How did you stand it . . .

Could anything be more depressing than coming back from a short Christmas break and driving into a landscape of drifted snirt? (That's snow+dirt.)

Definitely.

Actually being there while the winds gusted up to 65 miles an hour and kept folks inside on Christmas Day!

Now that's depressing.

Waiting on white . . .

When we were living out on the Correction Line 20 miles southeast of Burlington back in the Fifties, I can remember so much time spent waiting on white to go away so we could get the vehicles out and break through snowdrifts that clogged the high-grade dirt roads to our farmhouse.

Back then, I guess it was more like waiting on brown/white . . . if the truth be known. The dirt blew something awful and snow did not come down as snow but a combination. We called it "snirt" . . . and it was.

When drifts finally began to melt, there was no more white at all. Just dark brown topsoil darkened by the wet, melting snow underneath.

And my family wonders why I don't want any brown in my house.

Now we're waiting on white to leave Burlington for Colorado Springs and a Christmas weekend together before we go our separate ways.

No dirt in this snow.

It's white . . . blinding white.

So that would make it . . . a white Christmas.

Am I right?

Eat your heart out, Bing.

Definitely not dreaming of a white Christmas . . .

I don't like Bing Crosby anymore. Actually, I never did think he was any great shakes, and then the stories about his treatment of his sons began to surface and I guess I used that for an excuse to stop listening to something I never thought was that wonderful anyway.

Back in the day, I couldn't stand to see him in romantic leads in movies. He was so . . . so . . . puny. And not exactly heart-throb material . . . by any stretch of the imagination.

So why do they keep cramming him down my throat?

I have a station I'm tuned in for on my car and for some reason the powers-that-be have decided to entertain me with Bing Crosby Christmas songs for the remainder of the season instead of what I want to hear.

Yes, I'll exercise my rights and turn the knob . . . but I really did want to bitch about it before I changed the station.

And since I hate snow . . . I never dreamed of a white Christmas anyway!

I'll drink to that . . .

I went to Google this morning and typed in “Is Red Bull bad for you?”

I need to explain here that I love Red Bull. Not like. Love. I love the smell of it, the taste of it, the bubbles in it.

I love Red Bull.

Okay, back to my trip to Google.

Here’s what I read: “Inconclusive, but sounds as if it’s something that should be consumed in moderation (unless you are in France or Denmark, where it’s banned).”

Per 250 ml serving, Red Bull has 27 grams of sugar, 1000 mg of taurine, 600 mg of glucuronolactone, and 80 mg of caffeine.

Okay, sugar I know. I'm okay with that.

Caffeine and I are friends. I have low blood pressure and seem not to feel its effects, at least not to the extent that others claim.

Taurine (from taurus = ox, as it was discovered in ox bile) is an acidic chemical substance that supposedly enhances the effects of caffeine.

Glucuronolactone, in a word, is a carbohydrate.

So my fave drink is sugar, caffeine, ox bile and carbs?

I’ll drink to that!

Overwhelmed . . .

That's what I'm feeling this Christmas.

So I've decided not to get the holiday trappings out and strew them about the house.

I've decided to start cutting my lists down to the bare nubbin.

I've decided to take extra care of myself during what is turning out to be a very stressful time.

So, so many things coming to a head at once and only a few weeks to prepare myself for them.

I will explain later.

(Signed) Enigmatic Joy

Tempus fugit . . .

The fact that time flies seems to be cropping up more and more these days. You'd think by now nothing could surprise me but every now and then I read a little snippet and am absolutely floored by the sudden realization that another ten years has managed to swoosh past me on those invisible wings.

What got me this time?

A blurb about The Karate Kid, Ralph Macchio . . . who is 48.

Forty eight?!

That's impossible!

That would make him knocking on the door to 50 while in my mind he's still that gawky kid balancing precariously on one leg.

And then it dawned on me.

I have a son that age!

Oops, almost forgot I'm not supposed to mention him in my blog. So let's do it this way: Son No. 2, who is two years younger than the son-I-can't-mention-in-my-blog . . . is 46! That's just two years younger than the Karate Kid . . . and his older sibling, who may or may not exist.

All of which still brings me up short because I can't believe they could be that age yet.

Because I certainly don't feel like it . . .

I wonder if they do.

A Christas ditty for Tiger fans . . .

Here's a little Christmas song for you to sing to yourself whenever you get tired of all the Tiger, Tiger, Tiger news blitz. Sung to the tune of Nuttin’ for Christmas (Tepper/­Ben­­ja­min, 1955), it goes like this:

I'm gettin' nuttin' for Christmas
My hot wife, Elin, is mad.
I'm gettin' nuttin' for Christmas
'Cause I ain't been nuttin' but bad.

I’m caught with Mistress Number One
Somebody snitched on me.
Then two, three, four, but we’re not done
Somebody snitched on me.
My wife found out and scratched my face
Took my golf club and gave me chase
I wrecked the car outside my place
Somebody snitched on me.

CHORUS
Oh, I'm gettin' nuttin' for Christmas
My dear wife, Elin, is mad
I'm gettin' nuttin' for Christmas
'Cause I ain't been nuttin' but bad.

They wonder now what makes me tick
Somebody snitched on me
Some say I’m just a sex addict
Somebody snitched on me
I said I’m not that kind of guy
But still got stuck with a DUI
And our pre-nup has gone sky-high
Since somebody snitched on me!

(Repeat chorus)

Here’s hoping your next two weeks before Christmas go better than this poor guy’s.

Tits, beer, Hitler, sex and football . . .

I know absolutely next to nothing about this blogging jazz, but apparently when people are searching the Worldwide Web for things that interest them, something picks up on certain words and phrases and tells these people which website they can visit to find what they seek.

Baby kittens, puppy breath, pizza, Mom's apple pie, Harley chicks . . .

So when one is beginning to blog, it's important to bring as many readers to one's site as possible and maybe a few will decide they like what they read . . . and stay.

Naked blonde, Santa Claus, blushing bride, Tiger Woods . . .

Personally, I don't understand why talking about vodka, hallucinogenics, true love, exciting vacations in exotic environments or nude horseback riding is going to attract people to my brand new website, but I'm trusting my son on this.

He's been at it long enough to know the ropes and, at this stage of the game, I'm open to any and all suggestions.

Vampires, virgins, Viagara . . .

Wht 2 do? Wht 2 do?

This business of writing a blog is so new to yours truly that I am totally at a loss. At least for the time being, anyway.

You see, I just got used to texting.

That took some doing, you can be sure. Let's back up to when a friend (who's in the business of cell phones?) set me up with my account and told me he would be putting in an allowance of time for texting.

"Texting?! I'm not texting!" I remember affirming.

He looked at me and grinned, shaking his head at my stupidity, "You have granddaughters, Joy. You will text. As a matter of fact, I'm going to put you down for the unlimited texting plan; you'd be surprised how these minutes add up and that way you won't have to worry."

I thought he'd lost his marbles when, in fact, he was right as rain.

I never learned total texting ettiquette. I've been told, time and again, I don't "text right" but that's okay. All someone has to do when they read my texts is just read every letter . . . and they'll be able to figure me out.

N e time (anytime) u (you) have 2 (to) xpress (express) urself (yourself), itz (I use a z when it should be apostrophe s), quite e z (easy) 2 do so quickly.

Texting is polite: "Do u hve time 2 talk rite now?"

It's quick: "K" (Okay).

It's fun: LOL! (Laugh out loud!)

And you can do it anywhere quietly, as in a room full of bored listeners: "If he sez 1 mor thing abt the natnl debt i m going 2 hurl! Lol!"

So now I'm moving from texting to blogging. This is not to say I'm giving up texting; after all, I still have those granddaughters.

And won't we have fun learning a whole new way 2 communic 8?

(Note to self: Don't use texting shortcuts on your blog!)

I adore Turkey Day evening (as opposed to eve)

Okay, it's that part of Thanksgiving Day that is my absolute favorite-est. The big meal is over. The dishes all done. The food put away in the fridge . . . except for what has been sent home for the guests to enjoy as leftovers.

And now everyone has started that exodus back to the kitchen, picking up little bowls to fill with their choice of leftovers for nuking . . . and bringing them back down to eat in front of the ballgame on TV.

Exhaustion dictates what my next steps will be.
Fill a bowl for myself or just crash on the couch and look famished until someone feels sorry for me and fixes me something to eat.

Son No. 2, reading this over my shoulder, has picked up the ball and asked me what I want.

"Ohhhh, nothing. I'm fine. Really. Thanks." (Sigh!)

He's a good boy. He's in the kitchen fixing me a little plate with my top picks from the feast.

See?

My favorite-est part of the entire day.

What's yours?