Last night I had the house to myself around as Mom and Bro took off to do some last minute shopping for Da Nephew. I took a look around and divided everything into two categories: Stuff I Should Be Doing
And What I Am Actually Planning on Doing.
It has been one of those weeks.
Every year I promise myself I'm going to get ahead of the game, start off Christmas shopping in October and just put my feet up and relax when the actual holiday rolls around. I even managed it one year, but I got bored and felt left out of the whole hoopla.
Half the fun is the half hour in line for some D batteries, griping at other shoppers about the half hour in line to buy some D batteries and I didn't even know toy manufacturers built toys that still used D batteries until last night. The other half is the look of pure delight on the kid's face when he opens the toy.
Our particular madness this year started Wednesday night after midnight, when Mom and I roared out of the Canada Post parking lot. The rain was coming down in sheets.
"You really want to go grocery shopping in this?" Mom asked me.
"No," I said. "But I'd like less to include it in my schedule tomorrow morning when I have other shopping to do before work and when there are 3000 more people in the stores."
We got the food, went home to the usual news that the Habs lost and compensated with a nightcap. Mom had hopped in the tub while I had shed my clothes and was relaxing in my pyjamas. She came out to play her slot game, raising her eyebrows as she spotted her desk.
"Whose bra is this?" she asked, pinching one teeny corner of the fabric between a thumb and forefinger. She moved her hand 3 millimetres to the left and let go, dropping it on the floor.
I thought the 16 year old disgusted valley girl impression was spot on, and couldn't stop laughing. "Well it's just you and me here and you took yours off in the bathroom. Whose bra do you think it is exactly?"
The next morning we charged out into the fray again. I won't tell you the bar tab at the liquour store, but you can probably get an idea from the photo above. Not included in that photo: the fully stocked wine racks and a 5L bowl of Sangria.
"I don't know how to make a small Sangria," I told Mom.
"Go big or go home," was her reply. Mom likes my Sangria.
Speaking of which, we had decided on a turducken this year. We just couldn't find one until we called my brother, who had seen a butcher shop in Eastern Passage advertising them on a sign. Mom and I hopped in the car and drove across the harbour.
"Doesn't he live in Pittsburgh?" I complained, eyeballing the usual signage. Every single entry into Eastern Passage, Nova Scotia has a sign declaring itself as the Home of Sidney Crosby. Hey, you want to impress me? Try being the home of Larry Robinson. Just saying.
We hustled into the butcher shop and claimed our 15 lb turducken, which is apparently the only size the thing comes in. Mom got cooking instructions and I got heartburn.
"One store, one purchase, one hundred dollars, for one meal!" I complained bitterly. "We don't even know if we like turducken yet."
"I like chicken. I like duck. I like turkey," Mom assured me.
That night we begged off work two hours early and re-did the grocery store thingy, picking up snacks aplenty as it appeared my invitations to co-workers to stop by were going to be accepted.
"This is YOUR fault," Mom told me, but she was smiling at the thought of guests. Part of the problem with living away from Newfoundland is not doing the rounds of relatives and mooching food and booze or having them do the same to you. We like our traditions.
The next morning I got dressed, glanced out the window and braced myself for another accusation. "It's not my fault!" I hollered in a preemptive declaration of self-defense.
"Oh. My. GAWD!" Mom roared, charging to the window. "This is your fault! You're a witch! You wished for snow and look at this mess!"
Shopping also did not start out promising. We hit Toys 'R Us and I had to pause to suck in my breath as soon as we entered the store.
"Justin Bieber Christmas balls," I said, in wondrous horror. The bag of six red tree ornaments had his toothy grin smiling up at me. "This is proof positive this planet is going off the rails."
Despite all the madness we got our treasures and headed home. I was yawning my head off after 10 hours straight shopping, and Mom was having none of it.
"I just need to sit," I told her.
"You may not sit," she said. "Sitting is not permitted at this time."
But she and Bro took off back to the store and I curled up in the rocker recliner anyway, managing to catch a few zzz's.
Today we picked up Da Nephew and took off to the liquour store AGAIN. I had done this last year and promised never again to visit a liquour store on Christmas Eve. Given a choice I'd rather be stood against a wall and shot. Twice.
But Mom was driving, with Da Nephew in the back and I had no choice apparently.
"Oh my God," I sighed, eying the crowd rushing into the just-opened store. I hauled ass out of the truck and charged through the crowd, muttering apologies the whole while.
The store workers were dressed in festive Santa hats and just coming down the stairs. There were at least a half dozen of them, and they all had the same reaction upon seeing the patrons. "Holy BLEEP!"
I grabbed a bottle of wine, a bottle of Carolans, and beat most of the crowd to the checkout. At the checkout one of the clerks was talking to a supervisor.
"It should even out after this first rush," said the pimple-faced boy who did not look old enough to work for the liquour corporation.
"Doubt it," responded the supervisor, hands on hips, as she peered out through the windows. "They're circling for parking and it looks like a good 50 people are waiting out the initial crowd in their cars."
I headed back to the truck and we peeled out to Wal-Mart, grabbed some stocking stuffers, and then headed over to buy lobster. It's lobster season here, and the fishermen are selling it for five bucks a pound for premium hard shelled lobster.
"I want 4, maybe 5," Mom told the fisherman. "Two pounds or more each, and no more than fifty dollars total."
"Here," he said, handing her a bag of lobsters. "I threw in an extra one for you, so there's six. Merry Christmas!"
And Merry Christmas and safe and Happy Holidays to you too, my loyal readers. Thank you so much for your support this past year. Please know that I really do appreciate the wonderful gift of your valuable time that you take to read my rambling posts.
And What I Am Actually Planning on Doing.
It has been one of those weeks.
Every year I promise myself I'm going to get ahead of the game, start off Christmas shopping in October and just put my feet up and relax when the actual holiday rolls around. I even managed it one year, but I got bored and felt left out of the whole hoopla.
Half the fun is the half hour in line for some D batteries, griping at other shoppers about the half hour in line to buy some D batteries and I didn't even know toy manufacturers built toys that still used D batteries until last night. The other half is the look of pure delight on the kid's face when he opens the toy.
Our particular madness this year started Wednesday night after midnight, when Mom and I roared out of the Canada Post parking lot. The rain was coming down in sheets.
"You really want to go grocery shopping in this?" Mom asked me.
"No," I said. "But I'd like less to include it in my schedule tomorrow morning when I have other shopping to do before work and when there are 3000 more people in the stores."
We got the food, went home to the usual news that the Habs lost and compensated with a nightcap. Mom had hopped in the tub while I had shed my clothes and was relaxing in my pyjamas. She came out to play her slot game, raising her eyebrows as she spotted her desk.
"Whose bra is this?" she asked, pinching one teeny corner of the fabric between a thumb and forefinger. She moved her hand 3 millimetres to the left and let go, dropping it on the floor.
I thought the 16 year old disgusted valley girl impression was spot on, and couldn't stop laughing. "Well it's just you and me here and you took yours off in the bathroom. Whose bra do you think it is exactly?"
The next morning we charged out into the fray again. I won't tell you the bar tab at the liquour store, but you can probably get an idea from the photo above. Not included in that photo: the fully stocked wine racks and a 5L bowl of Sangria.
"I don't know how to make a small Sangria," I told Mom.
"Go big or go home," was her reply. Mom likes my Sangria.
Speaking of which, we had decided on a turducken this year. We just couldn't find one until we called my brother, who had seen a butcher shop in Eastern Passage advertising them on a sign. Mom and I hopped in the car and drove across the harbour.
"Doesn't he live in Pittsburgh?" I complained, eyeballing the usual signage. Every single entry into Eastern Passage, Nova Scotia has a sign declaring itself as the Home of Sidney Crosby. Hey, you want to impress me? Try being the home of Larry Robinson. Just saying.
We hustled into the butcher shop and claimed our 15 lb turducken, which is apparently the only size the thing comes in. Mom got cooking instructions and I got heartburn.
"One store, one purchase, one hundred dollars, for one meal!" I complained bitterly. "We don't even know if we like turducken yet."
"I like chicken. I like duck. I like turkey," Mom assured me.
That night we begged off work two hours early and re-did the grocery store thingy, picking up snacks aplenty as it appeared my invitations to co-workers to stop by were going to be accepted.
"This is YOUR fault," Mom told me, but she was smiling at the thought of guests. Part of the problem with living away from Newfoundland is not doing the rounds of relatives and mooching food and booze or having them do the same to you. We like our traditions.
The next morning I got dressed, glanced out the window and braced myself for another accusation. "It's not my fault!" I hollered in a preemptive declaration of self-defense.
"Oh. My. GAWD!" Mom roared, charging to the window. "This is your fault! You're a witch! You wished for snow and look at this mess!"
Shopping also did not start out promising. We hit Toys 'R Us and I had to pause to suck in my breath as soon as we entered the store.
"Justin Bieber Christmas balls," I said, in wondrous horror. The bag of six red tree ornaments had his toothy grin smiling up at me. "This is proof positive this planet is going off the rails."
Despite all the madness we got our treasures and headed home. I was yawning my head off after 10 hours straight shopping, and Mom was having none of it.
"I just need to sit," I told her.
"You may not sit," she said. "Sitting is not permitted at this time."
But she and Bro took off back to the store and I curled up in the rocker recliner anyway, managing to catch a few zzz's.
Today we picked up Da Nephew and took off to the liquour store AGAIN. I had done this last year and promised never again to visit a liquour store on Christmas Eve. Given a choice I'd rather be stood against a wall and shot. Twice.
But Mom was driving, with Da Nephew in the back and I had no choice apparently.
"Oh my God," I sighed, eying the crowd rushing into the just-opened store. I hauled ass out of the truck and charged through the crowd, muttering apologies the whole while.
The store workers were dressed in festive Santa hats and just coming down the stairs. There were at least a half dozen of them, and they all had the same reaction upon seeing the patrons. "Holy BLEEP!"
I grabbed a bottle of wine, a bottle of Carolans, and beat most of the crowd to the checkout. At the checkout one of the clerks was talking to a supervisor.
"It should even out after this first rush," said the pimple-faced boy who did not look old enough to work for the liquour corporation.
"Doubt it," responded the supervisor, hands on hips, as she peered out through the windows. "They're circling for parking and it looks like a good 50 people are waiting out the initial crowd in their cars."
I headed back to the truck and we peeled out to Wal-Mart, grabbed some stocking stuffers, and then headed over to buy lobster. It's lobster season here, and the fishermen are selling it for five bucks a pound for premium hard shelled lobster.
"I want 4, maybe 5," Mom told the fisherman. "Two pounds or more each, and no more than fifty dollars total."
"Here," he said, handing her a bag of lobsters. "I threw in an extra one for you, so there's six. Merry Christmas!"
And Merry Christmas and safe and Happy Holidays to you too, my loyal readers. Thank you so much for your support this past year. Please know that I really do appreciate the wonderful gift of your valuable time that you take to read my rambling posts.
Very good - and Merry Christmas to you and yours Roz and a huge Laura hug to all.
ReplyDeleteHugs back to you Laura (not balls as I had initially typed). I'm not even drinking yet! Just making snickerdoodles with Da Nephew. Happy Holidays to you and yours. Talk to you soon!
ReplyDelete