Post-Event Gastro-Intestinal Distress Not Included
As I do not usually post on Saturdays, I had not planned to put one up today, but there are a couple of things the world must hear immediately.

First, to the people who found this site after searching for "tamale steaming bucket", I apologize for the utter uselessness of this blog in that regard. All the food-related functions of the Bucket are entirely metaphorical.

To the person who found this site after searching "the incredibles + undertones + incest", you are either a tiresome college student studying "communications" or "media studies" or you are a total perv. Either way I would like to arrange a time and a place wherein I will be able to kick you in the face.

Last, I would like to say how happy I am that my mom is not here for the holidays. Nothing can fuck up a perfectly good holiday like family.

Mom's in Illinois, driven off by the need for employment. On holidays, mom tends to be moody, impossible to please and given to ridiculous flights of cheese-ball manufactured "togetherness", like trying to make everyone wear the same T-shirt or something. Not "the same" as in getting everyone into one big T-shirt, I mean everyone getting their own individual T-shirt done up in similar colors and styles, usually with some kind of slogan puffy-painted on the front.

So Illinois is the best place for her. The problem is I have two sisters, both of whom live here. The younger is a paramedic, so she works all the time and I rarely see or hear from her.

The elder recently moved back to Cali after a period of exile in Michigan. She inherited all of my mom's cheese-ball genes. She also works for a photography firm. They specialize in high-school senior pictures but hey, wouldn't it be great if we could all put aside our plans on a Saturday, come down to the studio and get our pictures taken for Christmas?

Why, no. No, it wouldn't.

So there I was this afternoon, three freeways away from my house, way over-dressed, smoldering behind my fake smile as I tried to figure out who I was more likely to murder first, my sister or my children.

I've mentioned this before, but my kids are 5, 3 and 18 months. Everyone knows you can't get a kid's picture taken until they are at least 12 years old. Otherwise it's all and endless cycle of chasing, cajoling, threatening, beating, consoling over and over. Once they're 12, you can at least bribe them with pot.

It could have been worse, though: I could have had girl-children with their tights and dresses and bows and long stringy hair that you are (apparently) not allowed to cut in your backyard with the #3 clippers. I can hardly imagine the horror.

So anyway, I'm counting down the days until Christmas, but not in the way most people usually do when they say that. I've outlasted it before; I can do it again.


This post on the Narcissus Scale: 8.7


Pops


PS- I know you're not wondering how my Thanksgiving went, but just in case, I'll tell you what I tell anyone else who asks: nobody got salmonella.

PPS- If anyone is interested in seeing how our pictures turned out, one is being stored for me here. I know I'm usually a stickler for privacy, but I thought you would be curious. Enjoy.

- posted by Pops @ 11:06 PM