Thanksgiving dinner myself.
7. A mud run.
8. Have a Halloween party.
9. Own a house.
10. Be a speaker at a high school career day, preferably at my alma mater.
11. Write a book.
12. Run in a Zorb.
13. Take a nap in a hammock. (This would have been possible in Big Bear a few weeks ago, but it was cold as shit and the hammock was outside. Plus the cabin was situated on some kind of crow reserve or something. So it was either freeze, or get my really, really nice parka pooped on.)

Now that I've written and posted this list, chances are I'm going to find other stuff to do and will have to amend it, many times. What can I say? I'm fickle sometimes.

So what's on your list, my peeps?

And Of Course, Cheese.

A few months ago, I co-hosted a BBQ. T'was tasty and an awesomely fun afternoon.

Co-host took care of all barbecuing duties, while I took care of, well, everything else.

Now, before you lecture me on an equal share of responsibilities, keep in mind that I am an unemployed deadbeat who paid for none of the groceries. Plus, my culinary abilities notwithstanding, I move through a kitchen (as with life) with as much grace and poise as a drunk walrus wearing roller skates. Seriously. I’m clumsy and have a natural talent for dropping everything that passes through my hands. Add some knives and foodstuffs to that equation, set it all up in a kitchen the size of a postage stamp, and can you really blame the others for dropping the groceries and mysteriously disappearing?

I did have someone chop someone onions for me, though. Otherwise I would have gotten all weepy and boogerific. Sexy.

One of the dishes I made that day was a rice casserole-type dish made with white rice, canned corn, Cacique table cream, and cheese.

Not just any cheese, mind you.

My mom’s cheese.

Right now, you’re saying out loud (weirdo), “your mom makes her own cheese?” because that’s the inevitable question that follows the statement, ‘My mom’s cheese’, which you would think is self-explanatory.

My dad works at a dairy, which means we get all the sweet hookups in terms of beef and milk. Friends and relatives will frequently use my dad as a...I don’t know what...beef ambassador? Bovine liaison? Anyway, they’ll buy the beef directly from the dairy. Sounds like a great idea, right?

Maybe.

Many of you are used to seeing your meat (hee hee) all wrapped in pretty white paper, perhaps with an Albertson’s bar code slapped onto your order of beef tenderloin. Not so this way. When you buy your meat through the Dairy Emissary Program, your burger is still mooing.

Take a big bite outta that.

When we were kids, every now and then we’d wake up to find an adorable wittle calf all curled up in the garage. The first time this happened, our immediate reaction was “holy-shit-we-have-a-pet-cow-lets-pet-it-and-love-it-forever-and-ever-and-ever!!!”

Later that afternoon, we ate it.

Needless to say, after the first calf, every one we woke up to thereafter was treated with a more aloof manner. Think of it as being detached from the condemned.

Vaya con Dios.

Call it barbaric. I call it the Circle of LIFE, yo. Didn’t The Lion King teach you anything?

besides not trusting creepy uncles.

Anyhoo, like I said before, we got free milk, too. Every so often my dad will bring home 3 or 4 gallons of milk, and just leave it sitting on the counter. During the night, the Cheese Fairy would appear, wave her mozzarella stick-wand, and the milk would magically transform into...

Creamy, cheesy, crumbly, DELICIOUSNESS.

You know you want it.

I’m totally full of shit, by the way. My mom makes it. She is the Cheese Fairy. Did I just ruin the fantasy for you? I’m sorry. Sorry you’re so LAME!

Back to the cheese.

It can be crumbled, eaten fresh, melted into a quesadilla, or, if left to dry for a few days, roast it on the stove on a piece of foil for our own little version of grilled cheese. This stuff ROCKS. I keep telling myself I need to learn how to make it, but like so many of my mom’s recipes, I feel like this is best left to her expertise.

Plus I think she’d look way better with fairy wings than me.

Just another day in the IE.

First of all...

And to add insult to injury (because I'm just such a nice person)

The end.

Historia De Un Amor TRUNCADO.

When I was in high school, my first real crush was this guy I knew from church. He was tall, thin, and quiet, with large brown eyes and a warm smile. Best of all, he was an amazing guitar player. To this day I have not known someone who could play as well as he did...all he needed was to hear any song a few times before he could play it himself...he played guitar for the Saturday choir, of which his younger sister (a friend of mine) was also a member, so I saw my in. My plan in getting to know him better didn’t work out that well though, seeing as how he NEVER TALKED. I tried, I joked, I even tried to flirt (yes, try to imagine me ‘flirting’ at the age of 15. It wasn’t pretty. STOP LAUGHING!). This was your basic, run of the mill, HARDCORE crush. I daydreamed about, like, ohemgee, we would like date and be in luuuurve and...I don’t know...ride unicorns and file our taxes jointly and stuff. I thought I was all stealthy too, like, NO ONE knew about it and I was so smart and sneaky. I might as well have tattooed it on my forehead.

Or worn a sandwich board.

While he didn’t take the bait, he was unfailingly polite and never exploited my feelings or made fun of me (to my face anyway). Which is saying a lot. Like most high school crushes, it was pretty epically cringeworthy. Once, for Valentine’s Day, I sent him a Crush Gram through my AVID class. How it worked was you sent someone a bottle of Crush soda, then they could pay like 50 cents or something to find out who the sender was. I was a wimp and left it blank. So not only was I a tease, I cheated him out of his money.

Now that’s true love.

The next time I saw him I resolved to find some shit out with some mad sleuthing skills.

Me: Sooo, did anyone get a Valentine’s Day gram? Those are so lame. (nervous laughter)

Dude: Someone sent me one of those soda ones.

Me: reaaaalllly? (feigned shock) did you find out who sent it?

Dude: I went to look. They didn’t leave their name.

Me: oh, what a shame. (Recon mission TOTALLY nailed. I’m a ninja.)

The romance never came to pass, and my stalker-esque devotion remained unrequited. I moved away to school and life went on. On my visits home and when I finally moved back after graduation, we would periodically see each other, more frequently when my mom babysat for him for a few months. At one point we actually exchanged phone numbers, more out of necessity than anything else. This, along with the couple of times he pocket-dialed me or called (on purpose) would have been enough to send my 15-year old self into a fit of hysterics. By that time, however, he had taken up the spot in my mind as a casual acquaintance that I could actually have a normal conversation with, without blushing, smiling like a vapid moron or collapsing into nervous giggles.

What’s the point of my wistful recollection, you ask? There is a point. I was getting to it. Come in, sit down. Would you like a cookie?

Let me paint a picture for you. Of unrequited love, a story more romantic and tragic than Romeo and Juliet.

My youngest brother is somewhat of a metro. Seriously. He actually spent an hour in the bathroom yesterday complaining that he couldn't get his hair quite right. I guess we all have our battles. Anyway, a few months ago, a girl at school professed her undying love for my little brother, who we'll call Mr. Sexy.

Seriously, who could resist this dreamboat?

Not only is he not allowed to date (Damn skippy, yo), his schoolwork, volunteering at church and baseball leave him almost zero time for anything other than food, sleep and an occasional dump. It is my understanding that he told her as much, and let her down as easily and gently as he knew how. I believe this because we didn’t raise no fool.

This, apparently, did not go over well. Mr. Sexy is now this horrible heartbreaking Casanova who trifles with poor unsuspecting girls’ feelings and leaves broken hearts in his wake.

That trifling casanova!

Because I am nosy and can’t leave well enough alone, I went on trusty Facebook and sure enough, our forlorn and heartbroken heroine has poured her heart out to the Internet world. She ranged from song lyrics, her own poignant ramblings when she fancied herself a poet, to the purposefully misspelled text that these young’ns are so fond of.

Maybe I don't see how '"wonderful" he is because not thirty minutes ago, he admitted to me that he knew all the words to Rick Astley's " Never Gonna Give You Up". Followed by a full demonstration.

He then farted.

The bracelet in question. In case he ever forgets what his name is.

This girl is obviously destined for Mensa.

She is also a poet.

Ride on what?? The boy doesn't have a license. He has a bike. With a flat tire.

It's not his fault he's almost blind in one eye! He wears contact lenses now.

GODDAMMIT! It's FATE!!!!

Finally, after roughly two months of trying to tactfully reject this girl’s advances, she laid it all out there. Via email. On Facebook. Romantic, ain’t it?

That’s right, kids. She was in love because she "can’t talk to other guys".

I can think of a few other countries she’d be right at home in.

At this point however, our young Romeo had had enough, and finally just gave her the cold shoulder. So she gave up and got a new boyfriend a week later.

I guess ‘forever and a day’ in teenager speak is a week and a day.