Here's a little trick guaranteed to make your life more wonderful. My buddy MJ thought it up, but it's too good not to share.
When purchasing items from some stores (i.e. Home Depot, Radio Shack), it's standard store policy to ask you your postal code. Perhaps you want to protect your privacy. Perhaps you mistrust their motives. Or perhaps you find your real postal code to be rather boring.
The solution? Tell them "H0H 0H0".
It protects your privacy, and if it doesn't give the cashier a smile, you'll know they have no soul.
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
8.1.08
Rule #1: Beware the bargain bin.
I'm beginning to suspect fruitcake is one of those ghost traditions -- everybody's familiar with fruitcake at Christmas, but its myth is far overblown compared to its presence. I've gone at least twenty Christmases without it, and I've never felt deprived because of it.
However, they were discounted to half-price at the local Safeway, so I figured I might as well see what the fuss is. Not wanting to re-clog the holiday arteries, I chose the light (well, lighter) fruitcake. The taste wasn't actually too bad. Strong enough to require a large glass of milk, but not too bad. If I hadn't read the ingredient list, my story might have ended there.
So, here's a question for you. What do you think is the most common ingredient in Safeway's "light" fruitcake? Walnuts? Flour? Some sort of fruit, perhaps?
Nope... Rutabaga.
Rutabaga? Now, I've got nothing against rutabaga, but... I thought I knew rutabaga. I thought we had an understanding. Now, I have to question everything I ever thought I knew about rutabaga. Don't they realise this?
And besides, this is fruitcake. Don't you think that after endless years of arguing about tomatoes, that people would learn from their mistakes and not make a fruitcake out of a vegetable?
See, this is the inherent danger in any tradition. You let it coast along for a few years, and when you take a second look, it's been changed into a root vegetable, on the assumption that no one will question a cherished tradition.
Well, that's not going to happen to me next time! This Valentine's Day is going to be chocolate-free.
Unless it's half-price in the bargain bin, apparently.
However, they were discounted to half-price at the local Safeway, so I figured I might as well see what the fuss is. Not wanting to re-clog the holiday arteries, I chose the light (well, lighter) fruitcake. The taste wasn't actually too bad. Strong enough to require a large glass of milk, but not too bad. If I hadn't read the ingredient list, my story might have ended there.
So, here's a question for you. What do you think is the most common ingredient in Safeway's "light" fruitcake? Walnuts? Flour? Some sort of fruit, perhaps?
Nope... Rutabaga.
Rutabaga? Now, I've got nothing against rutabaga, but... I thought I knew rutabaga. I thought we had an understanding. Now, I have to question everything I ever thought I knew about rutabaga. Don't they realise this?
And besides, this is fruitcake. Don't you think that after endless years of arguing about tomatoes, that people would learn from their mistakes and not make a fruitcake out of a vegetable?
See, this is the inherent danger in any tradition. You let it coast along for a few years, and when you take a second look, it's been changed into a root vegetable, on the assumption that no one will question a cherished tradition.
Well, that's not going to happen to me next time! This Valentine's Day is going to be chocolate-free.
Unless it's half-price in the bargain bin, apparently.
29.12.07
Cloisters cloisters cloisters eat eat eat.
Ah, back in the Hat after a lovely Christmas jaunt. Some of my favourite presents were three-dollar cupcakes, Atkins-friendly chili, vegetable omelettes, and the spiced chai equivalent of an all-syrup squishee -- in other words, the time I got spend with so many of my friends. Thanks for being there, everyone.
The award for most incongruous present, though, goes to my parents, for getting me a black T-shirt with a skull made out guitars front and center. You'd think they would have noticed a distinct lack of metal in my wardrobe over the last thirty years... ah, well. Now I've got something to wear to Guitar Hero parties.
And what did I get them? That's always the question that haunts me each year, as I stumble through the fog of blanket approval. This year, I took a risk and got them a board game: Carcassonne. The impression I got was that it was in the same vein as my beloved Settlers of Catan, but geared for a faster, simpler game between two people. That wasn't quite accurate, but the parents kept on talking about its different strategies and gambits long after the game has ended. That's enough for me to qualify it as a smashing success.
There's just one problem with it, though -- the scoring at the end can get slightly overwhelming, as you have to re-analyse the entire board to figure out who actually won. Mom and Dad were still a bit unsure about such matters, but I was so happy to see them actually using one of my Christmas presents, I told them that they could just take a digital picture of the board and e-mail it to me if they ever had trouble.
It now occurs to me that if they do, it might just be the first time in history that a turn-based board game has been decided by a photo finish.
Here's to hoping that all of your holidays have a finish worthy of a photo as well.
The award for most incongruous present, though, goes to my parents, for getting me a black T-shirt with a skull made out guitars front and center. You'd think they would have noticed a distinct lack of metal in my wardrobe over the last thirty years... ah, well. Now I've got something to wear to Guitar Hero parties.
And what did I get them? That's always the question that haunts me each year, as I stumble through the fog of blanket approval. This year, I took a risk and got them a board game: Carcassonne. The impression I got was that it was in the same vein as my beloved Settlers of Catan, but geared for a faster, simpler game between two people. That wasn't quite accurate, but the parents kept on talking about its different strategies and gambits long after the game has ended. That's enough for me to qualify it as a smashing success.
There's just one problem with it, though -- the scoring at the end can get slightly overwhelming, as you have to re-analyse the entire board to figure out who actually won. Mom and Dad were still a bit unsure about such matters, but I was so happy to see them actually using one of my Christmas presents, I told them that they could just take a digital picture of the board and e-mail it to me if they ever had trouble.
It now occurs to me that if they do, it might just be the first time in history that a turn-based board game has been decided by a photo finish.
Here's to hoping that all of your holidays have a finish worthy of a photo as well.
25.12.07
Merry Christmas, Richard Matheson.
Happy Holidays, everyone. I'm sorry this present isn't gift-wrapped, but here it is: the sort of Christmas movie that I'd make for you guys, if I could. Enjoy.
I AM SANTA
It was going to be close, but he was used to being busy in December. It almost gave matters a sense of normalcy.
He didn't plan to be here when they arrived, but he was sure he'd want to return, so that meant defences. The first thing he did was abandon his house. It was the place where he felt safest, but feeling safe and being safe were two different things. It was also the place that held the most memories of the missus, though, and that was what made his decision so hard. He was a sentimental man, and he just couldn't walk away that easily. Reluctantly, he gathered up some of his most precious keepsakes, and moved them to the workshop, where they'd be safe.
There was the blanket she'd made for him, that one Christmas when he had a terrible cold, but he'd stubbornly refused to let anyone else do his job. After that Christmas had passed, that blanket was always the first one they reached for when the northern winds got through the windows. It was a symbol of their love, and a symbol of their marriage. He held it up delicately, but it was still every bit as durable as the night she'd made it.
There was the grandfather cuckoo clock his helpers made for him. It was a masterpiece; a clockwork recreation of the entire assembly line that they used back in the days when everything could still be done by hand, and a jack-in-the-box was the most complicated toy they had to worry about. No camera could ever have captured an image of the workshop the way that clock did. His staff had actually given him that gift that one strange Christmas after they unionized. He'd always been a bit surprised by that, and on those short July nights, when things moved so quickly, he'd admit to himself that he'd taken it as an insult and a betrayal at first. That clock had been their way of saying that there were no hard feelings, and he was still the only person who could do his job, and the only one they'd trust with it. It had surprised him, finding out just how badly he had needed to hear that. It wasn't easy moving the clock to the workshop, but he simply refused to abandon it.
The other thing that came with him was an oil painting of Mount Fuji. She'd painted it herself, when they were on vacation one summer. People thought they knew what he was like just because he was a celebrity, but she had it a dozen times worse being his wife. If she hadn't sacrificed her own career to follow him up north, he knew she would have been a famous painter. And she especially loved the mountains. He carefully wrapped the painting up in the blanket, and locked them both away in the strongest chest he had. Even if the monsters did break into the workshop, they'd be safe long after he was gone.
They were still coming; he could hear their howls on the wind. Of course they would. There was no one else left to kill. But it wouldn't be easy -- a great many of their number had frozen completely solid in the frigid nights, and they would never move again. Hordes of others had fallen through the ice, when it could no longer support the sheer mass of their numbers. Others had thought themselves clever to take the safer routes, but then they'd discover the mines he'd set out for them. He was determined to make his death as hard for them as his life was for himself.
The previous Christmases, he'd treated as just another war. Something that he wasn't supposed to interfere with. Even when it looked like the monsters were winning, he'd refrained from helping that year. He'd convinced himself that just by doing his job, he was helping to boost the morale of the survivors, but now he was tormented by thoughts of all the good he could have done that year besides just handing out extra food rations.
It was too late for that now, though. All his life, he had been the living embodiment of the spirit of giving. Now, he was the last man on Earth, and there was no one left to give any presents to. But there was still hope. There was always hope. Hope was the gift he gave himself nowadays. And so, on Christmas Eve, when he was better equipped for travel than any other person on Earth ever had been, he prepared for another trip across the globe. He hitched up his four remaining reindeer, armed the defences around the workshop, and lifted up, up into the sky.
If there was just one child left, anywhere on the planet, he was going to find them, and protect them. He had to.
He was Santa.
22.12.07
BVS and BTTHD.
It's be incredibly satisfying seeing someone at the other end of the room raise his arms triumphantly and cry, "HOT DOGS!" Especially when those are *your* hot dogs he's holding. In other words, I'm happy to say that my contribution to the Greenhouse Christmas gift exchange was a resounding success. As for the other gifts, once again a good portion were simply useless gifts from last year, but there was a new ray of uselessness shining upon our congregation this time. Behold!
(Sorry about the doorknob in the corner -- I had to wedge my camera into the kitchen cupboards to get the frame lined up.)
You're looking at no less than fourteen button-up T-shirts, ranging from S to XXL, all embroidered with the initials "BVS". I'm not sure what to do with them... but I assure you, something shall be done. But if anybody has an idea, I'd love to hear it.
For that matter, I'd love to hear your guess as to what BVS stands for.
Broken Velcro Straps?
Boolean Variable Separator?
Batman Versus Scarecrow?
Bovine Vaccination Squad?
Beat Vibration Synchronization?
Burnt Vaseline Sandwich?
That's six... I guess I need eight more.
(Sorry about the doorknob in the corner -- I had to wedge my camera into the kitchen cupboards to get the frame lined up.)
You're looking at no less than fourteen button-up T-shirts, ranging from S to XXL, all embroidered with the initials "BVS". I'm not sure what to do with them... but I assure you, something shall be done. But if anybody has an idea, I'd love to hear it.
For that matter, I'd love to hear your guess as to what BVS stands for.
Broken Velcro Straps?
Boolean Variable Separator?
Batman Versus Scarecrow?
Bovine Vaccination Squad?
Beat Vibration Synchronization?
Burnt Vaseline Sandwich?
That's six... I guess I need eight more.
18.12.07
Fa la la la lard.
Ah, time again for the annual Greenhouse potluck dinner and anonymous gift exchange. For the most part, it's fun, but the gift exchange breaks my heart. It's supposed to be a subtle jab at the commericalism of Christmas, where everybody exchanges equally useless trinkets and gewgaws, but that sentiment can't survive in the presence of "shared misery = comedy" office humour, which I personally see as a blight upon society. (How else could Dilbert comics become 75% less funny as soon as they're tacked up on a wall?)
Somehow, that atmosphere's infected the gift exchange as well, to the point where a quarter of the gifts are literally boxes of junk that were going to be thrown out. This passes for comedy? Come on, people. We're better than this. At the very least, let's make it a gag present that isn't instantly fit for the pit.
That's not to say everyone should copy my sense of humour... but just in case you're wondering, here's my offering for this year:
(A... hot dog kit? Whatever could that be?)
(Oh.)
The other half of the party - the potluck - is much more straightforward. For some, it's a reason to fall back on family favourites. For me, it's a chance to get people to eat something that I just invented two hours ago. It's about as heavy as a lump of coal, and not much healthier, but I gave up technical merit in favour of culinary originality a long time ago. The label shall read:
Denton's Christmas Croquettes
(WARNING: The key word in this title is neither "Christmas" nor "Croquette".)
To begin, I made rice pudding with dried cranberries instead of raisins. Next, I wrapped up each dollop in bread dough and deep-fried them. A dusting with cinnamon and sugar, and they're ready for their close-up...
Mmm, mmm. Is that rice pudding, or uncooked dough in the center? Only the chef knows for sure! (Actually, he doesn't.) I count this one as a partial success. Next year, maybe I'll try making Christmas potstickers out of wonton noodles instead. Now that I know how incredibly easy rice pudding is to make, you'll be hard pressed to stop me.
Somehow, that atmosphere's infected the gift exchange as well, to the point where a quarter of the gifts are literally boxes of junk that were going to be thrown out. This passes for comedy? Come on, people. We're better than this. At the very least, let's make it a gag present that isn't instantly fit for the pit.
That's not to say everyone should copy my sense of humour... but just in case you're wondering, here's my offering for this year:
(A... hot dog kit? Whatever could that be?)
(Oh.)
The other half of the party - the potluck - is much more straightforward. For some, it's a reason to fall back on family favourites. For me, it's a chance to get people to eat something that I just invented two hours ago. It's about as heavy as a lump of coal, and not much healthier, but I gave up technical merit in favour of culinary originality a long time ago. The label shall read:
(WARNING: The key word in this title is neither "Christmas" nor "Croquette".)
To begin, I made rice pudding with dried cranberries instead of raisins. Next, I wrapped up each dollop in bread dough and deep-fried them. A dusting with cinnamon and sugar, and they're ready for their close-up...
Mmm, mmm. Is that rice pudding, or uncooked dough in the center? Only the chef knows for sure! (Actually, he doesn't.) I count this one as a partial success. Next year, maybe I'll try making Christmas potstickers out of wonton noodles instead. Now that I know how incredibly easy rice pudding is to make, you'll be hard pressed to stop me.
12.12.07
The Winter of our Disconnect.
Ayoy. These are indeed the dog days of December, when the work week is so fractured by the horde of Christmas festivities, that getting a productive head of steam never seems to happen. I know, I know... complaining about too many parties is a poor way to gain sympathy (although 27 Dec tends to bring a sigh of relief to many).
Here's the thing, though: conversations at the Greenhouse have... deteriorated somewhat. By this point, we're actively trying to say something stupider than the last person. For example, here's how it broke down today:
Opening gambit: "I'd like a different carpool. I feel like I'm trapped in my current one."
Challenger: "Hey, if you were driving with them through a mountain, and then there was a cave-in, that'd be carpool tunnel syndrome!"
Me: "And then their hands would explode! Right?"
(Tumbleweeds)
Me: "What? You guys started it."
In my defense, ever since I saw the trailer for The Machine Girl, I haven't been able to think of anything but exploding body parts.
Such is the power of cinema.
Such is the power of December.
Here's the thing, though: conversations at the Greenhouse have... deteriorated somewhat. By this point, we're actively trying to say something stupider than the last person. For example, here's how it broke down today:
Opening gambit: "I'd like a different carpool. I feel like I'm trapped in my current one."
Challenger: "Hey, if you were driving with them through a mountain, and then there was a cave-in, that'd be carpool tunnel syndrome!"
Me: "And then their hands would explode! Right?"
(Tumbleweeds)
Me: "What? You guys started it."
In my defense, ever since I saw the trailer for The Machine Girl, I haven't been able to think of anything but exploding body parts.
Such is the power of cinema.
Such is the power of December.
24.10.07
I do the best imitation of myself.
The e-mail started out innocuously:
"The organisers of the staff Christmas party have asked me to pass on the following announcements..."
Potluck suggestions, reminders to clear attendance with supervisors, etc.
"Also, we are interested in putting on a staff talent show. Please reply if you're interested."
ah-HA!
This might be good. In fact, it might be VERY good. I just had to confirm one small detail... and an hour later, I'd confirmed that I was indeed the only person in my section (and quite possibly my entire department) that wants to do this. In other words: Carte Blanche. 15 minutes, all to myself.
The only restriction on content is that it has to be "clean and inoffensive". Ah, if only we had naught to fear, save that which is dirty and slanderous... For example here's my favourite idea so far: I recruit MJ to help out (he's described himself as an "outside chance" for this), and he walks onto stage, pulling a wagon with a few 2x4s and some power tools. I follow him on, wearing a top hat. I announce to the crowd: "Ladies and Gentlemen! Can MJ build a wall so large, he cannot push it down?"
I then play "Flight Of The Valkryies" on a harmonica (or perhaps kazoo), while MJ builds a wall, stands it up, and pushes it down. We take a bow, and leave the stage.
There you go. Clean, inoffensive, and a 100% guarantee that we'll either have a much better turnout at next year's talent show, or no talent show whatsoever.
Believe me, I'll let you know if I think of anything better -- and of course, your own suggestions are graciously welcomed.
This is going to be SO much fun.
"The organisers of the staff Christmas party have asked me to pass on the following announcements..."
Potluck suggestions, reminders to clear attendance with supervisors, etc.
"Also, we are interested in putting on a staff talent show. Please reply if you're interested."
ah-HA!
This might be good. In fact, it might be VERY good. I just had to confirm one small detail... and an hour later, I'd confirmed that I was indeed the only person in my section (and quite possibly my entire department) that wants to do this. In other words: Carte Blanche. 15 minutes, all to myself.
The only restriction on content is that it has to be "clean and inoffensive". Ah, if only we had naught to fear, save that which is dirty and slanderous... For example here's my favourite idea so far: I recruit MJ to help out (he's described himself as an "outside chance" for this), and he walks onto stage, pulling a wagon with a few 2x4s and some power tools. I follow him on, wearing a top hat. I announce to the crowd: "Ladies and Gentlemen! Can MJ build a wall so large, he cannot push it down?"
I then play "Flight Of The Valkryies" on a harmonica (or perhaps kazoo), while MJ builds a wall, stands it up, and pushes it down. We take a bow, and leave the stage.
There you go. Clean, inoffensive, and a 100% guarantee that we'll either have a much better turnout at next year's talent show, or no talent show whatsoever.
Believe me, I'll let you know if I think of anything better -- and of course, your own suggestions are graciously welcomed.
This is going to be SO much fun.
29.12.06
Actually, lots of things come in small packages.
Before I get distracted by New Year's Weekend in the Queen City, it's time to reveal the mystery. Last week, I reported that my mother bought me an expensive present that I wouldn't like. There were some good guesses, but when the gift wrap came off on Christmas Day, I was holding...
...a gold St. Christopher medallion.
Now, if you've known me for a while, think back, and try to recall the last time I wore a ring. Or a necklace. Or a bracelet. Or a piercing. Or, for that matter, a watch that didn't have an indiglo digital readout. You'd think that if my mom notices when I buy my milk from a different grocery, she'd notice that I have never in my life worn jewelry. (Well, there was that Green Lantern ring, but that was a political issue.) Did she think that the reason I haven't worn jewelry up until now was that I didn't have anything with a saint on it?
Speaking of which, I am somewhat familiar with St. Christopher. He's the patron saint of travelers, which certainly puts me under his jurisdiction. He also had the head of a dog, depending on which version you believe is the word of God. (Now that's dogma.)
He sounds like a good guy to know, and I've nothing against him or his followers, but I still won't be carrying that medallion with me. Basically, it's for the same reason that I didn't apply for EI when I was unemployed: Sure, if I sweetened up the application with the right buzzwords, I'd sound sufficiently traumatised to glean a few cheques, but it would've been help I didn't really need, and it would have taken way from those who did. I can't help but apply that same logic to the "Jesus loves you no matter what you do" school of thought. I mean, I'm just trying to be polite.
Anyway, I'm getting off tangent here -- let's get back to the present. I'm still grateful, you know. It's a token from my mother saying that she loves me and that she worries about me when I travel, but she doesn't want me to stop traveling, because she knows I enjoy it. On that level, it's a wonderful Christmas gift.
I can live with that.
And I'm especially grateful that it wasn't a set of golf clubs.
...a gold St. Christopher medallion.
Now, if you've known me for a while, think back, and try to recall the last time I wore a ring. Or a necklace. Or a bracelet. Or a piercing. Or, for that matter, a watch that didn't have an indiglo digital readout. You'd think that if my mom notices when I buy my milk from a different grocery, she'd notice that I have never in my life worn jewelry. (Well, there was that Green Lantern ring, but that was a political issue.) Did she think that the reason I haven't worn jewelry up until now was that I didn't have anything with a saint on it?
Speaking of which, I am somewhat familiar with St. Christopher. He's the patron saint of travelers, which certainly puts me under his jurisdiction. He also had the head of a dog, depending on which version you believe is the word of God. (Now that's dogma.)
He sounds like a good guy to know, and I've nothing against him or his followers, but I still won't be carrying that medallion with me. Basically, it's for the same reason that I didn't apply for EI when I was unemployed: Sure, if I sweetened up the application with the right buzzwords, I'd sound sufficiently traumatised to glean a few cheques, but it would've been help I didn't really need, and it would have taken way from those who did. I can't help but apply that same logic to the "Jesus loves you no matter what you do" school of thought. I mean, I'm just trying to be polite.
Anyway, I'm getting off tangent here -- let's get back to the present. I'm still grateful, you know. It's a token from my mother saying that she loves me and that she worries about me when I travel, but she doesn't want me to stop traveling, because she knows I enjoy it. On that level, it's a wonderful Christmas gift.
I can live with that.
And I'm especially grateful that it wasn't a set of golf clubs.
24.12.06
There's a reason why I love this town.
I arrived in Edmonton just in time for some holiday shopping, which took me to my favourite bookstore ever: Audrey's Books. Why are they my favourite? Because the clerks will start talking about how great "Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH" is, yet they will openly berate anyone who phones asking about the "Left Behind" series. They've got taste, and they're not afraid to use it.
After discussing the correlation between Australian literary awards and the Australian used book trade, I concluded my transactions and left the store. I turned the corner, and saw a five-dollar bill lying in the middle of the sidewalk. See? I told you it's a great store. I looked around to see if anyone was fumbling with their wallet, and picked it up for myself.
Not ten seconds later, one of Edmonton's homeless (or, as I call them, les indigent) came up to me. In a barely discernable voice, he politely muttered a request for five cents, as he hadn't eaten in two days.
Now, I've never been in graduate studies, but I know a psychology experiment when I smell one. I mean, it's not that hard to disguise a grad student as a derelict, is it? Now, the question became the same as when a fill out a survey: Not "what do I believe", but "what do I want these researchers to believe about other people". And, even if it's not the case, I'd rather that they write a paper about the inherent generousity of people, so I gave him the five dollars.
In a way, I was reminded of a passage I once read in a philosophy book, where a professor challenged his students to find a single practical benefit to an act of kindness (i.e. giving a near-worthless item - a match - to a stranger whom you'd never see again). The students failed, but I think I found the answer yesterday.
The benefit, you see, is perception. That person who received the match will have an increased (if artificial) appraisal of humanity. In some small way, that will influence his interactions with other people. And, in some small way, you'll know that you've done your part to stack the deck.
That's the funny thing about morality. If enough people believe in something that's false, it becomes true. And if that's the case, that actually does give the individual an opportunity to make the world a better place.
Okay, that's as close as I'm getting to holiday schmaltz. Happy Festivus, everyone.
After discussing the correlation between Australian literary awards and the Australian used book trade, I concluded my transactions and left the store. I turned the corner, and saw a five-dollar bill lying in the middle of the sidewalk. See? I told you it's a great store. I looked around to see if anyone was fumbling with their wallet, and picked it up for myself.
Not ten seconds later, one of Edmonton's homeless (or, as I call them, les indigent) came up to me. In a barely discernable voice, he politely muttered a request for five cents, as he hadn't eaten in two days.
Now, I've never been in graduate studies, but I know a psychology experiment when I smell one. I mean, it's not that hard to disguise a grad student as a derelict, is it? Now, the question became the same as when a fill out a survey: Not "what do I believe", but "what do I want these researchers to believe about other people". And, even if it's not the case, I'd rather that they write a paper about the inherent generousity of people, so I gave him the five dollars.
In a way, I was reminded of a passage I once read in a philosophy book, where a professor challenged his students to find a single practical benefit to an act of kindness (i.e. giving a near-worthless item - a match - to a stranger whom you'd never see again). The students failed, but I think I found the answer yesterday.
The benefit, you see, is perception. That person who received the match will have an increased (if artificial) appraisal of humanity. In some small way, that will influence his interactions with other people. And, in some small way, you'll know that you've done your part to stack the deck.
That's the funny thing about morality. If enough people believe in something that's false, it becomes true. And if that's the case, that actually does give the individual an opportunity to make the world a better place.
Okay, that's as close as I'm getting to holiday schmaltz. Happy Festivus, everyone.
18.12.06
The holiday spirit.
These last few years, Christmas has never been a big priority for me. I usually bring in a branch that fell off someone else's tree, and I might buy a box of mandarin oranges, and I go to Regina for a weekend. That's about it.
Yesterday, though, it was almost as if my heart grew three sizes too big. For the very first time ever: I've put up Christmas lights!
Truly, my cup of eggnog runneth over.
Yesterday, though, it was almost as if my heart grew three sizes too big. For the very first time ever: I've put up Christmas lights!
Truly, my cup of eggnog runneth over.
17.12.06
A really big lump of coal.
My mother phoned me yesterday, to find out my Christmas schedule. While talking about holiday plans, she also told me that she'd bought my Christmas present. Then, for some reason, she gave me the following hints:
Does this make any sense at all? What on Earth am I supposed to do when I get it? If I don't like it, should I be honest? Worse yet, if I do like it, will she believe me when I say so? Is it ungrateful not to like a present which the giver knows you won't like? Maybe I'll just have to appreciate its practicality.
Then, there's the question of exactly what I'll be getting. If you think about it, it's actually quite a difficult set of hints. Sure, there are plenty of cheap things I don't like (Norah Jones, vinegar), and plenty of expensive things I don't need (car, house, private yacht full of pianos), but a combination of the two? It boils down to things she thinks I need. Here's what I've come up with, besides a car full of vinegar:
1. Cell phone. Not only would my parents think I'd be somehow safer with it, but they'd also have a way to contact me at any time. A win-win situation, for them.
2. Golf clubs. Every summer for the last ten years, my mom asks me if I want to go golfing, and I always reply that I don't like golf. Clearly, my attitude would change if only I had my own set of equipment. At the very least, I'd be guilted into using them this summer.
3. A Caribbean cruise/resort. Once, I walked into a travel agency, and asked them what sort of wild adventures they could offer. My choices were: a resort, a resort, a cruise, a resort, and Las Vegas. Now, those choices are perfectly entertaining, but it galls me that we're asked to believe an all-inclusive hotel where we're not supposed to leave the grounds is an "adventure". Besides, I weary of people who can only measure the quality of their vacation by the average daytime temperature. There is life below thirty degrees, you know... and yet, I have an eerie suspicion that this is something my newly-retiring parents want to do "as a family."
If anyone else has ideas, I'd love to hear them. It'll help me brace for what might be the most awkward gift exchange I've ever known.
On the bright side, I don't think my parents even know that I hate monkeys.
- It's really expensive.
- I won't like it.
Does this make any sense at all? What on Earth am I supposed to do when I get it? If I don't like it, should I be honest? Worse yet, if I do like it, will she believe me when I say so? Is it ungrateful not to like a present which the giver knows you won't like? Maybe I'll just have to appreciate its practicality.
Then, there's the question of exactly what I'll be getting. If you think about it, it's actually quite a difficult set of hints. Sure, there are plenty of cheap things I don't like (Norah Jones, vinegar), and plenty of expensive things I don't need (car, house, private yacht full of pianos), but a combination of the two? It boils down to things she thinks I need. Here's what I've come up with, besides a car full of vinegar:
1. Cell phone. Not only would my parents think I'd be somehow safer with it, but they'd also have a way to contact me at any time. A win-win situation, for them.
2. Golf clubs. Every summer for the last ten years, my mom asks me if I want to go golfing, and I always reply that I don't like golf. Clearly, my attitude would change if only I had my own set of equipment. At the very least, I'd be guilted into using them this summer.
3. A Caribbean cruise/resort. Once, I walked into a travel agency, and asked them what sort of wild adventures they could offer. My choices were: a resort, a resort, a cruise, a resort, and Las Vegas. Now, those choices are perfectly entertaining, but it galls me that we're asked to believe an all-inclusive hotel where we're not supposed to leave the grounds is an "adventure". Besides, I weary of people who can only measure the quality of their vacation by the average daytime temperature. There is life below thirty degrees, you know... and yet, I have an eerie suspicion that this is something my newly-retiring parents want to do "as a family."
If anyone else has ideas, I'd love to hear them. It'll help me brace for what might be the most awkward gift exchange I've ever known.
On the bright side, I don't think my parents even know that I hate monkeys.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)