Christmas

Christmas 2012: I Know How This Day Ends

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The last present is unwrapped.

The food is put away and the dishes are done.

The last guest is gone.

Was it a good Christmas?

You ask yourself the rhetorical question.  Suddenly, save for one television set in a another room, quiet permeates the house. You can actually feel the energy as it wanes. It’s like the last swirls of water down the drain. The sink is still wet and that’s all the proof you had that water was once there.

You know that feeling.  The house is vacant, but there is residual energy. Proof that people were once there.

As each second passes, the energy fades. It’s all in the timing and today the timing was perfect, as was the holiday.

You are tired. And with good reason.

You were quite accomplished in your hostess duties this year. You graciously fed and entertained 18 members of your family. You did a good job and there is much to be proud of. The new furniture looks great. The new window treatments are gorgeous. The newly remodeled kitchen was a hit, too. Plus, you had the house professionally decorated this year. It was like a Courier and Ives photo come to life.

You walk through your home reliving the moments. You peer into the bar: ah yes, the liquor bottles were in great demand this day. The almost empty bottle of Dewar’s tells you that Uncle Sam was present and accounted for. Very little Vodka left and someone made sure Gin was consumed. Only one glass fell victim to shoddy dexterity this year. That’s OK. A set of 11-Waterford crystal hi-balls works just as well. You can always get another glass.

You move to the kitchen: you admire your architect’s handiwork as you hear the sound of the new dishwasher softly clicking into “rinse cycle”. Cookies, cakes and pies–the ones you couldn’t give away to departing guests, now sit on the counter top, protected from the elements by festive red and green plastic wrap.

You look in the refrigerator. It’s filled to capacity with food. No one touched cousin Lana’s three bean salad. There’s a good amount of dressing left, too but not that much turkey and there are only a few ham slices, too.   You’re thankful you won’t have to deal with leftovers for very long.

Gee, a Coke sure sounds good.

You open a bottle. The fizzy sound is inimitable. You take a sip and savor the cold, crisp flavor. You take the bottle with you as you move to the living room.

There it is;  a large seven-foot Blue Spruce that just 24 hours ago, presided over a house full of people and laughter, now stands rather empty looking—in spite of branches that still sport lights, ornaments and gold and silver tinsel.

Your husband is in the den, in his easy chair. An anonymous NFL game is on TV.  The announcers’ voice serve more as a lullaby than play-by-play.  He’s been asleep for almost an hour now.

You sit on the couch, holding the soft drink bottle in one hand, your head in the other. You smile. You thoughts focus on your daughter and what she’s doing at the very moment…how she might be looking down on her left hand admiring the beautiful diamond engagement ring she received this morning. Chris is a great guy. They’ll be happy, you hope. All this young woman’s hopes and dreams are centered around a piece of refined carbon atop a platinum setting. You remember when you and Bill got engaged. You look down at your wedding ring. Now as much a part of your personal scenery as your blond hair.

You think about your little sister and how happy she was when she opened the tiny gift her boyfriend had given her. It was a key and it fit the new Mercedes Benz parked outside. She was delighted. How lucky she is!! A brand new Mercedes! Wow, you think to yourself—he must really love your baby sister.

Your hear your husband stirring in the den. He’s awake. He changes the channel on the new flat screen TV. He seems to like his present. You’re glad. After 29 years of marriage, he’s still impossible to shop for. The man has everything!

He stops on an all music channel playing Christmas carols.   You listen to the lyrics.

Silent night.

You think about your grandkids who went crazy when they ran in this very room this morning squealing with delight. They realized after seeing the bounty before them, that they’d been good enough for the past year to warrant a Christmas Eve visit by the red suited benevolent one.

This room was littered with so many toys!

Then, a passing car light brings you back to reality and you get up from the couch and walk toward the source. There, in the window you can feel the cold radiating off the panes of glass.  You realize it’s Christmas everywhere, but you never thought about that all day.   You were insulated by your life in your world.  But even so, you know things are very different “out there”—beyond the panes of glass.

For a few fleeting moments, you think about all the life that exists outside your home. Then, you think about the people forced to live those lives.

Holy night

There’s the dissatisfied wife whose husband forgot her again this Christmas. Her gave her nothing. That is, if you don’t count the black eye he gave her after she “made” him hit her as he unraveled at the height of one of his more violent drunken rages on Christmas Eve.

All is calm.

There are American servicemen and women stationed around the world who are on watch….on patrol. In Afghanistan,  one squad is taking fire. A sniper in some bombed out mid-rise outside some war torn region  has the upper hand. Suddenly, there’s a lull in the fire fight. One 19-year old soldier, wipes away a tear as he clutches a gun on this night. He wishes to God he could be at home, in his mother’s arms. No, be brave, he reminds himself.  “I’m a Marine!”  A stray bullet grazes the wall behind him. He hunkers down lower. For a fleeting moment, he thinks about his family;  the tree; his Aunt Deb’s pumpkin pie. He wonders if they’ve thought about him at all this Christmas. This, as he prepares to return fire.

All is bright.

The 81-year old woman who waited for her son to come pick her up for a Christmas visit. She dressed and waited and waited, but he never came. He didn’t come last year, either. Maybe he’ll call on New Year’s Eve.

He won’t.

Round yon virgin, mother and child

There’s that sad, unkempt eight year old, the eldest child of a drug addict’s five children. She had to tell her crying brothers and sisters that Santa once again, lost their address. Their Christmas dinner is stale dry cereal, no milk. That was all she could find to feed them.

Holy infant so tender and mild

There are the those souls who’ll go to sleep hungry. Like those struggling to live in war-torn Darfur. The only Christmas gift some receive will be the “privilege” of waking up to yet another morning.

And in every city in this country, many people aren’t acknowledging Christmas.  It’s hard to do that when you’re depressed and hungry.  But their hunger goes beyond the need for food; they hunger for love and companionship.

They hunger for peace of mind.

Sleep in heavenly peace

There’s the broke couple who were only able to open envelopes containing  bills on Christmas morning.  There are  grieving parents in Newton, CT who two weeks ago, sent their children to school only to bring them home later, in coffins.  A family in New Jersey now homeless, because of Superstorm Sandy.

~

“How sad”, you think to yourself. You sigh and shake your head, but through it all, you thank God it’s them and not you.

Thank God indeed.

You take another sip of your drink and unplug the Christmas lights. It’s late. Time to go upstairs and try out the marvelous new king size Egyptian Cotton sheets that Sheila and Dan bought you. It’ll be like sleeping on a cloud. And you can’t wait to try on your new incredibly warm Chenille pajamas. Margaret must have spent a fortune on those!

You make your way toward the stairs and clutch your sweater;  it’s cold in this big, five bedroom manse. Raise the thermostat up a notch or two and maybe steal a cookie on your way upstairs.

But before you do, you stop, turn and take a one final look around you. You finish surveying the day’s events and the castle in which everything unfolded.

Your home.  Your family.   Your good fortune. It all melds together in this life affirming moment amid the holly and tinsel.

All is right.

So, the answer is yes, it was a great Christmas;  at your house, anyway.

Sleep in heavenly peace….

.

It’s Christmas and I Know How This Day Ends/2012

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.

The last present is unwrapped.

The food is put away and the dishes are done.

The last guest is gone.

Was it a good Christmas?

You ask yourself the rhetorical question.  Suddenly, save for one television set in a another room, quiet permeates the house. You can actually feel the energy as it wanes. It’s like the last swirls of water down the drain. The sink is still wet and that’s all the proof you had that water was once there.

You know that feeling.  The house is vacant, but there is residual energy. Proof that people were once there.

As each second passes, the energy fades. It’s all in the timing and today the timing was perfect, as was the holiday.

You are tired. And with good reason.

You were quite accomplished in your hostess duties this year. You graciously fed and entertained 18 members of your family. You did a good job and there is much to be proud of. The new furniture looks great. The new window treatments are gorgeous. The newly remodeled kitchen was a hit, too. Plus, you had the house professionally decorated this year. It was like a Courier and Ives photo come to life.

You walk through your home reliving the moments. You peer into the bar: ah yes, the liquor bottles were in great demand this day. The almost empty bottle of Dewar’s tells you that Uncle Sam was present and accounted for. Very little Vodka left and someone made sure Gin was consumed. Only one glass fell victim to shoddy dexterity this year. That’s OK. A set of 11-Waterford crystal hi-balls works just as well. You can always get another glass.

You move to the kitchen: you admire your architect’s handiwork as you hear the sound of the new dishwasher softly clicking into “rinse cycle”. Cookies, cakes and pies–the ones you couldn’t give away to departing guests, now sit on the counter top, protected from the elements by festive red and green plastic wrap.

You look in the refrigerator. It’s filled to capacity with food. No one touched cousin Lana’s three bean salad. There’s a good amount of dressing left, too but not that much turkey and there are only a few ham slices, too.   You’re thankful you won’t have to deal with leftovers for very long.

Gee, a Coke sure sounds good.

You open a bottle. The fizzy sound is inimitable. You take a sip and savor the cold, crisp flavor. You take the bottle with you as you move to the living room.

There it is;  a large seven-foot Blue Spruce that just 24 hours ago, presided over a house full of people and laughter, now stands rather empty looking—in spite of branches that still sport lights, ornaments and gold and silver tinsel.

Your husband is in the den, in his easy chair. An anonymous NFL game is on TV.  The announcers’ voice serve more as a lullaby than play-by-play.  He’s been asleep for almost an hour now.

You sit on the couch, holding the soft drink bottle in one hand, your head in the other. You smile. You thoughts focus on your daughter and what she’s doing at the very moment…how she might be looking down on her left hand admiring the beautiful diamond engagement ring she received this morning. Chris is a great guy. They’ll be happy, you hope. All this young woman’s hopes and dreams are centered around a piece of refined carbon atop a platinum setting. You remember when you and Bill got engaged. You look down at your wedding ring. Now as much a part of your personal scenery as your blond hair.

You think about your little sister and how happy she was when she opened the tiny gift her boyfriend had given her. It was a key and it fit the new Mercedes Benz parked outside. She was delighted. How lucky she is!! A brand new Mercedes! Wow, you think to yourself—he must really love your baby sister.

Your hear your husband stirring in the den. He’s awake. He changes the channel on the new flat screen TV. He seems to like his present. You’re glad. After 29 years of marriage, he’s still impossible to shop for. The man has everything!

He stops on an all music channel playing Christmas carols.   You listen to the lyrics.

Silent night.

You think about your grandkids who went crazy when they ran in this very room this morning squealing with delight. They realized after seeing the bounty before them, that they’d been good enough for the past year to warrant a Christmas Eve visit by the red suited benevolent one.

This room was littered with so many toys!

Then, a passing car light brings you back to reality and you get up from the couch and walk toward the source. There, in the window you can feel the cold radiating off the panes of glass.  You realize it’s Christmas everywhere, but you never thought about that all day.   You were insulated by your life in your world.  But even so, you know things are very different “out there”—beyond the panes of glass.

For a few fleeting moments, you think about all the life that exists outside your home. Then, you think about the people forced to live those lives.

Holy night

There’s the dissatisfied wife whose husband forgot her again this Christmas. Her gave her nothing. That is, if you don’t count the black eye he gave her after she “made” him hit her as he unraveled at the height of one of his more violent drunken rages on Christmas Eve.

All is calm.

There are American servicemen and women stationed around the world who are on watch….on patrol. In Afghanistan,  one squad is taking fire. A sniper in some bombed out mid-rise outside some war torn region  has the upper hand. Suddenly, there’s a lull in the fire fight. One 19-year old soldier, wipes away a tear as he clutches a gun on this night. He wishes to God he could be at home, in his mother’s arms. No, be brave, he reminds himself.  “I’m a Marine!”  A stray bullet grazes the wall behind him. He hunkers down lower. For a fleeting moment, he thinks about his family;  the tree; his Aunt Deb’s pumpkin pie. He wonders if they’ve thought about him at all this Christmas. This, as he prepares to return fire.

All is bright.

The 81-year old woman who waited for her son to come pick her up for a Christmas visit. She dressed and waited and waited, but he never came. He didn’t come last year, either. Maybe he’ll call on New Year’s Eve.

He won’t.

Round yon virgin, mother and child

There’s that sad, unkempt eight year old, the eldest child of a drug addict’s five children. She had to tell her crying brothers and sisters that Santa once again, lost their address. Their Christmas dinner is stale dry cereal, no milk. That was all she could find to feed them.

Holy infant so tender and mild

There are the those souls who’ll go to sleep hungry. Like those struggling to live in war-torn Darfur. The only Christmas gift some receive will be the “privilege” of waking up to yet another morning.

And in every city in this country, many people aren’t acknowledging Christmas.  It’s hard to do that when you’re depressed and hungry.  But their hunger goes beyond the need for food; they hunger for love and companionship.

They hunger for peace of mind.

Sleep in heavenly peace

There’s the broke couple who were only able to open mounting bills on Christmas morning.  The grieving parents in Sandy Hook, CT forced to set one less plate for Christmas dinner.

~

“How sad”, you think to yourself. You sigh and shake your head, but through it all, you thank God it’s them and not you.

Thank God indeed.

You take another sip of your drink and unplug the Christmas lights. It’s late. Time to go upstairs and try out the marvelous new king size Egyptian Cotton sheets that Sheila and Dan bought you. It’ll be like sleeping on a cloud. And you can’t wait to try on your new incredibly warm Chenille pajamas. Margaret must have spent a fortune on those!

You make your way toward the stairs and clutch your sweater;  it’s cold in this big, five bedroom manse. Raise the thermostat up a notch or two and maybe steal a cookie on your way upstairs.

But before you do, you stop, turn and take a one final look around you. You finish surveying the day’s events and the castle in which everything unfolded.

Your home.  Your family.   Your good fortune. It all melds together in this life affirming moment amid the holly and tinsel.

All is right.

So, the answer is yes, it was a great Christmas;  at your house, anyway.

Sleep in heavenly peace….

.

You REALLY Ought To Try These

I have a secret ambition that rears its head from time to time.    And its one that has always alluded me.  

It’s not a professional ambition.    I’ve accomplished all professional ambitions.    I’ve always known I’d be a broadcast journalist.  I knew it from a very early age.;  when I was six, as a matter of fact.    My great-grandmother turned 100 in 1966 and for some reason, that made news and the CBS affiliate came down from San Antonio to film her birthday party.   I was standing behind my grandmother’s wheel chair, efforting to get in every shot.

Yes, I’m part Hormel.

As the camera panned and I made sure I was in the sweep. I increased my odds of being “on TV” by trying to be in the cameraman’s viewfinder at all times.   I stayed up to watch the news that night–just to see if my camera chasing worked and lo and behold, for a fraction of a second,  you could just make out my very blond hair.

That’s all it took.    I was hooked. 

I was a driven child who grew up to be a driven woman.   When it comes to my career, I’ve just about accomplished everything  I set out to accomplish.  Professionally, my life is and always has been  far rosier than it ever was or is romantically.   Love is something I want desperately and for some reason,  can’t get right and God knows I’ve tried.  It’s like I’m not supposed to find love.   Like it’s verboten or something.  There have been times I’ve accused my mother of having a womb cursed like Constance’s in American Horror Story.  Either that or she gave birth to me atop some ancient burial ground and I’m paying the eternal price for trespass.    Whatever the reasons are for my romantic challenges (because CERTAINLY the reason HAS to be  external.  It CAN’T be a character flaw!!!!   Moi????  Never.   ), they have plagued me all of my life. 

I was seeing someone up until August.  It last a little over a year and ended up as one incredibly epic failure.    I knew I was really nothing more than a welcomed distraction for him and that was only when  he could fit me into his schedule.  But that wasn’t the reason why if failed.   I was the one who walked away….which in and of itself was different, because I’m usually the one who gets left.  But not this time.    No, this time, I ended it when I realized how futile NOT leaving was.     I really didn’t know what I felt…but I know what I wasn’t feeling.    Suddenly, the urge to run very, very far was overwhelming.   I’d become a flight risk.  I wanted him out of my life.     I didn’t want to see him, I didn’t want to talk to him any more.  I wanted nothing more to do with him at all.   To see him or talk to him would be a painful reminder of my stupidity, co-dependence…my desperation.   So, I walked away.  I can’t shake the feeling that this realization or rather series of realizations that lead to the demise of this ‘relationship’, was vital.  Part of some greater plan, perhaps.  At least, I’d like to think so.

Even though another relationship has been euthanized by feels like fate, I can’t help but still have a smidge of hope that manifests itself  in fantasy.  It’s an aspect of domesticity;  being a wife, a homemaker….a hostess.     I have  dreams of hosting wonderful parties–Christmas parties  mostly, and they always take place in my m in my tastefully appointed imaginary home.  It’s stylish,  brimming with elán.  In this fantasy, I’m every rich bitch Robin Leach narrated TV special I’ve ever seen.  And I’m very, very happy.   Everything works in my life.  I have a great husband, friends…family.   My life works. 

And  I’ve prepared incredible food….the spread is lovely; could easily be in a layout of the Town and Country magazine  Christmas edition.   

Everything is perfect.   Lovely.    The turkey is splendid and I’ve even put those little paper chef hat things on the ends of the drumsticks.     I’ve decorated the house for Christmas.  It’s beautiful; exquisite really.   So much so that all my guests are convinced a gay man did it.

Nope.   Just my talented little hands, fueled by imagination and creativity.

I have helped create joy.  

Sometimes, I daydream about a family Christmas.  The house is the same as the other party scenario, but this just includes family.  My husband’s and my own and they all get along.   They all like each other.   They help create joy.

Which in reality, would be a complete pantload… 

Hardly anyone in my family talks to each other.  We make competitive avoidance close to Olympic caliber.   It took a few years but we finally realized that  insults, table clearing brawls and death threats don’t go well with holly.   I don’t know why we can’t get along, but we can’t. 

  • Someone doesn’t like a spouse  
  • There are political differences 
  • Major personality conflicts
  • Differences in personal tastes

And man of man, did THAT have an effect on gift giving!!!!!!!!     No one ever liked the gifts  they received.   And that made the Christmas morning gift opening routine just awful.   After years of forced smiles, feigned gratitude and eye rolling when the gift giver looked the other way, we stopped faking our ‘giftgasms’.   In fact, we even stopped calling it Christmas and just referred to December 25th as the Annual Kendrick Family Holiday Receipt Exchange. 

So yeah…I know what my chances are of any of these fantasies ever happening.   Had I been smart, we would’ve  given the gift of psychotherapy instead of that Texas shaped mini pecan pie and that Jean Naté Body Splash gift set (regularly priced: $9.99; marked down to $5.99)  that I snagged at Walgreen’s, four minutes before closing time on Christmas Eve. 

I learned that Christmas that my rather different Aunt Barbara was more of an Old Spice kind of “gal” .    She made it clear that was a scent that went  better with her love of sensible shoes and Indigo Girl albums.    I gave her the receipt and told her to knock herself out.   That, by the way, was the first salvo launched in the receipt exchange battle. 

So yeah, I long for storybook normalcy.   A Brady Bunchian existence…and please, no lectures about not needing a husband to host fabulous holiday parties. I know this. I know I don’t need a man to be happy or fulfilled or to host a fabulous party.   I am woman; hear me roar–I get it; I get it.    What I’ve expressed is a nothing more than a fantasy that moves into my head around Halloween and stays through New Year’s.    By the middle of the first week of January, ‘m back to my old nasty, man hating, love scorned self.

That said, another Christmas is almost upon us and once again, I’ll spend it as a single…not plural.

Sigh…

I’ll  do what single, middle-aged women do.   I’ll allow myself to cry for an hour or so when I endure my annual, “Oh my God, I’m Sally Rogers, TV’s spinster from the Dick Van Dyke Show” moment.   Then, I’ll compose myself and then head west, to the Texas Hill Country.  My mother and I are the only ones in the family still talking and we’ll get along fine as long as we don’t talk to each other.  We’ll spend a nice, quiet Christmas together.   No big family scene–just a few nieces and nephews stopping by, so once again, no big party in my future, but I do intend to tantalize their taste buds with this sweet treat.

These are Oreo Truffles and to make things interesting, I add a little Amaretto to the mix. 

They’re tasty as  hell and relatively easy to make.   Here’s the recipe:

1 pkg. (8 oz.) PHILADELPHIA (Philadelphia only.  Scranton just won’t do)  Cream Cheese, softened

1 pkg. (16.6 oz.) OREO Cookies, finely crushed (about 4-1/4 cups), divided  

2 pkg. (8 squares each) BAKER’S Semi-Sweet Chocolate, melted  (Personally, I like milk chocolate and I also like to melt a little white chocolate, too.   You can alternate your dipping and use to opposite chocolate as a decorative drizzle)

MIX cream cheese and 3 cups cookie crumbs until well blended.

SHAPE into 48 (1-inch) balls. Dip in melted chocolate; place on waxed paper-covered baking sheet. Sprinkle with remaining cookie crumbs.

REFRIGERATE 1 hour or until firm. Store in tightly covered container in refrigerator.

How to Melt Chocolate

Place unwrapped chocolate squares in micro-waveable bowl. Microwave on HIGH 2-1/2 min. or until chocolate is completely melted, stirring every 30 seconds.  I prefer the double boiler method.   Place a Pyrex bowl over a pot with water in it….just get the water warm–you don’t want to boil the wa wa   Just get it warm and whatever you do, don’t let the water touch the bottom of the bowl.   If it’s too hot, your chocolate will seize up and become this nasty mortar like stuff.   

 How to Easily Dip Truffles

To easily coat truffles with the melted chocolate, add truffles, in batches, to bowl of melted chocolate. Use 2 forks to roll truffles in chocolate until evenly coated. Remove truffles with forks, letting excess chocolate drip back into bowl. Place truffles on prepared baking sheet; let stand until firm.

How to Store

Store in tightly covered container in refrigerator.

If you try making these, let me know how they turn out.

AND YOU’RE WELCOME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My Christmas Reality

I’m not sure of the year;  perhaps it was 1964; maybe 1965.  All I know for sure is that it was Christmas and I was in Kindergarten.  

My hometown didn’t really go all out for Christmas… save for one time that I can remember.   It was either one of the years stated above and also the year that town padres elected to do away with the cheesy string of colored bulbs that went from light pole to pole across Calvert which was the proverbial ‘main’ street through downtown.  They bought these new tinsel decorations in holiday shapes that were self-contained with a few lights in them.  They were perched near the tops of the same light poles.    To call attention to these new decorations and in an attempt to spur local commerce, the City Council elected to have a full on Christmas celebration at the City Hall complete with the Karnes City Jr High Band playing Christmas carols,  candy, cookies, hot chocolate and a visit from Santa who would, as it’s customary to do in small town America, arrive on the back of a fire truck.  Various stores elected to stay open until 9 pm that same night to accommodate Christmas shoppers.

But beyond all of that was the pièce de résistance for me…a visit from Santa Claus who would, as is always the case in small town America, arrive via a fire truck.

I remember wearing my car and mittens.  It was cold that night and I was even colder, shivering in fact, partly due to nerves.  I mean come on!!  Santa Claus was in town and arriving in the flesh  and I really wanted that Mickey Mouse Talking Telephone, the Bennie and Cecil game, and this cooler than hell thing called a Hostess Buffett, a plastic French Provincial sideboard that came complete with a plastic silver tea set, plastic crystal goblets and serving tray, plastic silver ware, napkins, plastic fruit and a 16 piece service for four set of plastic bone china patterned after  Edme by Wedgewood.    

The problem was,  I believed the parental hype.  You know, that power plays that  moms and dads use to keep kids in line by telling them that Santa knew if they behaved or not.  Well, I was a holy terror.  Days earlier  I’d had a fight with my sister and ‘sassed’ my mother a couple of times.   I was nervous Santa knew and I certainly didn’t want to be called out by him in such a public forum.

I remember holding my mother’s hand and every time a gust of wind blew, I could smell the hot chocolate.   As the sun called it a day,  the city’s new decorations came on and illuminated the crowd below.   It was a lovely sight.   The band played carols and as they played the last note of some barely discernible Christmas song,  we heard a siren.  The fire truck came around the corner and the single most emaciated Santa Claus I’d ever seen was on the back of the red truck, holding on the dear life.    Children screamed with delight.  Parents took photos of their happy little charges .   

Mother and I got in the Santa Claus line.  I remember feeling absolutely giddy.  It was Christmas after al and there was a real sense of community.  In addition to that, we were doing something out of the norm.   I was seeing people outside my sphere of reference for them.   Everything was different.  I was  standing on the sidewalk in front of City Hall on a cold December night.  I’d never ever had a reason to stand there at that time of day.  I’d driven under the new decorations, but never stood under them at night.   Karnes City looked so different. Stores that usually closed at 5pm were open.   Lights were on that usually weren’t.  Sidewalks that seemed to disappear at night from inactivity were for that night anyway, teeming with humanity. 

My attention turned back to the matter at hand.

Santa.

I could hear some of the other kids asking for things.  But I remember, their requests were generic….a doll, a truck and so on.  I had a firm grasp on the make, model and serial number of every item I wanted.    I suddenly got a bit embarrassed. 

It was my turn to have a one-on-one with the boney Man In Read.  He picked me up and placed me on his lap.  I looked at him sparingly, avoiding eye contact.  I had a feeling he could smell the guilt oozing out of my pores.  I answered his perfunctory questions. and lied through my teeth when I told him I’d been a good girl and that I promised him I would obey my parents forever and ever, Amen.  And then I leaned forward and asked for my toys in a whisper in his ear. 

When I finished, he nodded, chuckled, then touched my nose as he helped me off his lap.   For my time and trouble, I was handed a little bag containing a clump of hard Christmas candy that had obviously passed its shelf life years earlier.  My mother promptly took the bag from me and trashed it.

She got me a cookie and some hot chocolate which I ate while following her down the sidewalk. 

We were going shopping in downtown KC….at night.   I was excited.

I can remember marvelling at how different everything looked.  Life, I would learn later, always looks different when you look at life differently.  

We went in a few stores and mother bought  few things.   A sugar cookie shaped like a bell kept me preoccupied.    The next thing I knew we were back outside, walking to our car.

A cold wind gust made me stiffen.   My nose felt frozen.    We arrived at the car, packages went in the back seat; I climbed into the front hoping to get warm and go home and think about the things Santa would bring me in just a little over a week..

And as we drove down Main Street through downtown, we passed by the City Hall.  My hands and face were pressed against the passenger seat window with the hopes of getting one more glimpse of old St.  Nick.    The Christmas party was over and the crowd had dispersed, but as we drove by, I saw Santa Claus talking to a few men.  They were laughing.  He removed his hat, wig and beard and underneath all those white synthetic fibers, stood brunette haired man who accepted a cigarette from one of the men with whom he’d been talking. 

I said nothing…just sat back down in the car seat.  I felt as betrayed as a five or six-year-old could feel.   Damn!!!  Deceived.  Bubble burst; disappointed….taken on an emotional slay ride by a fraud in a cheap, read suit.  I can remember in later years wishing I that I hadn’t seen what I’d seen and if I had to see it, why couldn’t I have been more gullible and not fully grasped what I’d witnessed?    I tried convincing myself  that this was just one of Santa’s helpers…a Doppelganger, perhaps.

Maybe I should talk to my mom about this.   Nah…she couldn’t justify it no matter how hard she tried.  It was too late.  Besides, I naturally something of a contrarian anyway.   I lived in a glass half empty kind of world.    Reality was what I sought,  no matter how much it hurt.     

A few days later, my mother asked me what I wanted from Santa Claus.  I told her what I’d seen that night and that I knew Santa was a fake, a con…a lie.

She looked at me expressionless.   Then she asked, “What about the Easter Bunny?”.

I shook my head no.

“The Tooth Fairy?

“Nope, not anymore”, I replied.

“What about leprechauns, pots of gold and rainbows?”

“No..No and NO!!!  And I’m fairly certain that honest politicans and faithful airline pilots are figments of the imagination, too!!

She just stared at me for a second or two, then sighed.  “Well, I guess my little girl is growing up!  When did that happen?” 

She shook her head.  “Well, come on then.  Let’s have a special tea party.  Whadaya say?”.

We commemorated my emotional growth spurt with finger sandwiches, petit fours and Vodka stingers. 

Recipes For Disaster

But only if you don’t follow them AND if you don’t prepare them with love…for love.

Eeeeeeew!!!!  

Then is this a blog about cooking??? Rreally???   Has someone finally domesticated the unbridled Houston maverick???

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking–what the hell Kendrick doing posting a blog about recipes?  Perhaps, I am softening in my old age, but yes,  I am becoming something of a champion for the culinarian.

I do this by attempting to become one.   That said, I will announce

here and now before both of my readers that I do believe that I am quite possibly, simply, madly falling in love.  The object of my lunacy is  wonderful man who titillates eight of my five senses.  He is wonderful in ways that even I, wordsmith that I pretend to be, can’t even summate.  He is real and kind and generous with his time and his affection and spirit and the best part?  He’s not an evil or a narcissistic psychopathic blog troll.

He barely knows what a blog is.   Isn’t that great????

This ridiculously handsome and talented gentleman has Latin blood coursing through his venas and is quite the foodie.  Because of pre-existing conditions (progeny who have yet to learn of my involvement with their Pater), our Christmas will be spent together, but a few days early.   To celebrate, we are commemorating the birth of our lard–I am baking and going to great lengths to impress this man.  He already knows certain things about me that he loves (and accepts) and I feel it’s only fair to continue this on-going audition for the a supporting role in wifery, but this time, in the kitchen.

And yes, you read that right.   I plan on getting this coveted part based on my ‘performance’ on the casting counter.

So, here’s what I’m planning to prepare in order to properly seduce this man through his gullet.   And this time, it will be just vis a vie baked goods.  I will plan an all out gastronomic assault through my Mediterranean cooking prowess at some other holiday.  

My fail safe Ass Kicking Brownies.

 Now, while not homemade, these have been known to make grown men cry and write love letters to portly  actress, Kathy Bates for no apparent reason.

  • Take a box of any brownie mix with walnuts.  
  • Prepare as directed, BUT add om 1/2 heaping cup of malt powder.  Even Ovaltine will work in a pinch.  
  • Mix in, pour into lightly greased pan BUT…for the extra added ooooomph,  once the batter has been poured, place whole Treasures milk chocolate caramel candies (by Nestle) in the batter about a half-inch to an inch apart.  Make sure the Treasures are submerged in the batter. 
  • Bake as directed and then let cool. 
  • You can cover it with chocolate morsels, marshmallows and/or  a light dusting of powdered sugar….if your pancreas in amenable.

The photo below has the caramel on the top.  I prefer to puut it in the body of the brownie.   Either way, these scumptious confections are one bodacious yum fest.   Pure ass food, cause it will make it grow.  

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There is a famous cafeteria in Texas called “Luby’s”.  It was at one time, one of the best places to eat.  Great food with a homestyle spin and one of the best things that cafeteria ever produced was/is a Butternut Brownie Pie (or as we called it “Luby’s Pie”).  Made with merengue, pecans and bits of graham cracker.  It’s sweet but not overly so, light and airy and simply delicious.

Ingredients:

  • 4 extra-large Eggs Whites, at room temperature
  • 1/8 teaspoon Baking Powder
  • 1/8 teaspoon Cream of Tartar
  • 1 1/4 cup granulated Sugar
  • 14 Graham Cracker Squares, broken into 1/2 inch pieces
  • 1 cup Pecan Pieces
  • 1 cup Whipping Cream
  • 1/2 teaspoon Vanilla
  • chopped Pecans

Directions:

  1. Heat oven to 300 degrees. Lightly grease 9-inch pie plate. 
  2. In large mixing bowl, beat egg whites and baking powder until soft peaks form. Add cream of tartar, beating constantly. Add 1 cup of the sugar, a tablespoon at a time, beating constantly until stiff peaks form. Using rubber scraper,fold in graham crackers and pecan pieces. Spoon into pie plate 
  3. Bake 30 minutes or until wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool completely on wire cooling rack.
  4. In chilled small bowl using chilled beaters, beat cream just until it begins to thicken. Add remaining 1/4 cup sugar and vanilla and continue beating until stiff peaks form. Do not over beat.
  5. Top pie with whipped cream. 
  6. Sprinkle with pecans and refrigerate until served.

Here’s the incredible finished product.  The merengue stiffens and crisps up ever so slightly and the graham cracker and pecans add a wonderful texture.  Delicious. 

I made this for myself and a few friends last year.  It was so good I wanted to sex myself up.

And I did.

Lastly, the baking tour de force of the desert persuasion wouldn’t be complete without a representatives from the World of Cookies.   I have one nominee for this category.  It’s a cookie I saw St. Paula of Dean prepare on her Food Network Show.

She calls them “Hidden Mint Cookies”.    Simple recipe, but since I don’t like mint and if Mama don’t like mint in her cookies, Daddy don’t neither.  Therefore, I’m going to make a slight adjustment.

Ingredients:

  • 18-ounce roll refrigerated sugar cookie dough (make sure its cold and stiff) sliced 1/4-inch thin
  • 14-ounce package chocolate mint wafers (like the smaller York Peppermint Patties, I suppose.  But I’ll use the leftover Treasures Chocolate Caramels that I didn’t use in making my Ass Kicking Brownies.  Now, keep in mind that because the cookie is small, cut the Treasures pieces in half.  Trust me, this slight recipe adjustment is a winner!!!)  
  • 1 egg, beaten
  • 1 tablespoon coarsely chopped walnuts or pecans, or enough to cover top of cookies

Directions:

  1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees F.
  2. Slightly grease a cookie sheet. Place slices of sugar cookies on sheet, about 2 to 3 inches apart.
  3. Top each with a chocolate wafer or carmel.  Cover wafer with another slice of cookie dough and seal around the perimeter.
  4. Brush dough with a beaten egg.  Press nuts into top of dough.
  5. Bake for about 10 minutes.
  6. Let cool completely.  

Absolutely stellar with a glass of cold milk.

So, there you go.  This new man in my life makes me happy.   I feel like I’m on emotionally solid footing for the first time in….well, perhaps the very first time ever in my adult life. 

This will be our first Christmas together and hopefully, our last one apart.  Because of my relationship drought in recent years,  I’m not in the habit of publicly professing my undying emotions for a man, but this one is special.  He’s special enough for me to cook for, bake for, shave my legs for, think about constantly, blog about occasionally and forget about any other man who came before him.

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The Christmas O.D.

I’ve never seen it this bad, this early.

 Here in Houston, Christmas decorations in several strip centers went up a week and a half ago…almost a week before we were even hob-nobbin with the goblins of Halloween.   Hell, I can take it back even earlier.  I was in one of those  “Bath and Beyond Your Bed and Broken Hearth” stores and I saw a smallish Christmas display up and priced accordingly and that was in the second week of October.  

This  extremely premature commercial bombardment of Christmas is, in my opinion, counter productive.   Well, for me it is.  It makes me want to run in the opposite direction and convert to Shintoism or something.   The problem is I love Christmas.  It’s a great time of year.  The world seems prettier all adorned with even the tackiest of tinsel, but come on!!!!   Can’t we wait to encourage some over achieving Reynold’s Aluminum smelter to throw up on trees, displays and store facades at least until Advent????  This “too much, too soon” approach grates on my nerves and completely erodes the special nature of the season.

In fact, it completely removes all traces of what little “santamentality” I’m able to muster.

Tonight, I was flipping through my TV channels and stumbled upon some Christmas music, but not just any Christmas music….this music had genres, the likes I’ve never seen before.

Here they are; varied for your listening pleasure:

  • Latinio Navidad
  • Soulful Holidays
  • Ultra Hip Holidays
  • Classical Holidays
  • Country Holiday
  • Holiday Instrumental
  • The Christmas Message
  • Holiday Remix
  • Blues Holiday
  • And The Billy Holiday, which I can only imagine,  must be a Yuletide homage to syringes and hard living

one liners and party fun jokes for christmmas

Crass commercialism. 

Buy this, get that.  No home should be without (insert in demand item here).   No child can have a truly happy Christmas unless he/she receives…whatever THEE toy is this Christmas. 

What is the true meaning of Christmas?   I liked O. Henry’s distinct situational irony in “Gift of the Magi”.  A poor couple wants to give each other great Christmas gifts.  She wants to buy him a pretty chain for his watch, so she cuts her beautiful long hair and sells it in order to buy a silver watch fob.  He in turn, sells his watch in order to buy her nice combs for her beautiful long hair.   

In “A Christmas Carol”, Charles Dickens’ theme was also spot on with his unabashedly Unitarian approach  to morality and ethics.  The main character, the miserly Ebenezer Scrooge  isn’t condemned for his stingy, cheap skate ways alone. If he were simply a stingy man, whose penny-pinching ways hurt no one but himself, he might be a pitiable character, but one about whom readers do not overly concern themselves. Scrooge’s miserliness, however, is symptomatic for Dickens of the way in which his society ignored, exploited, and abused its poorest and most vulnerable members.  

The sickly Tiny Tim comes to mind.   You know, I’ve often wondered what it was that made Tiny Tim so ill.  He was small, frail, pale and needed a crutch to walk, that is, when he could walk.  Otherwise, Daddy Bob would hoist him up on his shoulder and carry the tyke around that way.   But what was his actual ailment?   I read somehwere that a physician with a literary background once conducted an intense study into Tiny Tims’s illness, analyzing all the symptoms. His conclusion?  Tiny Tim had a severe case of “the pathetics”, which was a classic “go to” illness favored by many scribes in Victorian England.  Tim was a character written as ill simply for literary effect which in this book’s case, had to play upon our emotions and be curable…as long as Ebenezer threw some post spiritual redemption money at it.   Young Tim actually had no nameable disease. 

Now, you know.

But Dickens’ sappiness be damned, one of my best memories of this story actually comes in the form of a cartoon from of all characters, Mr. Magoo.   Mr.  Magoo’s A Christmas Carol was the first animated holiday special ever produced specifically for television.  It was commissioned and sponsored by Timex and first aired on NBC on December 18, 1962.   The cartoon is written as a Broadway theater play, divided into acts with an actual stage curtain.  A long shot includes hand drawn audience members who never move, much less emote or applaud.

Nothing can hurl me face first into the Christmas spirit faster than the holiday TV classics.    A Charlie Brown Christmas;  How The Grinch Stole Christmas  and of course,  Rudolph, The Red Nosed Reindeer  (the Rankin/Bass ‘stop motion’ version, ONLY)  are shows I still try to catch each year, but my  sister, Karol and I used to love the Mr. Magoo effort the most.   In the mid and late 60’s and early 70’s, the special  used to come on random Sundays in December when nothing else was was worth airing.  We’ve never seen the hwoit begins; we always seem to tune in when the damn thing is already in progress, but we still love it.    I remember always being so moved by one particular scene that included the Ghost of Christmas Past,  the one with the little flame above his/her androgynous head.   The specter takes Ebenezer back to his tragic childhood–sad, lonely days spent as a sad, lonely orphan.

I was also struck by the fact that the finger belonging to the Ghost of Christmas Future was bony, black and rife with palsy as it pointed toward Ebenezer’s tombstone, indicating his ultimate fate.  That image has always stuck with me.     And a bit of M.r Magoo trivia, if I may:  the voice of Bob Cratchit belongs to Jack Cassidy,  father of David; ex-husband of Shirley Jones.   Decent set of pipes;  didn’t know the cat could sing. 

If you really want to get into the Christmas spirit and Clarice, Cindy Lou Who and Charlie Brown, et. al, just aren’t doing it for you, get the DVD of  Mr. Magoo’s A Christmas Carol if you can.  It’s available through Amazon.     It’s good, evocative and wreaks of familiar Christmases past and those of us who are old enough will remember Mr. Magoo, but don’t expect much of the typical Magoo-esque, nearsighted bungling;  with few exceptions such as the fact that it’s a musical,  this version of “A Christmas Carol” is fairly straight forward and relatively true to its Dickensian script. 

But just remember, I submit the above holiday recommendation under protest.  The holiday is being shoved down our throats even before the last Three Muskateers bar from Halloween has been eaten.   But I guess I have no choice but to be a holiday lemming and do as everyone else and tolerate all the intensely early pre-season falderal, even though it’s early November.  I hope by December 25th, you can still handle, for the third month in a row, seeing Jesus in a cradle–with lighting attachment–on sale for $34.99,  or a spinning dreidel display (relegated to a back corner at your neighborhood, Anti-Semite Mart) and somehow, not lose your fruitcake or nog…..or kugel, if you’re shopping for the dreidel.  How utterly ridiculous!   It’s all being shoved down our throats and to that,  I say bah humbug, which I’m sure is decorated and on sale somewhere.   And I hope that when it comes to sensible spending this Christmas, you’ll follow Ebenezer’s lead.   If he were real and living in this economy, he’d be right to be frugal.

In fact, that’s precisely why Scrooge has always been so fond of Rudolph;  every buck is deer to him.

What?!?!   How dare you turn on me!   It’s Christmas for Pete’s sake.

   

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;vvvvv

Santa Called

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The phone rings early Sunday morning.   It is Santa Claus.

Forty eight hours have passed since the White Beard In A Red Suit made his once a year global trek to reward the Children of Earth with toys for being nice, not naughty.   He always calls LK at this time to both kvetch and gloat about  his now former task at hand.

LK:  Hello?

SC:   Hey, LK.  What’s shakin’.   Did ya hear?  I done good this year.

LK:   I’ll have to take your word for it.  I no longer know people young enough to have kids.   Geez…what time is it?  It’s still dark outside.

SC:   Oh yeah, there’s a time difference.  I forgot.  You see,  I’m in Cannes.  Actually, I’m calling you from the hotel kitchen.  The help says hello.   Ya’ll say “hey” to Laurie, my friend in Texas–

KITCHEN HELP IN UNISON:   Bonjour, le LK!!!

SC:   They’re nice people here.  Not like the rest of France.  Anyhoo, I didn’t feel like going back “to the Pole”.    I’m in need of a break.   If I don’t get away from that damned workshop and all that snow every once in a while, I can become a bear.  A BEAR, I tell ya.  

LK:   Then stay in the South of France for a while and chill.  If you’re this spent, then I gather that things have to have fared well this year?

SC:   Yeah, I’d so.  The trip was no sweat, but the last few months of Crunch Time was no slice of sponge cake, lemme tell ya.   I got elf issues.

LK:   Elf issues?

SC:  Yeah, elf issues.    They were particularly a pain this year.   Some AFL-CIO tool came up and started talking to them about forming a union and demanding better working conditions and benefits and what not.  I’m so mad, I can’t even watch “Little People, Big World” without getting a touch of angina!!”

LK:   I’m not surprised.   Sure your chest pains have nothing to do with your girth and love of cookies  now could it?

SC:   Now hold on a minute.  I eat those cookies because it’s expected of me.  You deliver two billion toys to a billion kids and try not to get a little low blood sugar induced surliness.   At one point, I got so testy over Kansas, I SERIOUSLY contemplated not delivering any toys to kids living in states that end in  vowels. 

LK:  Wow.  My heart would’ve gone out to the kids in Florida, Georgia, Iowa, California, Montana, Idaho,  Oklahoma, Nebraska, the Dakotas, the Virginias, the Carolinas and Mississippi.

SC:   Yeah and don’t forget Maine, Ohio,  Pennsylvania, New Hampshire,  Nevada, Missouri, Minnesota, Nevada, Colorado, New Mexico,Tennessee, Arizona and Alabama.   Hey, speaking of, I hear ‘Bama’s playing your Longhorns for the National Championship this year.

LK:  Yeah, I’d sure love it if Texas could pull off a win.

SC:   Don’t worry.  For Christmas, Wilmer, one of my more irascible elves sent the entire Crimson Tide team brand new jock straps commemorating the National Championship game.  They’ll wear them on January 7th.   

LK:  Oh really?

SC:   Yeah and each one is seeped in flesh burning capsaicin.    Heisman Trophy winner,  Mark Ingram will be making great yardage alright….in pain and heading straight to the showers in the locker room, crying like a Tight End at a gay bar in Frisco.

LK:   You are a card, Santa.   A real ace…hole.

SC:  Yeah well, I do what I can.  That was what Texas coach, Mack Brown asked for Christmas actually.

LK:  What did  Alabama coach Nick Saban ask for then?

SC:  He got his present early.  Remember Tim Tebow’s concussion a few months back?

LK:   Wow…Saban’s a dog!

SC:   Yeah he is, right?   So, what’s shakin’?

LK:   Not much.  There was an attempted terror attack on a Northwest Airlines jet on Christmas Day.   Some Nigerian guy tried to blow up the plane after it landed or something.  He claims to have been instructed to do it by Al Qaeda.   

SC:   Yeah, I’m glad he got caught.  I’ve always hated that  Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab  cat.

LK:  You know him?

SC:   Oh yeah, sure! I’ve been battling it out with him in court.   He stole some of my files out of my PC.  Got all my email addresses and as you know, I have emails from around the globe.     He’s the same Nigerian guy that keeps spamming your email, wanting to put millions of “so called” dollars in your bank account.   He uses a million different names, but that’s him.

LK:  Oh really?

SC:  Yes ma’am.  This was a terrorist action for sure, but also a tremendous cry for help.   He’s always had such an ego and when only a few gullible older women, a few smart ass bloggers and a couple of news hounds sniffing out a story for NBC’s Dateline  were the only ones who responded,  I guess he decided to up the ante a little.  What a fool!

LK:   Sounds like a real show-boater, huh?

SC:   Totally.    Say, I just realized something….I was in Houston, but didn’t make it to your house this year?   Didn’t you ask for anything?

LK:   Unless you have a job offer and a jar containing extremely rare Congo River microbes that eat ass fat, no, I asked for nothing.

SC:  Now come on, Missy. I’ve been dealing with you for a lot of years now.  You always want something.    Tell old Santa what it is.   

LK:   OK, how about peace in the Middle East?

SC:   I’m working on it.

LK:   The elimination of world hunger? 

SC:    On my to do list.

LK:   How about putting a Republican back in the White House in ’12?

SC:   Well frankly, that’s taking care of itself as we speak.    Isn’t there anything you want for yourself?

(Silence)

SC:   LK, you there?

LK:   I’m thinking.   

(Silence)

LK:   I’d like to be less pessimistic and jaded.   Those two things have eaten away at my optimism.   I don’t think there’s very much joy in the world’s heart or in mine.   

SC:   I’m not Annie Sullivan…I’m no miracle worker.  I might be able to fly around the world and deliver toys to children from Xenia, Ohio to Zanzibar and Zaire, but softening your heart?    Hell, I couldn’t thaw out  that thing out with a blow torch!

LK:   Thanks for the vote of confidence.

SC:   I was kidding,…sort of.   For starters, I couldn’t do any of those things for you if I wanted, but you can.  You possess the power to make all those changes.  

LK:   Yeah, I know.  Why is it that you only dole out the tangible at Christmas?

SC:    Uh, I’m not following you.

LK:   You only bring gifts that you can touch, smell and feel.  Stuff that can actually be gift wrapped.  

SC:   I’m not God, LK.

LK:   Then who are you?

SC:  Oh for corn’s sake!!   E tu, LK?   Has it come to that???  You want me to get all, “Yes Virginia, there IS a Santa Claus” on you?

LK:   For a minute I did, but now, I don’t.   I think I want to believe that you’re a fat endomorph dressed in red and white fur who despite bouts with Gout and flirtations with Type 2 diabetes, gluttons out on cookies in the wee hours of  every December 25th.  I want to believe you give toys to deserving boys and girls–toys that you make in your North Pole workshop with elves– soon to be Local #3974–doing most of the work.    I want to believe that you’re that image I saw on a Coke commercial a million years ago when I was a kid.    I think I need to believe that you represent the goodness in mankind.

SC:   I don’t, but if you need to think I do  in order to help you make it through the night, then yes…yes I am, Laurie.   I am the quintessence of good and decency.  Is that better?

LK:  I know you’re not.   And actually, it’s unfair to lay all that on you.  You’re just a fabled saint who somehow through the ages and crass commercilization became a bell weather of corporate greed and a parental bribery tool that’s often used in lieu of discipline.

SC:   (long sigh)  Sweetie, turn it off.

LK:  Turn what off?

SC:  Your brain.  Take it down a notch or two and just enjoy the sentiment of the season, if nothing else.    Don’t analyze everything and don’t over think things.   I don’t warrant a White Paper.   I don’t merit any debate.    I’m Santa Claus.  It’s Christmas.  It only happens once a year.  In fact, take the weekend off.    Don’t get to heady or philosophical, OK?   And by all means, don’t look at the melding of ingredients that went into Friday’s mashed potatoes as some incredible example of pathos for world peace and/or irony.

(Slight pause)

LK:     You’re right.   Of course, you’re right.   Thank you for setting me straight.  My brain will be my downfall.  

SC:  No, but you’ll bore people to tears with it from time to time.

LK:   That’s rude.

SC:  No that’s the truth.  Had you kept talking, I wouldn’t have needed to take an Ambien tonight.   

LK:    You enjoy your time in Cannes.  Get a tan if you can.   Drink frog water and get all Vichy if you must.   We’ll talk soon.

SC:   You’re going to be find, Kiddo.   

LK:   I hope so.

SC:  You will and uh, one more thing.   I’m not God, but I know a few people who know some people and well, as for that ass fat thing you asked about–expect a nasty intestinal flu on or around February 8th.   That should give you a decent kick-start in terms of working towards a smaller ASSimilation.

LK:   Thanks Santa.  You’re a giver, you know.

SC:   And in your own way LK, so are you.   

LK:   Thanks.  Oh and Santa?

SC:    Yes?

LK:  You know, had you come to my house  this Christmas, I would’ve left cookies for you.

SC:   You????   Cookies left unattended????   Not with your fat ass.

LK:    Ah, fat AND a dick!!!    Well, next year, I’ll leave you  a chair shaped, water-filled candy bowl containing my very special, very homemade “fudge” logs.

SC:    Ho.

LK:   I’m serious. You think I’m being funny?

SC:   No, I’m just calling you one.

LK:   Goodbye, portly one

SC:    Backatcha, LK and Happy New Year!!!

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