House Of Cards

Well, I suppose I should get a move on sending out all those Christmas cards. It's really not that difficult to peel a self adhesive stamp and slap it on the corner of an envelope. It's easy enough to swipe the glue strip with a damp sponge and avoid the horrible aftertaste of what I am sure is a poisonous form of freeze dried mucilage. What's really got me procrastinating is the addressing part.

Handwriting all those addresses with my poor penmanship is a small form of torture for me and post office, I've been told. My hand cramps up just thinking about it. To make matters worse, I've run out of return address labels. I know, I know, there's a way to print out your own address labels. I'm lousy at it and I don't want to, so there. I ordered more labels online, but they haven't arrived yet. I'm really in a pickle, people.

I'll just need to give myself a kick in the pants and do this. Only I know the moment I shove that big wad of cards into the mailbox a FedEx truck will pull up with my labels. I'll be handed a fresh package of address labels and be forced to sign for it with my crippled hand.

I actually do enjoy the whole exchanging of Christmas cards. It's nice to see how many friends you have in the tangible form of pictures, handwritten notes, and fancy foil-lined envelopes. We like seeing all those cards pile up on the piano where we display them until they spill over and we have to keep propping them up every time we walk by. "Look at us! We're so popular this time of year," the bountiful mail seems to say and yet, we have some seriously small plans for New Years...

There's also a few cards that stir up a bit of controversy. "John? Who are these people? I'm sorry to say that I don't even know who half of these kids are. Do we know the kids or the parents? Ooh-did we send them a card?!"

It sure is a lousy feeling when you get a card just days before the holiday only to realize you forgot to send one to them and then race to get one out and pray it gets there in time hoping they'll never know your faux pa. Even worse, is when you send one out and get one back at the midnight hour and it hits you: this person sent you one out of pity and guilt since you'd been cut from their send out list.

I look forward to all the mail, the pictures of kids (most of which we can identify), and the letters telling us the story of your life's events over the past year. I hope I get all my intended mail out, but I promise I won't take it personally if you accidentally forget me if you won't get your panties in a bunch if I slipped up and accidentally forgot you.

Debbie's Hand at Voodoo

First of all I'd like to extend a big old "Thanks for Nothing" to my cat, Lucy, who belly flopped her giant ass into bed at 3:44 am just to say she loves me. All that extremely loud purring and turning in circles until she found a suitable spot to sleep on left me squished and picking loose cat hairs off my face. As an added bonus, she woke me up enough to realize that my migraine was and, still is, lingering.

This headache business is a pain in the head, literally! (boo!) Aw, but seriously folks... I started getting these sons of bitches when I was 19. I'll be 35 this month. That's a lot of head pains. I'm really beginning to wonder who I've wronged out there. There's got to be someone who's got it in for me like the city of Cleveland for LeBron James. I'm convinced there's a voodoo doll with an non-photogenic face, mild to severe acne, and a limp hairdo with a pin shoved in it's left eyebrow. And some sadistic mothertrucker is out there turning that pin around like an evildoer stirring tiny cup of tea with an even tinier, more evil, spoon.

I really can't think of anyone I've tripped up so bad that they'd be holding long burning grudge for me. And if that was possible, rest assured, it was done by a combination of dumb luck, my foot in my mouth, and an extra dose of moronic behavior. This is especially the case if I messed up this person's life when I was between the ages of 5 and 21, a time in my life that I lived for me and me only, as most people aged between five and twenty-one do. When in Rome, do as the self-serving adolescents do.

A jilted lover from my past, you suspect? Oh, I don't think that's possible, my friend. I'm not going to grow a swelled head about my minuscule love life of years gone by, quite frankly because there isn't enough evidence to support that I ever had one- even with all that new internet-searchy stuff. Let's just say I was on the receiving end of well more than half of the dumps. Oh boo hoo, don't cry for me, Argentina. If anything, I should be the one holding a a pin to a poorly constructed doll and chanting curses in the name of ex-boyfriends. The only thing holding me back from carrying out my revenge was the feeling I'd be caught in the act like when you call someone, hangup when they answer, and that blasted caller id gives you away. I offer you the following scenario of what might have occurred if I had gone through with such a thing (names have been changed to save actual ex-boyfriends from complete humiliation of being associated with having ever dated me)

Picture some teenage boy with another teenage boy playing Dungeons and Dragons in a basement that's trying to be a rec room-

Friend: Joe, pray tell, why are you rubbing your buttocks and grimacing?

Joe: Dude, my ass is on fire! I swear, it actually feels like someone's holding a lit match to my anus!

Friend: My dear Joe, what a silly thing to say! Why, anyone knows that it would be highly unlikely that someone could be holding a burning match to your anus without you knowing it or get away with it without me seeing it- Unless...

Joe: Unless what? Unless, what you pompous asshole?!

Friend: Oh, nothing. It's completely far fetched poppycock. Poppycock, I tell you!

Joe: You better tell me what the hell "poppycock" means or I'll do to you what I think it means! And I'll tell you right now, it won't be pleasant for either of us!

Friend: Oh, alright Joe! There's no need for that kind of hostility. In fact you should save your seething anger for the one who it is due...

Joe: Stop talking like a British Yoda and get the point.

Friend: I can't believe I didn't think of this the last time we played Dungeons and Dragons in your parent's pathetic excuse for a rec room and you complained of a burning anus. Don't you see, this is just your garden variety ex-girlfriend voodoo doll revenge tactics.

Joe: (blank stare, head scratch, ass rubbing, wincing for irritating ass by rubbing it)

Friend: It must be that Debbie girl. She wasn't good enough for you and couldn't handle your cutting her off. I never liked her, you know.

Joe: You really think so? Wow, I never knew I could affect such a beautiful, intelligent girl in such a way that send her into the dark, vindictive world of voodooism. I should have been a better boyfriend.

Friend: Oh my, she's even got you talking strangely! You're saying all sorts of things you'd never say about her! You said she was only attractive enough to be seen with in a dark room full people you'd never see again! You must put an end to this Joe! Hurry, before it's too late!

Joe: Maybe you're right, dude. But I'm gonna wait till I'm totally sure about this. For now, I'm just ask my mom if she lend me her Preparation H. It might just be my hemorrhoids flaring up again.



So as one can see, even if "Joe" had called me out on this fake revenge scenario, I would've been found out by his smarter, effeminate, British friend.

But the best revenge of all? They say it's to live your life happily and full of success. And just look at me now, up at four in the morning with a migraine typing away on a blog that no one ever reads except for my mom if I email her a notification that I posted something new. Living the dream, people, I'm just living the dream.