NewscomaGot A Two-Pack Habit And A Motel Tan

And you will die of cute if you love dogs.

Two girls listen to a local woman read Twas the Night Before ChristmasThis picture, for whatever reason, makes me extremely happy on this cold and icy day. The girl in the purple put her arm around the girl in the pink and they sat quietly.

Listening.

What if Black Sabbath did a Christmas song?

It might be a lot like this:

And then there is this:

In an odd and weird way, I kinda dig the obscurity of it all.

Things that have made me smile this morning:

• Jon Hickman giving Frank Strovel computer tips at Left of the Dial. I really love the blogosphere.
• Wrassling cats. 
• News of happiness 
• People who make me laugh 
• An unexpected thing during a rough time
• Out of this world pictures that are just amazing.
• I miss Monstervision as well.
• Merry Christmas to you as well, as you play Homer’s favorite Christmas song.
• For the love of Sugarface, who is a fine woman indeed and is loved by a fine man
• I love it when Left Wing Cracker calls me beloved, ’cause I’m quite smitten with him as well.

Random, I know.

It’s usually happens to me about three days before Christmas every year. I become a bit emotional.

I don’t know why, or maybe I do and then I just ignore it, I then forget about it and then it comes as an annual event and there I am again. Damn cycle of holiday emotions.

I think some of my perceptions of this holiday goes back over three decades when I would spend the Brady Bunch Christmas at my grandmother’s house. We called her Nanny and she was a jovial woman who smoked Salem cigarettes, laughed this deep hearty laugh and could outcook anyone in three states. She read her bible, she went to church but she loved a good Tom Collins and was unapologetic about it. She taught me a lot and I miss her. She was a paradox and a wonderful role model who taught me that kindness was important and to treat people the way I wanted to be treated. She also didn’t believe you had to be one thing.

You just needed to be yourself.

When my grandfather died, she slowly withered away. She is the only person I know, although it was diagnosed as breast cancer, that passed away with a broken heart. There isn’t any way you could convince me otherwise.

We tried to recreate the joyful Christmases we had with her. The truly awful Christmas tree that had wire stuck with some sort of flammable branches on it, the presents that would fill a room, the amazing feast she would cook in her small kitchen that met us each year as we anxiously anticipated Christmas Eve. We tried to find that in which she created.

And each year, we failed.

Because it just wasn’t the same. As I grew older, I have found myself looking for that feeling I had when she was alive. Big Daddy is unabashedly not a fan of the holiday, though he tries (Nanny was my mother’s mom) and Homer gets it closer to my grandmother than anyone. I loved my own mother dearly, but when her mother passed away, she sort of abandoned Christmas. Not the actions of the holiday, but the feelings in her heart.

So, each year I seek those joyous feelings of Nanny’s small house. And each year, I find a few days before Christmas not being able to find it. And I’m disappointed. And it comes out in anger then an emotionally full moment where I realize that some things in our lives we cannot replace.

Now, this is whiny. I get that. And to be honest, this year I’ve had more fun than I’ve had in years. But that feeling struck me yesterday. The longing, that desire to feel.

That need for my childhood passion in which my grandmother was the real Santa Claus.

I am blessed. I have a wonderful life. This upcoming year is the one that will make or break me professionally. I’ve been aggressive in changing some of the things in my life that I want to alter and I’m pleased that I can take one thing at a time now instead of getting overwhelmed by the many distractions that are life. There are so many people in this world that have less than I do. I’m pleased I have love. I may not have a new car or the job I’ve been seeking, but I have family whom I adore and friends who would do anything for me as I would for them.

And yet, I miss that laugh and the twinkling of her eyes that was more about Christmas than any present.

Now back to your regular scheduled programming at Newscoma.

Photo from here.

Oh, dearest Raincoaster, how you make my day. Shamelessly, I steal from you again. I beg forgiveness ahead of time.

Christopher Walken’s “mother” has a Christmas message for you guys. If you don’t like spicy language, go here.

Otherwise, prepare to laugh with glee:

[youtube=[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9pzB30dsxsQ&rel=0&border=1]

For my mom at Christmas because her spirit lives on…

And so does Mr. Coltrane’s, Billie’s and Miles’.

Mom, this one is for you!

[youtube=[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dNHtvu-4cDw&rel=1]

Birdland on 53
The street sounded like a symphony
We got John Coltrane and a love supreme
Miles says she’s got to be
An angel

Lady Day got diamond eyes
She sees the truth behind the lies
Angel

Yeah, represent the ones you love at Christmas, even if they aren’t here.

This one is for my mom.

Scout says things I cannot. She is speaking of the annual Community Development Services Christmas party. The person in the picture at her blog is our beloved Patsy, who gives me Christmas spirit even when I try very hard to avoid it.

For them, Santa never dies because they are blessed (not limited) in the ability not to look at Christmas and everything else with a clouded, complicated, calloused and hardened mind, unreceptive to the Christmas spirit, but instead through the simple, sweet and unaffected mind of a child. Their bait for the Christmas spirit is unwavering belief in the good and pure happiness and faith that the good will always prevail. Peeling back the complications, crabbiness and despair that try to break into the holiday season and everyday life, they exude trust, love and support.

Disabled? They are the teachers of some of the greatest lessons.

Well said, Scout. Well said. 

Today is office potluck/Christmas/Festivus/Baby Jesus Celebration Day.

I am embarking on attempting to be all Laura Creekmore/Cook Eat Fret/Home Ec 101. I made a vow that this year, I will make homemade goodies while keeping the fire department at bay.

The plan, in the next two and a half hours, is to make some sort of pickle ham cream cheese thing, some cream cheese/sausage casserole concoction and sammichs. I might even use cream cheese on the sammichs just for the hell of it.

Cream cheese tends to hide the ineptness of my culinary skills, which of course, I do not have anyway.

Homer finally coughed up the recipe for the chicken salad thingie so I got that going for me.

Squirrel Queen thinks I’ve lost my mind but I’m feeling all domestic. Dammit, I wish I had an apron.

If it is edible, we will all win.

If it isn’t, it’s Squirrel Queen’s fault because she didn’t believe. It’s like Santa, you know. You have to believe.

Dessert will be Alka-Seltzer.

And then, my cyber friends, I am taking a few days off from work.  We can only hope I won’t be visiting any of the staff in the hospital with food poisoning.

An actual Christmas conversation with Homer:

ME: How do you make that chicken salad thingie you make?

HOMER: I use chicken.

ME: Killa wants it because she told me this today. She likes it. I bought it. How do you make it?

HOMER: I get chicken. I put stuff in it.

ME: What do you put in it?

HOMER: SweetTarts.

ME, sighing because Homer does this to me: And Skittles?

HOMER: No. Pay attention. You aren’t listening.

ME, sighing again because my little sister can drive me to drink … : Do I put Gummie Worms in it for Christ’s Sake?

HOMER: No, that goes in the Tuna Salad.

The office party should be interesting tomorrow.

Umm, help.