Da Who Dores

My make up is all fucked up, y'all. And I blame Christmas.

I've resisted very heavily the idea of putting up any and all decorations for Christmas. I haven't written a single card, I've only just barely wrapped any gifts and even those only because they had to go in the mail. I didn't make a single cookie and the only person I've wished a Happy Christmas to is the Salvation Army Bell Ringer (put a nickel in the pot, save another drunken sot).

I tell people it's because there isn't anyone going to come to my wee little house on the east end of the world, but the truth is it's because I simply couldn't bear it. Christmas is about Family, and even though I've got an amazing bunch of friends (and Shush, let's not forget him), my family is far away. M is far away. The idea of a Christmas morning with out her...well. Let's just say there isn't water proof enough mascara.

But still, I missed it. I missed the hassle of figuring out why there are three rows of branches labeled "N" and none labled "L" and I missed the stupid string of lights that has to have it's plug's angle JUST SO or it doesn't work. It didn't feel right though, some how, to put up the decorations made of glued macaroni and glitter. Somehow, that tree leaning lopsided in my living room made Christmas too real. Made it too hard. No go. I'm Grinching it. Fuck those stupid Who's and all their Who Spirit, Mama isn't interested.

On his way home this morning Shush called me to tell me he was bringing home Something that had been given to him by a friend at work and while he didn't know what it was there was a lot of it and I was under strict instructions to open it today.

He carried in boxes and bags and laid them on the living room table. A half dozen happily wrapped boxes (with ribbons AND bows. Show off).

The biggest box was to be opened first, he said, so I did.

Y'all...this is where the tears started.

There, inside a that cheerful Santa paper was a Christmas Tree. A gift from a girl I've never met but who somehow knew exactly what I needed. Box after box contained ornaments, lights and even a star for the top of the tree, somehow chosen in exactly the colors I would have picked.

I can't even begin to tell you how much it touched me. Here, somehow, was the whole meaning of the holiday. The proof that even when you're alone, you've got someone, somewhere thinking about you.

Ten Confession Thursday, Christmas Style

Confession: I ate Christmas Cookies for dinner last night.

Confession: I have no intention of buying presents for people I won't see before Christmas until after Christmas.

Confession: I bought all my own gifts this year.

Confession: When I was ten I asked for a bra for Christmas. I got a stuffed bear. I was wicked pissed. But not as pissed as I was about the fact that CK ate the head off the reindeer cookie I specially decorated for Santa. I distinctly recall that there were many tears shed on both sides as CK was convinced that now Santa wouldn't leave her anything and so we wrote a special note and left him a headless cookie and some cheese and summer sausage on Ritz crackers. Because we thought he needed some protein. Apparently.

Confession: I sometimes listen to Christmas CD's in the middle of summer. I especially like Rockin' Eighties Christmas because it's got the Waitresses "Christmas Wrapping" which is my favorite Christmas song.

Confession: I regift. One time, I spent WEEKS shopping for a gift for a friend. She gave me one of those stupid scarf/hat/glove gift sets from Kmart. So the next year, I gave that exact set back to her and she loved it and I felt like a total bitch.

Confession: The thing I'm most excited about this year is the fact that I don't have to cook Christmas dinner.

Confession: Possibly my all time favorite story about M (aside from the Fried Chicken Incident) is from the Christmas she was two. There were seventeen people in my parents house and she comes out of her room stark naked and wearing my Daddy's black leather motorcycle boots and I said to her "M, I don't want you to be a naked baby" and she looked right at me, cocked her little curled head to the side and said "Too late!" then laughed maniacally and clomped off.

Confession: Christmas is the only time of year I wish I had more children. Just because I miss their ability to believe in Santa.

Confession: I still kind of believe in Santa.

(PS. Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. I'm not totally dead. Just down with that wretched chest nonsense that's going around. Which is basically just an excuse to be completely high on codeine cough medicine and drink a shit ton of whiskey. It's like Santa and Baby Jesus teamed up to ensure that I got exactly what I wanted. Except for the coughing. That I could do with out.)

Klassy Khristmas

When my sisters and I were young, our mother worked for the Seattle Indian Center (now renamed something less offensive like Northwest Center for Native American Heritage). It was, as indicated in the name, primarily dedicated to social services for disenfranchised Natives. They had day cares, work centers, etc.

They also frequently hosted pow wows, pot latches and other cultural events.

At the dedication of their new building, the room was packed with elders and members of all the local tribes. We were, I'm sure, the only pale faces in the crowd. Our blond or red hair shown like beacons and KL, who was three and both very loud and very precocious was holding court amid a group of grandmothers resplendent in their very nicest clothing and beaded jewelry.



As the ceremony is ready to begin a hush fell over the room and a dancer dressed in full regalia entered the room.

And then my loud ass sister shouts out "OH MY! Mommy! Look! It's a REAL INDIAN!"

Now, if you've ever taken a toddler to church you know that anything they say that is inappropriate is going to be crystal clear and loud enough to embarrass you.

Every pair of brown eyes in the room turns to look at us. CK and I begin surveying escape routes, but my mom says to KL

"You know Axl (my mothers Aleutian drunk bush pilot work boyfriend)?" and KL agrees she does know him. "And you know Rosemary? (the stunningly beautiful receptionist)" and KL agrees that she does "Well, what do you think they are?"

KL, little fists on her hips doesn't miss a beat and in the tone that children reserve for their parents when they're being especially retarded says;

"They're your FRIENDS"

Later, when Robin the transgendered ex-con got drunk and tried to sell Mum her shoes, she slurrily told her how glad she was that my mother had raised such lovely, classy children.

Which is why today my sisters and I will be posing like this for our holiday cards.

Because NOTHING says Klassy like posing in lingere with your sisters, am I right?

Someone else's boobs, for a change

Friday afternoon I was thinking that I was going to spend the whole weekend lazing about my house, eating cheddar popcorn and reading the books I bought at Savers.

Then my sister called.

Next thing you know, I'm on my way to Vegas. Hell yeah, VEGAS, Baby.

We were staying at the Monte Carlo, which should you be looking for a place to lay around the pool and people watching is a fantastic place to be. The pool area is small, loud, crowded and ripe with WTF was s/he thinking? outfits.

Which is nice, should you forget your hat and be left with only ironic Bolivian Trucker Hats to prevent your face from catching on fire.

It's also a decent place to read a book and eat over priced steak sliders and drink giant, expensive, weak frozen drinks.

Once we had made sufficient progress on our tan lines


(these are Krissy Oh!'s boobs, by the way, not mine)

we ate dinner with children wearing fanny packs

You can't see it, but he's got an impressively large bottle of hand sanitizer in a quick draw pouch in the side.

Then we went upstairs where despite how it looked we had not actually been robbed

and got ready to go out for the night.

We wandered around for a bit, hitting clubs like Coyote Ugly (the "ugly" wasn't ironic in this case) standing around at an epically disorganized LAX at the Luxor and then chose to bail on invites to Pure and Rain because high heels are not made for walking in.

Which brings us to Sunday.....

OMFG, Sunday. Let me just say that if I had used my own camera right now you would all be begging for invites to next years trip, but since I had my sisters camera you're going to have to wait until she uploads them.

Man's Favorite Holiday

Today is National Cleavage Day.

You're welcome.