Where Was Santa?

So Thanksgiving is over. It is now officially the Christmas season. And with Christmas comes Christmas songs. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely LOVE Christmas songs. I have CDs. I have records. I have radio stations that play Christmas songs 24 hours a day 7 days a week. But sometimes, a particular song gives me pause. I hear the lyrics and I begin to think (always dangerous). I begin to ruminate. Read my ruminations here.

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. We've all heard it. This song has bothered me since kindergarten when I had to learn it for a presentation. Come the day before Christmas break, we were to sing this song (in a cafeteria that smelled vaguely of fish sticks) for a crowd of adoring parents at my elementary school. I consciously only mouthed the words as the song offended me. Why you ask? I'll tell you. Read the song lines that follow and see if you feel me.

'All of the other reindeer, used to laugh and call him names, they never let poor Rudolph, join in any reindeer games...then one foggy Christmas Eve, Santa came to say Ho Ho Ho, Rudolph with your nose so bright, won't you guide my sleigh tonight?'

Okay, let's establish one thing right from the off. The other reindeer? Bitches. I can hear them now: 'Oh. My, gawd! Rudolph's nose is red! Eeew. We totally have to hate him! I mean, he sorta looks like us, but his nose! It's like...RED! It's like a zit or something. Sooo gross! We should make sure he doesn't play any reindeer games. Like 'eat from the trough,' or 'crap-some-pellets.' (I mean honestly, what kind of games would reindeer really play?)

So let me ask you folks, Are these really the kind of animals you want helping deliver your presents? Discriminatory bastards that freak out over a genetic mutation? Did Rudolph choose this deformity? I highly doubt it. Can you imagine if he'd had a goiter? A gimpy leg? The gout? I shudder to think.

And where the hell was Santa during all this anyway? Don't tell me he was too busy to intervene. Unless by "busy" you mean snoring with his fat ass wedged in a Lazyboy in front of a fire.

Here's his bitchy reindeer, starting a gangland style turf war out in the barn. Seconds away from threatening to buss a cap in Rudolph's deformed reindeer carcass. And there's poor Rudolph, watching, wishing, hoping, traumatized in the corner, only wanting to play some freakin reindeer games. And where is Santa? Don't tell me he's too busy checking lists. Please. I'm an admin people. Santa is the head of a multi-national corporation.

The man does not check his own lists. He has hired help for that, elf temps in short skirts, or perhaps Mrs. Clause. Do you honestly think that if a man was checking the list, it would be divided into naughty and nice? Mmmhmm. Perhaps naughty (as in meeow) and nice (=boring). ie. Librarians and academicians get no presents. Jerk.

So it gets a little foggy one Christmas Eve, and who do they look to? That's right. Old glowing zit-nose. Santa stumbles out, drunk as a skunk, as evidenced by his declaration of 'Ho! Ho! Ho!. Really, when's the last time someone greeted with you with "Ho Ho Ho!"? Other than drunk uncle Ralph at the last family Christmas party that is.

So here comes Santa, and asks Rudoplh to guide the sleigh (a safe bet considering Santa started hitting the eggnog before five pm that night). And what happens next? 'Then all the reindeer love him' (fickle dill weeds that they are). Oh now they love him. He wants to play some reindeer games, and its all bitch slaps and snide comments. Suddenly he's gonna make sure the old man doesn't steer them into the broad side of a barn, and it's all, "Oh Rudolph we love you!" Sure you do, you ignoble prigs.

But this doesn't even address the most insidious undertones of this little ditty. Check this out. What's so special about Rudolph? Why, he has a glowing nose, of course. Know what we call that in the tech field ladies and gents? Something that's sort of like the original only with an added functionality feature? Reindeer version 2.0. An upgrade. Follow my logic here. This next bit is important.

Guess how long it takes for a reindeer to span from birth do adulthood? Less than a year. So in my estimation, between the time that Santa figures out that a reindeer with a glowing red shnoz is a significant improvement over a bunch of catty game-playing skanks (even a raging lush can observe market trends) and the time when next Christmas rolls around is more than plenty to hook ole Rudolph up with a few smoking hottie reindeer cows (that's what they call them, I kid you not) and breed a super-race of present-hauling, nose-illuminating work horses, or deer, I guess.

And what do you suppose happens to the obsolete reindeer? Well lets indulge in a little conjecture, shall we? The facts are as follows. 1. Non nose-glowing reindeer are no longer needed. 2. Santa is a rather large man with a rather large appetite. 3. Chickens are not widely farmed at the North pole last time I checked. 4. There are a proliferation of excellent venison recipes available via Google. You do the math people.



Cyndi

All Nine Lives

A cat is considered geriatric at 12. Two Sox was eighteen when he finally passed away last week. I've seen those bumper stickers that say "Animals are People Too." Given, these bumper stickers are typically pasted on the backsides of cars that also have tatty sun bleached stuffed animals in the back window and woman wearing stretch pants and a chocolate frosting stained Garfield "I Hate Mondays" t-shirt wedged into the driver's seat. But I digress. Animals are people too, that is my point.

As strange as it may sound, I believe that. Anyone who's had a pet knows that pets have personality. And where there is personality, there are also personality quirks. Two Sox certainly had his share.

The Ambush: Two Sox simply knew, without question, that he was lord and master of our house growing up. Our insistence on introducing unworthy companions into his realm proved to be someone disconcerting to him, though he deigned to allow himself to play amusing games with his unworthy wards. One of these was "The Ambush." Two Sox often preferred to take his leisure on the dining room table. This locale had the added benefit of allowing him to observe the approach of his dim-witted canine co residents, who on occasion (being of course, far less intelligent than himself) would amuse themselves by doing laps around the table. This behavior, of course, providing Two Sox the opportunity to wait until said dog came racing around and perform a graceful leap onto their passing back. Typically this elicited a reaction rather similar to having lit the dog's ass on fire. Which, of course, would have been infinitely more satisfying, but it is rather hard to strike a match without the operation of an opposable thumb.

The Ambush 2: Being the well rounded and open minded individual that he was, Two Sox was not so shallow as to limit himself to hunting from the dining room table. Indeed, he wisely took advantage of seasonal opportunities as well. One method of doing this was to conceal himself amongst the foliage at the bottom of the Christmas tree. Hidden in the shadows afforded by the lower branches, Two Sox would then lay in wait for a passing dog, or foot, and erupt from his concealment in a gray streak of feline claws, teeth, and fury. Being also benevolent, as well as skilled, he typically allowed his quarry to escape after minor scratches an abrasions, such was his self control.

The Ambush 3: As was becoming a gentleman who knows the importance fealty, Two Sox allowed his lessers to display their gratitude for his presence with the occasional pet on the head, chin, or throat. In the case that said lessers became overzealous in their adorations, he was prepared to remind them of their station and permissions. On one such occasion, one subject by the name of Steve dared to pat his hind quarters. After a stern warning of tail flicking and pupil dialating glares, Two Sox, with his keen powers of observation, determined that his lesson had not been taken to heart. In a powerful and terrible gesture, he launched himself at Steve's arm and into Steve's cereal bowl, soiling Steve's trousers with both milk and shame.

The Refined Palate: An epicure of the highest order, Two Sox did not limit himself to canned cat food sup or dried pellets for sustenance. Indeed no. He was a cat who enjoyed something sweet to tempt the palate. Some of his favorites included a nibble of strawberry Pop-Tarts, Twizzlers, or the very occasional marshmallow. Such was the refinement of his tongue, that he preferred to take only one bite from each marshmallow, knowing of course (as all experts do) that after one bite has been taken, the flavor and texture of said marshmallow has been hopelessly compromised and must then be discarded in whatever manner one sees fit. Which is exactly what he did do, all across the living room carpet, where his minions would collect them and dispose of them, as is their station.

The Chatter: As a scholar of military stratagems, Two Sox was infinitely aware of the philosophy that one should keep one's friends close, but enemies closer. In order to do so, Two Sox developed a system of speaking in short mews and chatters (modified from his celebrated moth hunting techniques) that could be easily understood by those in his jurisdiction. Hearing his vocal chatter, the humans would then respond with gushy coos and greetings, instantly alerting him to their location within the domicile. Ingenious.


The Games: As I mentioned before, Two Sox was a great hunter, a strategist. Such skills, like claws, must be kept sharp, honed, and ready to kill. But how does one hone such skills when entrapped with lesser beings? Simple. War games. Through a series of subliminal prompts, Two Sox taught his subjects to help him hone these skills by pitching him ice cubes from the freezer. Upon hearing the freezer door open, Two Sox stealthily maneuvered himself into the sink, only his eyes above the rim, waiting for his practice quarry. Seeing him hunkered down, the subject would then toss the bit of ice slightly above his head, affording him the opportunity to spring into action, swatting his target with deadly accuracy. Through such preparations, he could be assured that when the time came, he would be ready and able to kill. Sudden death, served chilled.

The aliases: Wisely, an assassin of Two Sox's order had many aliases in order to keep his true identity a secret. Some of these included: Toxy, Soxy, Mr. Kitty, Mr. Sprinkles, Puddles, Soxo, and Keeton. It is believed that he survived as long as he did through the operation of his closely kept identity. A cat of mystery, to the very end.

We will miss you Soxy.

Cyndi

Why Is My Underwear So Comfortable?

One of the benefits of having a blog, and reading other blogs, is the handiness of disseminating information gained from a wealth of personal experience. As people, we can share with one another lessons learned in the operation of living. Vastly aided by Google, one can type in just about any search term and get at least one hit, no matter how obscure the subject matter. For example, Googling "How to deworm a camel," returned ten pages of results. Go ahead, try it. No matter what your question is, chances are somewhere, someone's been through it and sent their intellectual gainings out into the ether. It's a beautiful thing.

As a blogger, I feel it's my duty to disseminate some of the information I have learned over the years. So, read on, and benefit from my experience.

Fact: If you are suddenly stricken by how terribly comfortable your underwear is (are?), it is very likely that you have managed to put said underwear on inside out. Thus, the seams face outward, and you benefit from the smooth comfort of the underwear's exterior against your posterior. Why they are not designed this way in the first place, I do not understand.

And also, to wax tangential, what's with underwear having tags? Hanes, much to my delight, has gone a long way towards furthering the tagless campaign. But why on earth did it take so long for someone to figure this out? Honestly, you wear underwear (hopefully) roughly 23.5 hours a day (assuming you shower regularly). Would it not seem expedient to make all structural underwear design decisions based solely on comfort? Why on earth do you need a tag in your undies?

I can think of no real information so vitally important that it begs a minuscule cloth note sewn straight to the fabric that covers your ass. "These underwear were made by Victoria's Secret!" Yes, thank you. I was aware of that, seeing as I purchased them there. "Machine wash and tumble dry with delicates!" Why thank you for telling me that. My personal plan for cleaning this twelve dollar and fifty sent pair of underwear was to spit on them and beat them with a stick.

No. There is no need for tags. Besides, they tickle.

There you are, trying to take notes, and all you can think about is the tickling right above your hiney. You think perhaps it might be a hair (head hair, not bum hair. eeew.) and you start to freak out. You obsess until you have to excuse yourself from the meeting and go to the bathroom and check, only to find it's the tag. Then you have to go to your desk and get the scissors and take them back to the bathroom and perform minor surgery on your unmentionables in the stall. Then your coworkers think you're a weirdo when they come in for their morning pee and hear you snipping away at something. "What is she doing with scissors in there?" they think. Then they look at you funny when you come back into the meeting fifteen minutes later. They know you've gone to the bathroom, and they know you've taken fifteen minutes. You know what they think you were doing. So what do you say? "No no no, it was nothing like that. I was just cutting a tag out of my underwear." FAIL.

So this has never happened to you? Well then, for my friends who Google "why is my underwear so comfortable?," this is for you.

Happy Birthday Ma

Today is my Mom's birthday. Happy Birthday Ma! My Dad's birthday was October 5th. Happy late birthday Daddy! I am writing this post in their honor, though embarrassing them in a semi-public forum (okay, Mom and Dad are the only ones who read my swill anyway) may not be their idea of "honor." What can I say, that's just the sort of thoughtful daughter I am.

Parentage is a interesting thing. One of the joys of step-parenting has been to watch the boys and pick out all the various little aspects of my husband divided amongst them. I suppose we are all strange hybrid composites of the stuff that makes us (kindly donated by mom and dad) and the various other spiritual filaments we pick up from our environment. So in this post, I will attempt to dissect myself (gruesomely apropos for the season, no?) and see what of my parentage spills out.

There shall be two categories (categories, like lists and check boxes soothe me. Sue me.) "Characteristic" - trait as manifested in Cyndi, and "Parent at Fault" - parent at fault for said manifested trait.

Characteristic - I am a klutz (as has been multiply elucidated by my many self-inflicted-injury posts, and more recently, in a heretofore undocumented event resulting in a broken toe.)
PAF - This one is going to rest firmly with my Ma, who over the years has regaled us all with both story and working example of various impossible slips, falls, injuries and accidents. IE, a black eye from opening a cabinet door into her face. Yes, this is absolutely something I would also do, and likely will do at some point in the future. My father, graceful and lithe, was an athlete of the first order and lept like a gazelle over high jump bars throughout high school and college. Were I to attempt anything of the sort, it would likely look like something like a heifer getting a running start to jump a barbed-wire fence. The result would be all flailing hooves, pained mooing, blood, and the always inevitable shame.

C: I am lurpy. The aforementioned lurpiness is the result of my odd shape combined with above-average height.
PAF: Actually, this one goes to both parents. Like my father, I am tall and have slender wrists and ankles. My father and my brothers have often bemoaned the fact that their delicate wrists could be fractured with only a delicate thwap of a rolled up newspaper. I don't mind the wrists so much. Being a girl this presents me with less of a problem. But combine gangly height with squat-in-the-potato-field-and-drop-a-kid German birthing hips (thanks Ma), and you get a rather odd combination that baffles many a sales girl when shopping for jeans. Thus the ensuing "lurp" factor.

C: I am a book nerd. When I don't have my nose buried in a book, I am usually rattling on to some uninterested party about a book I read, recommending several books I think they should read, or detailing the many uses of books in decorating and furniture propping.
PAF: This one is going to my Ma. My mom is an avid reader and kept me in books from the time I was old enough to begin reading. Not surprisingly, the first thing I read was food-related, the back of a package of ham. I have many fond memories of visiting used book shops with her and lugging home a treasure trove of dusty tomes that enabled me to retreat solidly into geekdom.


C: I am a snark. Snark: (according to the urban dictionary, source of all pertinent knowledge for my generation) "Combination of "snide" and "remark". Sarcastic comment(s). Also snarky (adj.) and snarkily (adv." You may or may not have picked up on this already, since you are reading my blog. Hopefully leaning towards may. I lay it on pretty thick here people.
PAF: This one is all Dad. My father is a deceptively quiet man, but behind this placid exterior glows a hotbed of pure liquid snark. Evidence of this can be found in any Richards home video where in my father's voice can be heard firing off the occasional quip from behind the camera. Perhaps the most famous being his remark about a lady in double-wide stretch pants lumbering across the street to the hospital - "Whoa. There goes a sick patient," he snarks. Like me, my Dad would walk on his lips through a bed of hot coals before knowingly hurting anyone's feelings, but every now and then, one of those snide little buggers leaks out.

So here's to parents! I will be forever grateful for mine for putting up with me for all these years and loving me even when I'm a dork (which is almost always).

Cyndi

Miss Fix It

This is kind of a long story, and I may or may not switch from first to third person in the telling. Strongly leaning towards may. Turn back now if you wish.


It's not really a good idea to leave me alone for too long. One of two things typically happens. 1. I think too much. (After such occasions, one could likely find me weirded out by the possibility that Osama Bin Laden's goat may be harboring plots to overthrow our agricultural economy.) 2. I try to fix things. Believe it or not, it's the second of these options that proves more dangerous.

Yesterday, I came home from a leisurely lunch and went upstairs to switch a load of laundry over. The washer and dryer are the front-opening kind, and whoever set them up put them in backwards, meaning that the front loading doors open into eachother and one must maneuver around them to wrangle a load from the washer into the dryer. It has bothered me for months now, like the sort of low frequency hum that you quietly ignore until one day you tote a gun off to the local grocery store and shoot a checker for giving you plastic instead of paper. You know. That sort of thing.

So yesterday, having an afternoon to myself, I decided that I'd had it. A few days previous I'd been watching one of my home improvement shows, and the hapless host put an idea into my diseased little brain when he switched the hinges on a refrigerator door so it would open the opposite way. "Ahh!" Cyndi says to herself, "that didn't look too hard. I'll just take the doors off and switch the hinges. It will be easy. Probably it will only take a few minutes."

Twenty five minutes later, sweating and cursing (minimally of course, and only in my head), I had the dryer door off and found that even with all the might of my scrawny arm, I COULD NOT get the screw to go into the hole on the opposite side of the dryer opening. I begged, I pleaded, I threatened, I tossed around the word "scrapyard." But alas. No progress. (Switching into third person present tense mode in 3...2...1)

"That's it!" Cyndi shouts inanely. "I didn't want to do this, but you give me no choice. I'm going to go rent a drill!" Cyndi watches the dryer carefully for any sign of dogged submissiveness, but finding none, stomps downstairs to get her shoes and car keys. "You'll be sorry!" she shouts over her should as she clicks out of the front door.

(Fast forward 15 minutes.) Cyndi stands at the rental counter of the Home Depot. Buck the rental clerk blinks at the blond in shiny black heels and skirt standing in front of him.

"Hep you m'am?"

"Why yes. I need a drill," Cyndi says, trying to sound confident and knowing.

"Why?"

"Erm, why?" Cyndi stammers. The little voice in her head begins to yap at her, 'If you tell him what you need it for, he won't give it to you. You'll feel stupid. Be vague, be breezy, be confident.'

"Oh, just a couple little projects, you know." Cyndi laughs in what she hopes is a breezy manner.

Buck raises an eyebrow. "Like what?"

'You blew it,' says the little voice, 'you call that breezy? Psh.'

"Oh, this and that," Cyndi answers uncertainly.

"Well yer gonna have to give me some kind of idea of what yer doing else I can't give you the right tool."

"Oh, I just need to hang a few pictures, switch a door around, that sort of thing."

"Door? What kinda door?" Buck asks, preternaturally sharp now, formerly dull eyes taking on the glassy ferret-like sheen universal to used car salesmen.

"Washer and dryer." Cyndi mumbles.

"Washer and dryer! Waaaale. You caint use no drill fer that. You'll jest strip out the screws. Only it take ya 2 seconds instead of a minute. Trust me missy. I been usin these tools for 40 years now. You have to use a screwdriver."

"I tried that. The screw wouldn't go in."

Buck flicks a quick glance at Cyndi's arm, the problem already decided and quickly settling over his features in a mask of practiced skepticism. "Well you probably jest wasn't gettin enough power behind it. Or you have the wrong kind of screwdriver. What kind was you using?"

Frantically, Cyndi's mind swims. 'What is the name of that stupid thing?' she questions inwardly. The little voice in her head shrugs deferentially. 'Phillips' has miraculously vanished from the memory banks, and instead, "The one with the little crossy things at the top," is all that leaks out. Cyndi grimaces inwardly, feeling an utter moron.

"That's called a Phillips m'am. What size was it?"

"Uh, I dunno. Five or six inches long I guess."

Buck laughs his patented "Ain't it adorable when women try to fix things" chuckle. "No m'am. What size was the head?"

"Oh well, yes. Um. Not too big, about like this" Cyndi says, pinching her fingers and holding them up to her eye to indicate a quarter inch, simultaneously glancing around the shop for a tool to jam in her ear to end the mortification of the moment.

Buck sighs. "You come on back with me now and I'll show ya some thangs." He lumbers to a stock room behind the desk, Cyndi clicks after him, heels echoing mockingly in the industrial shed filled with steel and sawdust.

With a thick-fingered grease coated hand, Buck scrapes up a handful of screws.

"Now see, this here is a sheet metal screw," Buck says, poking at the flinty lot with a blunted black rimmed nail, "It's self-tapping, so ya don't hafta knock a hole in first. He counts out four screws and offers them. "You go head and put these in yer purse."

"Er, thanks."

"With the right screwdriver, these'll go right in fer ya. Guarantee it. Lemme show you what kind screwdriver you need." Buck clomps off into the store proper with Cyndi tagging along. He pauses by the screwdrivers and selects one from the bottom shelf.

"This one here is a good deal. It's got two sizes of flat and Phillips," he says, overemphasizing the word, doing his best to educate, "heads. And when ya take them out, it will double as a ratchet. You tell yer husband about that? Kay?"

"Sure. Thanks," Cyndi says, resisting the urge to kick him in the shin and claim a spasm.

"Now, that oughta do ya. Good luck." Buck ambles away back toward the rental section. Cyndi checks out and flies home with her new prize.

(Fast forward 20 minutes)

With considerably less sweating and cursing, Cyndi screws the last screw into the dryer door, now happily installed on the opposite side, opening away from the washer. "Hmm," she says happily, "I guess Buck did know what he was talking about."

She pushes the door closed triumphantly. It hits on something and flies back open. She tries again to the same result. "What the..." Cyndi opens the door and discovers she has installed it upside down.

"Oh for the love!" She shouts ineffectually, realizing that she has to switch the hinges to the other side of the door and reinstall. She opens the door and examines the hinges to find all the screw heads are stripped out and cannot be removed. "Some moron must used a drill on em," Buck comments from inside Cyndi's head.

The only option left is to take the door off and put it back in in its original backward position. Cyndi takes the door off again and re-installs it a third time, only this time the door requires and extra push in order to close.

So all that, and yours truly managed only to make to dryer door close less smoothly than it had in the past. Yeah. I rock. Grocery checkers beware.

-Cyndi

The Willful Cowlick

Naturally, I have coarse brown hair. It's been this way since I was a kid. My regular routine of bleaching, blow-drying, flat-ironing, etc. seems to have little or no effect on the texture. Simply and stubbornly, it is what it is. Most the time it cooperates, though over the years it has informed me in no uncertain terms that it will not stand for any foofy type of up-do. Due to an unfortunate accident of genetics resulting in ears that jut away from my head at a roughly 80 degree angle, I'm okay with the no updo thing. Though I have oft suspected that allowing my ears out of their padded hair prison would give me special sonar powers. Or at least the ability to hear dog whistles.

But for the most part, I don't mind terribly. That is except when new hairs grow in exactly where my hair parts. You may not know this, but coarse hair grows vertically until passes the 3 inch mark. Only then does it consider laying down. When my hair grows, I am rewarded with a plethora of defiant brown (sometimes gray- eek!) spikes that shoot from the top of my head like so many bamboo shoots. And they will. not. lay. down.

I've tried every type of "product" known to man (or woman). Sprays, gels, waxes, pomades. Nothing works for more than 30 seconds. Goop on, plaster it down, and DOING! Back up it springs, only perhaps a little shinier, straighter, stiffer, etc. Short of scraping engine grease from a carburetor (somehow I thought this would only create a different issue), I've done everything I could think of.

Why not pluck them? - you ask. Ahh! If it were only that simple. It would seem that plucking one only creates room for the hair next door, who previously lay down for whatever reason, to stand tall and find its place in the sun. Or florescent bathroom lights, as the case may be.

They also catch the light of any given room fabulously, and often people talking to me will take a quick glance at the top of my head. "Yes," I say, "I know they're there. But could you pretend you don't see them? Recognition only serves to swell their egos." At which point said person usually walks away.

Not that I blame them.

-Cyndi

Can you guess what's next?

The pieces of the puzzle are as follows:

A. Items on Cyndi's desk.
-One Letter of Agency
-One Service Order Agreement
-One styrofoam cup containing paperclips
-One styrofoam cup containing Coke and ice

B. Task at hand
-Letter of agency must be signed, faxed, paper-clipped to Service Order Agreement, and filed.

So have you guessed what happens next?

If you guessed, "Cyndi shoves her hand in the styrofoam cup of coke looking for a paperclip and is so shocked that she jerks it out and tips the cup over, ruining the documents...You are CORRECT!

You win a cookie. It's in my purse. Feel free to drop by and grab it. But you may have to fight me for it. Fair warning has been given.

-Cyndi