Saturday, November 28, 2009

Here Come's Santa Claus

Once again, mea culpa for being so lax with the quill.  I am beginning to realize the only way I'm going to write anything after work is if I parachute to the roof outside the computer room, climb in the window, sit my ass down and start typing.  This way, I'll complete bypass the siren song of the sofa.  Either that, or borrow wax from Ulysses for my ears. 
Thanksgiving has passed without overmuch stress.  Once again, I have enough stuffing and sweet potatoes left over to choke a horse.  All in all, I was just happy the event got off at all.  See, I overindulged at the Gomorrah family reunion party the night before.   To top it off, I returned home famished.  I'd squirreled away half a sandwich from Clemente, figuring to eat it when I got home.   In a state of maternal love I offered it to Coco, feeling bad she was staying home alone.  I also knew she had squirreled away her own half from her sandwich, so I really didn't think she'd take me up on the offer.  Fast forward to my drunken return to the homestead at 1:45am.  There sits Coco, looking like she just ate the canary from the cage.  I inquired after my sandwich to discover she'd indulged her hunger.  I then inquired after her half.  Seems that half went to a strip club with her.   Who the hell takes half an italian hero to a strip club on the night before thanksgiving????  Sadly, with a refrigerator full of food for the holiday, all there was to eat at that hour was bologna and swiss on rye bread.  Drunken women do not make pretty sandwiches.  I remember slapping the meat and cheese onto the bread and squirting mustard (no one should ever type those two words in the same sentence, by the way) on one of the slices of bread.  I had purchased a bag of kettle chips flavoured with jalepeno and aged cheddar.  As a drunk, they were delicious.  Crisp and crunchy, the perfect accompanimenet to the bologna.  Reading this now, my stomach is churning.  I have to say, on the entire planet, there really isn't a perfect accompaniment to bologna, and the least likely winner of that award is jalepeno and aged cheddar chips.  I proceeded to eat 1/3 of the bag.
I got upstairs, got the cinilon off, got most of the jewelery off, and crawled between the sheets.   At 6am my head was pounding and Max was nudging me for something to eat.  I got some tylenol into my system, fed the cat and contemplated how difficult it would be to put off thanksgiving for a day.  With barely enough time to form an answer to that question I was up the stairs and giving bourbon drenched jalepeno cheddar chips to the toilet bowl.    And then I gave the bowl some more.   Before I managed to find a few more remnants clinging to my stomach lining I found my sneakers and hit the road.  Usually, when I'm in that kind of condition, a walk does me good.  I walked for close to 2 and 1/2 miles.  Returning home, I still had a turkey to get into the oven.  Get it into the oven??  I couldn't even get it out of the fridge without serious help.  But, with that help, I got it stuffed to the gills (do turkeys have gills?), slathered with olive oil and mrs. dash, and into the oven before the parade started. 
It just so happens that sitting down to watch that parade was possibly the biggest mistake since eating jalepeno cheddar chips along with a bologna sandwich.   Head clearing and parade watching don't mix.  I felt like one of the giant balloons, careening from one side of the street to the other.  Back up the stairs, only this time I seriously had nothing to give the toilet, though not for lack of trying.  Again, thoughts of just how I was going to postpone this holiday for a day or two are banging around in my head.  Clearly, there was no way to pull that caper off, so into the shower I went.  40 gallons of hot water later, I emerged feeling none the worse for wear, and actually feeling a bit better.  There would be no hanging my head upside down to towel dry my long hair, but so what..?  What's a wet head in comparison to pushing back a nationally recognized holiday for a day?
And so, by the time Santa, oh how I do love Santa, passed Herald Square for his obligatory laying of the finger aside of his nose I was back in the saddle.  I was going a very slow gait, but I was going, nevertheless.
Some time in the afternoon I spied that bag of kettle jalepeno cheddar chips and insisted they be given to the garbage pail.  I haven't seen the bag since, so I'm assuming Coco obliged.  Either that or she ate them sometime when she was eating chocolate in bed, soiling the linens...but that's a whole other chapter.

And now, on to christmas, with thoughts of the feast of the seven fishes, christmas cookies, holiday festivities, and inevitable weight gain.  It's my plan not to have to consider moving christmas to the 27 of december.  Let's see if I can stick to that particular plan.