Good Santa, Bad Santas

My brother is Santa every year for the kids of the people in his old squadron (Bro, did I get that right -- squadron?). He's perfect, and not just because he's not elf-sized. He has a deep voice useful for ho-ho-ho-ing, and kids love him. Where a grown-up might see a big, scary, intimidating fellow, kids seem to see a big, friendly, teddy-bear horsey jungle gym. He taxis up in a plane, dressed as Mr. Claus, and the kiddies go nuts.

Good Santa.

My sister-in-law was a self-declared Bad Santa. She went around putting those teeny alcohol bottles in everyone's stocking (baby nephew being the exception). In Boston, those bottles are called "nips." If you're not from Boston, you're welcome to snicker at that like I did.

Bad-but-fun Santa!

Then there's what I did to my nephew. Wicked Aunt Holly should not be so proud of herself. And yet, proud she is. Guess what she got him. Guess guess guess! OK, I'll spill: You know that bunny suit that Ralphie gets from his Aunt Clara in A Christmas Story? Yeah, I did. Commissioned a smaller version of it, so the Neph could wear it before he's old enough to hate me.

Not-yet-hated Santa!

Crowded House

Come Christmas dinner, we had the following countable life forms in my parents' place:

1 me
2 parents
1 brother,
his wife
and my baby nephew
sister-in-law's parents
2 neighbors
3 dogs
1 dead thing in the heat ducts that made our house smell like sauerkraut

Total mammals: 14

Poo Poo on Snow-Haters

When snow falls, I experience a complex and nuanced series of emotions. It's difficult to put into words, but if I were to try, it would go something like this:

SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW
YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY!

Good Times, Good Times

Today was a rather awesome extended holiday party at work. Lots of food. Lots of activites. Very little work accomplished. A good day.

There was a bit of a dip for me when the man I was talking to asked if I was joining the Ugly Sweater Competition. I wasn't.

Pretty sure it was supposed to be a joke, and I was supposed to get it. But any comment about a woman's appearance is dangerous territory. Men, I'm trying to help you here. I'm good at laughing at myself (door wide open for friends and family to contradict me here), but I still spent the next hour-and-a-half wondering if I looked like a doofus in my sweater. Best to give only compliments.

The notorious landmine in the Wrong Comment Department, of course, is anything along the lines of, "When's the baby due?" Brian Regan, the comedian, made that mistake once, and concluded that the rule is, "Never guess about that -- ever ever ever ever ever ever ever." Yeah, actually, that is the rule. A year ago, my sister-in-law was pregnant, and was approached by another pregnant woman, and still didn't enjoy the assumption by a stranger that she was having a baby. If that ain't safe, ain't nothin' safe, so just don't go there. Ever ever ever ever ever ever.

Although, there is a bright side for the pregnant women out there, I think: If people recognize you as pregnant and not just heavy, it's probably because the rest of you looks rather thin. I see a compliment in there, if you want it.

But be careful your beautiful baby bump isn't shrouded in Possibly Ugly Sweater.

Good Christian Men, Rejoice!

... for I am available.

I just don't know what I'm doing. How exactly does one convey "godly" and "on the prowl" at the same time? Wear a leopard-print head covering? Quote the naughty passages in the Bible? Do a Bend and Snap to pick up a dropped Communion card?

This is hard.

Wait, I know. I'll ask somebody else to do the heavy lifting. Dad, I'm still your little princess, right? Would you do something kingly for me and maybe stage a tournament in the front yard -- you know, so eligible men could compete for my hand? I'm thinking a test of strength (caber toss?), a test of courage (going down the fire pole -- extra points for doing it head-first), a miscellaneous skill of their choosing (play the lute? exceptional penmanship? surprise me, gentlemen!), and some demonstration of a sense of humor. That'd be awesome, thanks!

Whew! That wasn't so bad. Now to sit back and wait.

[Cricket chirps.]

Um...

[Checking watch.]

Heck.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

'Tis December, and that means lots of songs with my name in them. Yippee! I don't care if I'm not, technically, a plant. I like hearing people sing my name.

And the prettiest sight to see
Is the holly that will be
On your own front door

The fact that I don't live on anyone's front door will not stop me from taking this as a personal compliment.

Maybe I Have a Thyroid Problem

For at least the last ten years, I've been colder than just about everyone else in any given room. I first noticed this in England, where they keep their homes cool and everyone has the temperature tolerance of a polar bear, so I wrote it off to my coming from a country that has mastered insulation. Then I lived with my parents for a bit, but they have plenty of quirks about them, so I still thought I was the normal one. But you can only live so many years, in so many places, before you begin to realize that it's you, not everyone around you, who has the problem.

My company just moved to a newly renovated building. There are finally people in the cubes around me! (How I'm supposed to sing with the radio and take naps now, I don't know. Must work on this.) Thus, I have a gauge to see how warm it is, contrasted with how warm I feel. The verdict: Big, big difference. The folks around me are in two layers at most, and those layers are not heavy. I, on the other hand, was mummified in the following until lunch today: Button-down shirt; light sweater; big cardigan over the sweater; big chunky poncho over the cardigan, which also functioned as a coat in the warmish weather today; outdoor hat; fleece blanket over my lap. I was not uncomfortably warm in this.

Surely I left the realm of Normal about 2 1/2 layers ago. After two years of iron supplements, surely I'm not anemic anymore. I'm gonna look this up on WebMD or something.