Beaver: A Christmas Story

I would very much like to take the opportunity presented by keeping a running record of my personal life in a public forum to tell you that it's all MFDC's fault that I haven't blogged in like, 9 years. But, you know, that would be a lie, and if you grew up in my house, you would have a highly-sensitized aversion to lying, since the discovery of such a malevolent deed would find your physical body absorbing the impact of Loretta's Wrath via a toy Light Saber, the back of her hand, or any other light yet blunt object capable of causing some form of swelling.

I know, I know, I know. And Reggie, you're right. But yet, I'm still anxious to find a new voice here. I suppose getting over the loss of the old one might help.

Anyway, it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas! However, it sure as hell doesn't FEEL like it. During my first tour of duty here, I missed the biting cold and the smell of an impending snowstorm almost painfully. Now, this time, as I was sitting at the car wash watching Doris get rubbed down by a strange, dark man (what? Doris needs love, too!), I felt the sun on my face (and hands and chest and anything else that was uncovered, the tops of my feet...) and was grateful for the warmth and the light it provided.

I was born in winter, and in years passed, I've enjoyed my share of them. I went to college in Boston, where winter starts in October. I learned to move around in the freezing cold. I got used to it. But I NEVER got used to it in New York. Maybe because my bones were older, or because I finally realized that, you know what? I don't HAVE to take shitty weather anymore, dammit! So, you know, I found myself a sugar daddy and got the hell outta Dodge. That's the real reason I moved to Hell-A. The booty is just a bonus. Sorry, Baby!

We got a FANTASTIC Christmas tree. I believe Meghan, upon first seeing it (after she showed up an hour late for dinner on Sunday night. We understood, though. There was a skirmish in her kitchen which did not quite yield the much anticipated victory, but no matter! It was just a small battle, Meghan! I'm confident you'll win the war!), responded to my eager, "It's AWESOME, isn't it?" with "It's...a SPECTACLE." I think that pretty much sums up what we were going for with it!

As you can see by this blurry photo of the MFDC, it's a fake, white, pre-lit, 7' tall Christmas Tree from Home Depot, courtesy of Kevin, the dude who hasn't kicked me out of his house yet, even though I pretty much yell at him all the time. He agreed to buy the tree as long as he didn't have to assemble it. Chrissi, his tiny, hilarious girlfriend, and I went to Target, where we proceeded to painfully hand-pick all of our ornaments, since it was important that every one of them be special enough to adorn The White Christmas Tree (read: whatever was left strewn about that wasn't broken by the hordes of human cattle typically present on weekends at Target, but energized to a fiendish level by the holiday season and a desire to get in and get out so they can get their screaming devil spawn home and hopped up on Ritalin in time for the babysitter).

We chose, for Kevin, a football ornament in which a photo of his smurfish grin could be placed. For herself, Chrissi chose a black velvet shoe ornament, among a few others. My eye caught a glass, neon green Christmas pickle adornment that I just had to have (because what's Christmas without a glass pickle, hmm?). The only remaining individual yet to be represented on The White Christmas Tree was the MFDC. None of the cutesy stuff resonated with him in mind, so after grabbing some candy-flavored candycanes (they were out of regular, peppermint candycanes) for The White Christmas Tree, we headed toward the check-out.

On our way out, Chrissi stopped to look at a display of dog toys resembling small animals. "We should get a squirrel for The Tree," she said. "Ha! Like Christmas Vacation!" I laughed.

And then I saw it. My heart started to race and my eyes grew wide. I knew without a doubt in my mind that we HAD to get it for MFDC. It was, in a word, the perfect ornament, short of miniature mandles or a lesbian sex figurine. Or boobs. "We HAVE to buy this for Dan!" I exclaimed, because if there's anybody on this planet who could TRULY appreciate the addition of a Christmas Beaver to a Christmas tree, it's Motherfucking Dan Certa.

Behold. The Christmas Beaver.