Today is January 5, 2013. As all the religious fruitcakes screamed about the end of the world, the rest of us were busy preparing for Christmas and baking real fruitcake. (This is a lie. I do not bake. I do not bake fruitcake. But you get the idea.)
Since my mother died, my father is not so holly jolly. Oh hell, let’s face it. The person who decorated the house, sang Christmas Carols nonstop, and hummed as she baked Christmas goodies did all the work. He watched. And ate.
So this year, the house where my mom never really lived (she died just a month after they moved in) was guarded by two large nutcracker statues and a poinsettia. Everybody got an envelope with money in it. There was no tree. There were no wrapped presents.
On the other hand, wanting to snap me out of my depression Birdman hung Christmas lights and put up wreaths, and bought a fiber-optic small white tree and three stockings that had our initials on them. J, N, and S for Stormy the Wonder Dog.
We spent the rest of the holiday season trying to teach Stormy to speak, as we discovered that when he wants something, he sneezes, and this means please. Or so we think.
Next time I get a dog, I want one that talks like Mishka.
I think I want one of these next Christmas. A Mishka.
Looking forward to a tree, and some real cheer next Christmas.