Upon cracking open a bottle of wine this evening, I weighed my options for drunken activities; drunken writing of Christmas Cards, or drunken wrapping of presents.
Yes. I'm done shopping. Suck it.
Drunken blogging was not an option because, I just don't feel like it.
But I will share this drunken post from last year that still cracks my shit up.
Originally posted Dec. 17, 2009
I am not very bright.
For any of you who thought me of even average intelligence, feel free to reassess that notion after seeing what I bought Owen for Christmas:
Wolverine Battle Claw. With a flick of the wrist the claws extend with a super cool sound effect "Thwap!".
No, not smart of me at all. I fear that Bea will soon be sporting a shiny new prosthetic eye. A small price to pay for making the boy happy.
While wrapping it up, Al and I enjoyed a chuckle at the little warning sticker on the inside of the claw:
Caution: Do not poke or jab with claw.
Just look at the thing. This is a toy clearly intended for gentle caresses and love pats; a tickle fight perhaps? But poking and jabbing?
Come on, what person, what male particularly, would want to enhance the strength and size of any appendage and then go about poking and jabbing things with it? Just about the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.
Methinks that Hasbro needs to do some more market research and find out what really excites young boys.
Poking and jabbing. Sheesh. My sweet little angel? I'm insulted.
So. I thought I might enhance my gift wrapping abilities with this little gadget:
This fucking thing drove me nuts. It wouldn't stay put on my fucking hand and the tape kept sneaking back inside requiring me to take it off and fish the fucking block of tape out and try to unstick one piece and then place it back in the fucking doohickey without that piece falling back down and sticking again.
So not worth it.
Then I tried using it sober.
Yes, the wrapping is all done. Present piles have been compared an appear to be equal for each child. Stocking stuffers are patiently waiting to be stuffed.
Only two presents left to wrap; jammies to be opened on Christmas Eve. Special jammies. Spiderman jammies for Owen, snuggly kitty cat jammies for Bea.
Jammies that I can't fucking find. I've looked everywhere.
I even looked in Al's closet where I found MY bag of gifts.
I didn't peek! Can you believe it?
I pinky swear I didn't look. I think I know what I'm getting anyway. I better fucking be getting one (a Flip video camera, yes I did get one). I only found one online on sale and sat Al down at the computer, handed him the debit card and left him alone to do his business.
So, no surprise gift for me.
I did get a surprise last week though, along with a gentle reminder that the Universe has a warped sense of humor or maybe just hates me.
Remember this post? (Too lazy to fix that post and link it. It was all about fucking dog puking in our bed at 2am and me seeking ideas on how to dispose of her.)
Two days later I awoke to a puddle of dog piss next to my bed. That I stepped in.
The dog that has never peed in the house in 9 years hosed the entire upstairs. She did it again the next day. I stepped in it again.
I suspected diabetes and informed Al that I would NOT be taking care of a diabetic fucking dog. NO WAY NO WAY NO FUCKING WAY.
$130 trip to the vet with blood work and everything and a phone call today with the diagnosis of:
Fucking Doggie Diabetes.
The motherfucking vet skipped right past;
Well, it looks like it is her time, so when you are ready to bring her in and say goodbye just let me know,
and dove straight into;
It looks like you are going to be saddled with another sick fucking thing to take care of with fucking daily insulin injections, medical supplies, blood tests, and frequent vet visits.
I'm returning all of your presents and getting you a not dead dog for Christmas.