ALMOST THERE

It has been an epic week of Christmas activities. 

Candles went in the windows, I went in to see lights in Boston (big tree was busted; its lights didn't work), and tonight I visited the Enchanted Village at Jordan's (Furniture ... not Marsh ...).  I'll save that for another day's post, though.

What I will share today is that I'm almost ready.  Seriously ... almost done, including wrapping.

Oh, sure -- I'll be running out at the eleventh hour after forgetting someone important.  But, for now, anyway, the house is fairly decorated.  From the outside it looks completed.  Inside it looks like Santa's workshop exploded everywhere.

Happy Third Week in Advent, folks.  Here are some of my dinky little lights from 2014.  Merry Christmas, and if you're offended by that, then bugger off.

WHY, YES ... YES, I AM

Sometimes I'll take those silly surveys online.  You know the ones I mean; they claim to guess my age in 20 questions, or tell me what kind of spirit animal I would be if I were, in fact, a spirit animal, or match me up to my perfect pet, or tell me what kind of job I should have that I don't currently have just to make me feel like a failure.

Today I take an online survey to determine what type of story I am. 

Now, I'm thinking there is no way this is going to work.  I'll come out with the horror genre or perhaps be a kids' book.  Perhaps I am a how-to manual or a Greek tragedy.  I know I'm not a fantasy genre, but maybe I can be a reference book of some kind, like a grammar textbook. 

Every day, every single day of my life, weird shit happens to me.  Maybe I'm a sci-fi story along the lines of Twilight Zone where the only character not "in" on the trippy alternate universe is the idiot protagonist.  Certainly this has to be my story.

Here's what I end up with:  Witty and sarcastic with a penchant for cynicism, your tale is one of Satire! An extremely intelligent individual who's eyes see beyond the falsity of masks and charades, your trust is never given and only won by few. You do not take the world at face value, and rather loathe those who do. Society is full of imperfections, regardless of how far we think we've come, and you'll be the one to expose it's true face - Brick by Brick.

Satirical.  Sarcastic.  Cynical. 

Now, there's a big fucking surprise. 

I bow to you, Great Internet On-Line Survey.  For once in the universe, you are correct.

LIGHTING A FIRECRACKER AND RUNNING AWAY

If all goes well -- If the creek don't rise and there ain't no meltdown -- I am going to the Bruins vs. Blackhawks hockey game.  I won't be home in time to write and post a blog, but I've managed to post every day, and I'm not about to stop now.

So ... I'm going to light a firecracker and run.

These asshole kids (Are they yours?  If they are, you SUCK as a parent.) at Harvard and other "fine" institutions ... these morons are insisting that final exams be delayed because they were exercising their right to protest what they see as injustices.

I'll tell you what.  I am protesting your inability to read a calendar and plan accordingly.  You're fucking tools.

You know why? 

Because not everyone gets a trophy, that's why.  Because you learn to live with the consequences of your actions, that's why.  Because you take personal responsibility, that's why.  Because you have to stop expecting the entire world to stop what it's doing so it can bend over and kiss your royal ass, that's why.

If you were my children, I'd be goddamned humiliated to even claim you.  You're wussies.  You are what is wrong with the world today.  You are the "Gimmes" who think protesting in the street for a cause makes you somehow sainted, anointed, forgiven.

Get your goddamn lazy, sorry asses to your classes and take your final exams.

You are the most pretentious bunch of assholes to ever walk American soil.  Imagine where we'd be if the founding fathers and the proud protesting patriots pulled this shit?

Go back to school.  Go directly back to school.  Do not pass Go; do not collect $200.

This is life, and you've already failed.

THE BIRDS!

My school has been relocated to the old high school while our building is remodeled.  I like the old high school, though it smells a bit and makes me sneeze.  But it's an old-school old school, meaning it's the cinder block walls of our youth with pathetic fire alarm sirens and an intercom system that sounds like tin cans on a string.

The best part about the old high school is the teeny courtyard -- not because we can use it (we cannot), but because there is a large bush that is loaded with birds.

I've yet to see these birds.  I hear them every single morning on my way by the glass and up the ramp to the farthest wing of the school.  The sound in the morning is like something out of Hitchcock's The Birds.  It's creepy and fascinating all at once.

This morning I am determined to see the birds, maybe spot a nest amongst the feathered mayhem.  As I pass near the spot where the bush is, I can hear the incessant cackling, and I can see the bush's branches moving.

However, I cannot see any birds.

I decide to move closer and get right up against the glass.

Suddenly ... silence.  Not a peep.  It's as if no birds exist anywhere on earth.

I step away from the glass and decide to continue on my way.  The moment I turn, the birds starts chirping like mad all over again.

So, I approach the window-wall again, and ... silence.

I try this s few more times, stepping back (tweet tweet tweet) and stepping forward toward the bush on the opposite side of the glass.  Each time the ridiculous noise starts, then stops, then starts, then stops...

I see another teacher in the hallway and call her over.

"I'm kind of busy right now," she says.

"No, really," I insist.  "You've gotta watch this."

I stop her just before she nears where the courtyard starts.

"Hear that?" I ask.  She nods.  "Sounds like..."

"Birds!" she exclaims.

"Now, step forward," I instruct her.

The birds instantly stop chattering and are silent; it's as if they don't even exist in reality.

We run this experiment a few more times until we are laughing too much to sneak up on the little aviary bastards any longer.  They're done with us.  They're not talking.  This makes the whole thing even more hilarious, as if we have entered an alternate universe and no birds exist. 

I'm not going to lie.  I cannot wait to get to school in the morning now that I've discovered The Birds.  Makes me cackle just chirping about it on my blog.  (Insert evil laughter here.)

SLIP 'N' SLIDE

We are having a Nor'Easter.  My area is supposed to get mostly rain, but it freezes so fast this morning as it hits the cold streets that my driveway is a skating rink.  This I discover as I go to put out the bag of garbage on my way to my car for work.  (Thankfully, I put out the recycling the night before.)

 I step out of my front door and almost wipe out, which isn't really the funny part.  My driveway has a slant to it, and I slide right past my car, down, down, down the short but slick brickwork, the large garbage bag flailing along with me.  I realize I won't make it all the way to the regular trash spot by the road, so I turn my body and attempt to slide to the stone wall.  As soon as I can grab it, I hook my free hand into the evergreen tree.  With my other hand, I hurl the bag toward the street, hoping its contents don't explode all over the sidewalk.

I crawl back up along the wall until I am above the car.  The Icy Melt I bought the other day is still in the back of my vehicle, so I'm heading for the tailgate.  I overshoot the car slightly and grab a door handle as I sail by.  Hand over hand, handle over handle, I make my way to the Icy Melt.

This is the funny part.  I must look like Buster Keaton or Harold Lloyd pulling some old-time movie stunt.  I have to admit, I'd pay big money to be a spectator watching my driveway skating routine.

As I am spreading the road-salt gingerly in front of me, a pickup truck crawls down my street, another hill.  It takes me a few seconds to realize the truck is completely ice-borne, and it careens sideways into the dangerous intersection, almost getting hit head-on by two mini-vans.

I decide to salt the street, as well, so I don't pull the same stunt.

Twenty minutes after I have started taking out the garbage while leaving my house, my car and I have reached the end of my street (maybe 100 yards) and am slip-sliding into another intersection.  Thankfully, the receiving street and the ones I drive on to work have been salted. 

I don't mind the snow, and I don't mind the rain.  The black ice I can live without.  Literally. 

NOT IN THE CARDS?

(I stole this from the Internet.)

My friends and I are debating sending cards out this year.  I bought them, just in case (on sale).  I know if I don't send them, I can hand them out to coworkers, spreading cheer and saving a few postage stamps in the meantime, so it is money well spent. 

I know that there are a few people in my circle, though, who've had an extremely tough year.  They may not send out cards, but I'd like for them to receive a card from me.  It has meaning to me.  I don't care if I get one back.  Spreading Christmas greetings isn't about reciprocity -- it's about the personal sentiment and the joy of giving. 

My friends and I share a common brain, especially my cyber buddies.  My blog pals are the ones who get my jokes and will dive in with fangs bared to defend my honor, even when I am dead-to-rights wrong, as I will for them, as well.  I do not tell them nearly often enough how deeply and sincerely I love them, including my Jericho cohorts (especially during the infamous Senor Ed fiasco) and my ex-Conversation Nation compatriots (even after we crashed and burned the site at WBZ-TV ... sorry I'm not sorry, Kord). 

If you get a card from me, it just means I didn't run out of steam yet.  If you don't get a card from me, I certainly hope my cyber-sentiments are met with the authenticity with which they are bestowed.  Honestly, I haven't written a single card ... yet.  I hope to ... I might .... I might not.

In the meantime, merry almost-Christmas and happy almost-Hanukkah from me to you and yours.  I do love you all, even if I don't say it often enough.  (And yes, I am sober.)

NATIONAL BROWNIE DAY

Today is National Brownie Day.

In honor of National Brownie Day, which I happen to think is a great cause to celebrate, I baked brownies on Sunday.  I cheated and used the pre-packaged, powdered mix-in-a-bag, boxed version that has been my go-to for years. 

However, when I was a kid, I liked nothing better than making brownies from scratch.

I would get out the double-boiler and all the supplies, making a complete and total mess.  It all started with chunks of unsweetened chocolate, tons of sugar, and a glass baking dish like the one I still use for the "cheating" version.

The best part about baking brownies is saving a little bit of batter, maybe three or four teaspoons worth, to scrape out of the bowl while chugging a glass of ice cold milk and watching the pan of brownies bake in the oven.

After I baked the box-to-batch brownies yesterday, I cut them into small, gooey-chocolate bricks and packed them in shrink wrap and wax paper.  By the way, wax paper is the magic ingredient to keep food fresh.  It's probably the most important (if only) cooking/baking tidbit my mother ever shared with me.

Will I bring them to work?  Well, I'll bring a brownie or two in my lunch, but I won't be sharing them with my team or with anyone else.  I admit I made more than I need, but I simply don't have enough to share.

Oh, well.  What are the holidays for if not to bake, eat, and get chunky?

Happy National Brownie Day, everybody.