I Bought a Dead Bird

beautiful gingerale

Cheers!

It’s 39° out this morning.  Finally some cold weather!  Nothing like a lot of other people are experiencing right now but at least it dipped under 40°.  I love it when my feet are cold enough to make me consider putting socks on.

I bought a dead bird for Philip and Max to cook tomorrow.  I am very uncomfortable going to meat counters and deciding on carcasses to buy for “food”.  This is how much I love my family, that I will do it if it means my kid broadens his food palate and takes an interest in cooking.  At least I won’t have to handle the bird myself.  I still haven’t gotten over that time I tried to make him wings and cut the end off of one and almost threw up.  Or the time my dad tried to make me cook a chicken for my sister when I was coming down from my first acid trip.  I was 16 and almost threw up.

I don’t remember my dreams from last night.  That almost never happens.  It’s so nice.  I  might get better sleep if it wasn’t so filled with anxiety dreams, total nightmares, or just plain disturbing crap.

The bell ringers are already out in force.  I told the Salvation Army bell ringer outside the grocery store that it was too early for that and he said “I know.  Happy holiday!” and because my first instinct is nearly always to be polite I wished him a happy holiday too but what I wanted to say is “Which one?”.  It’s everywhere though.  Everywhere.  This cancer that Christmas has become.  Harsh?  No.  It’s sucking up more and more days of the year and infecting otherwise totally reasonable people.  I haven’t been on Facebook for two days and still it’s everywhere.  I can’t actually escape it.  The horrible repetitive songs, the stupid emotionally manipulative sappy holiday clichés in commercials and movies and shows.  I can’t get away and the awful songs get stuck in my head like a death knell.  Three weeks of this shit is almost more than I can bear but now it’s four weeks and next year it will be five weeks.

And all these parents perpetuating the myth of an old man who sees everything children do and invites them to sit on his lap and tell him their dreams and sometimes gives them candy afterwards.  And parents willingly let their children sit in the laps of actual strangers dressed up as an old man whose only life goal is to run around watching children sleep.  So when I suggest that Santa is a pedophile I mean that he is the creepiest fake old man EVER.  If you caught any of those pretend Santas actually watching your children sleep you’d have them arrested.  Coming down your damn chimney?  Breaking and entering, people.  You know why Santa is so fucking jolly all the time?  I’m not even going to say it.

And I’m apparently the only one who minds Christmas encroaching on November.  It’s a lonely lonely feeling.  I have a few Jewish friends and you don’t hear them going on and on about Hanukkah which starts tomorrow.  Hanukkah is so much more mellow and meaningful than Christmas.  I wish everyone was Jewish.  I wish I was Jewish.   But not really, because I don’t DO religion.

So here we are.  The day before Thanksgiving.  It’s my  mother’s birthday today and it’s fitting considering that one of the things I’m most thankful for this year is that she’s still with us.

What I have to get done today:

Cube and dry a loaf of bread for stuffing

Make sugar syrup as a substitute for corn syrup for the pecan pie

Make pie crust, roll out, then freeze

Cut and sauté veg for stuffing

Finish writing chapter two

What have you got to do today?

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