Cabela's Club

Yes, we are a member of the sacred Redneck Society of Cabela's. We worship at the shrine of the Bargain Cave. We love this stuff.

However, at Christmas time, when Club Card Bonus points are being spent in the furtherence of holiday magic, it is hard to keep a secret. These assholes report every little damn transaction. I have no secrets.

Just yesterday, George opens an envelope and asks, 'What boot dryer did you order?'. I am flabbergasted. The order went in yesterday, as in: less than 24 hours ago! Damn!

I pause... then, I am suddenly pissed at this snoopy invasive person called husband. 'It was supposed to be a Christmas gift! Maybe, you could have just pretended not to read that so I might be able to surprise you once in a while!' I purged my Cabela's wrath!

He looked at me through those stupid fucking magnifying reading glasses, which just serve to make that little hurt expression more intense, and said, 'Well, I didn't know...'

Not to be deterred, I said, 'George, it's December! Don't ask questions about the bills!' and stomped out of the kitchen.

For a long while after, we both felt kinda lousy...

Quote

Aren't we forgetting the true meaning of Christmas? You know… the birth of Santa.

--Bart Simpson

When pickers marry rippers

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Yesterday I went Christmas shopping. Today, I will wrap and maybe put up some decorations. It is hard to get all excited about Christmas stuff when the kids aren't around. Doing holiday stuff alone is lonely.

Today, I invited my sister over to work on a project of hers while I wrap. That will help. I'll set a fire in the fireplace (well, okay, pellet stove with window, but a fire, nonetheless), and turn on holiday music. Maybe light some cinnamon candles. Maybe take an antidepressant (kidding...).

I am pleased with my purchases, excited for my family to open their gifts. That is the real good stuff about Christmas for me; everyone home, gathered together, ripping wrapping and laughing and exclaiming.

My kids and I are wrapping rippers. We became such as a direct and deliberate contradiction to George's family, who open gifts one at a time, one person at a time, carefully peeling away each bit of tape, carefully preserving the wrapping paper, stopping with both ends of the package open, and guessing what's inside, feeling, guessing, picking at tape, stopping, looking meaningfully all around, catching each person's eye, turning the package over and over in their lap, picking tape, sliding fingers under the tape joining the pieces...ENOUGH, ALREADY!! Open the damn gift and let's get this horse in the barn! You people think this is fun? It is not; it is agony and passive-aggressive bullshit. God! It makes me want to head to the nearest liquor cabinet, regardless of the time of day!

The first time these people saw that my kids and I were becoming out-of-control, ripping and laughing and shouting and helping one another, they pursed their lips and made disapproving comments about savoring the moment. Savor this: my people live for six and a half decades. Yours for nine, you know, as in ninety years or more. You have the time to screw around with day long gift exposing. We don't. We need to get to the good stuff so we can enjoy it before we die. And hurry to the table. And then to the liquor cabinet.

Merry Christmas!

Sunday, and tired...

Tonight, I will rest. And sleep until I feel like getting up...

Oh, wait, the city inspector will be here at 0800 to check on the new heating system. In the family room and in my bedroom. I can't really sleep in, can I? Oh, at the same time, the 'under the house insulators' will begin their attempt at stopping the mass exodus of warm air from this place.

So, George just informed me of this latest onslaught to my nest, my privacy. Only because I asked if everything was done regarding the heating thing. Thanks for the warning.

So, tomorrow, my first day off without chores or obligatory show-ups at kids' places or prison to visit a beloved nephew, is to be spent once again dodging workers, some who want to talk about my previous life as a shooting celebrity. I used to like the attention... but not now, not in my own home.

I really don't care about their recent purchase of a ___ gun and how it performs in their inexperienced hands. I have heard the millionth story about the elk/deer/sheep that so and so got or missed. 'Do your job and go away' I want to scream. I listened to this when I was getting paid for it, and now, I want to be left alone.

Put in the heat thing and go away.

Am I mean? Antisocial? Jaded?

No, I am tired...

Battle cry of the Little Red Hen, Goodie Two-Shoes and Miss Congeniality

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I Wanna Go Too Far

by Trisha Yearwood

'Everything in moderation', that's the way it's always been

Never gettin' out of control - never hanging it out

Always reelin' it in.

I saved my money for a rainy day

But now I've had enough of playin' it safe

I wanna go too far, I wanna go too fast

Somebody draw the line so I can blow right past

I wanna spend too much, I wanna stay too late

I'm gonna roar too loud, I'm gonna be that way

I wanna play too hard, I wanna go too far

I'm the one they all depend on

Sensible, predictable, and strong

But every now and then,

I feel like I've played that role too long

I need to rock the boat, I need to speak my mind

Just this once let it all unwind

I've gotta set this spirit free

That's hiding here inside

I feel like a bird in a cage

It's time for me to fly

I am with ya, Trish. Some days, I solve so many problems for other people that I feel like a calculator. Or I listen to unending problems with no solutions, or none that the speaker wants to incorporate.

La Leche League, the breast feeding advocacy and education group, calls a phenomenon of a mom's life with toddlers and babies on her constantly being 'touched out'. Your body becomes overloaded with the physical pressure, heat, and intimacy of clinging children. I think there is such a thing as becoming emotionally touched out.

When those around you are troubled or stressed or angry, and call or come by to talk/seek help/dump, it takes a toll. When lots of people do so, and some on a regular basis, it becomes crippling for me. I feel immobilized in my inability to cope or help them or stop them. I want to escape.

I want to go too far, away from this place.

A smile from God

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Taking out the garbage, western style

(Maurice Clemmons, import from Arkansas. The face of hatred, evil, and a waste of good ammo. From Seattle Post-Intelligencer website, today.)

Career criminal, cop killer,baby raper, evil in a slime ball, a man who had been given multiple opportunities to change, is dead at the hands of an Irish cop. This is not a lead in to an action movie. It happened today. In the early morning hours near the scene of his latest mayhem, Maurice Clemmons lost his latest duel with police. He was shot dead by Benjamin Kelly, working alone when he was approached from behind by the suspect.

When ordered to stop advancing and put his hands up, Clemmons continued his advance, circling the officer and reaching for his waistband. Kelly shot him. Later, it was discovered that Clemmons was reaching for the gun taken off of one of the officers he had killed a few days earlier, preparing to use it, again against a police officer.

Code of the West, baby. Live by the gun, die by the gun. If you're gonna be stupid, you better be tough. And, remember, cops are put there by society to serve a specific purpose. We love them. We train them, we invest in their well-being. We really hate it when you fuck with them. And, they hate it when one (or in this case, five, are fucked with).

Another day at the landfill. Code of the West.