'Tis the Season

With the Christmas season fast approaching, that means one thing.

Well, I suppose it means more than one thing, but for the purposes of this post, just roll with me people. Thanks.

With the Christmas season fast approaching, that means one thing.

Decorations. From the day after Thanksgiving (and for us Canucks that means mid-October) the holiday decorations go up in all the stores and malls. Every where you look you see the sparkle and twinkle of this holiday season. Which, for me, means that I am unable to take my children anywhere during this time.

Because what ten and nine year old do you know who needs more encouragement to get excited about the prospect of ripping open parcels on a cold winter's morning, while gorging themselves on vast amounts of chocolates and other assorted goodies, all in the name of the season?

Certainly, not mine. Which means whenever I need to take them out in public with me, I have to put a paper bag over their heads. Kidding. I only wish I could put the paper bag over their heads. (And duct tape over their mouths sometimes too, but my therapist and the police tell me this is a bad thing...)

I digress.

In our house, the decorations go up on Dec. 1. Regardless of temperature, blizzards, or general apathy, the tinsel is tossed the first day of December. My kids can count on this the same way they can count on the sun rising in the east and their mother looking like a hideous hag with a matching disposition every morning.

Which means digging out the damn decorations. Which, of course, are stored outside in a shed, buried underneath an assortment of crap that my darling husband has managed to toss on top of the boxes during the course of the year.

This is my husband's favorite job, every year. (Sarcasm, dear internet.) He absolutely loves having to pack in a seemingly endless parade of Rubbermaid containers and cardboard boxes. He manages to make it so fun, what with all his colorful cussing and boundless bitching. Once he dumps all the boxes in our front foyer, he then heads for the hills. Where it is safer for him; for by this time, I have had enough of whining and I'm generally ready to hurt him.

All in the name of the Christmas spirit, of course.

So last night, as I casually mentioned it was once again that time of year as we were cuddling on the couch, I was mentally prepared for the barrage of bad words and negativity I felt sure I was to encounter.

However, my darling Boo decided to shake things up a bit. Put some spice in our marriage. Toss me a curve ball...I could go on, but in the interest of brevity, I think you get my point.

Instead of acting like a whiny two year old coming off a sugar high and in desperate need of a nap, he pleasantly commented that he couldn't wait for the Christmas decorations to go up.

Startled, (and I admit, a bit pleasantly surprised) I asked him why.

(Cue the dumbass card now, folks.)

His response:

Because every time I put up the decorations, I clean the house afterwards. And it's getting a bit dusty. If I hadn't noticed.

Don't worry, dear internet. I didn't maim him. Although, no jury would find me guilty after that remark and my years of wiping up his pee splatter and picking up his dirty socks for him.

No, I just did what any good wife would do.

I went to bed and dreamt of Clive Owen. Dusting my house. While wearing a Santa's cap and sporting strategically placed tinsel...

Thanks Boo. That was just the type of encouragement I needed to get in the festive spirit.

Boo-Yah! To my Boo

Oh, yeah. I'm doing the my Boo-YAH! dance, dear internet. I'd graciously like to thank all my bloggy participants for allowing me to so unmercifully rub my hubby's nose in the fact that he is wrong, wrong, wrong.

Victory is so sweet. And I am nothing, if not a gracious winner.

What started out as a simple question because I was scrounging for blog fodder and my hubs and I were stuck in our own version of groundhog day, ignited a real brouhaha in our home. It wasn't good enough that I posed the timeless question on the ole interweb, but then I roped and dragged everyone I knew into our little debate. It turned into a real battle of the sexes. I learned (finally) that men and women really are from two different planets.

I also figured out pretty quickly that men are, well, for lack of a better term, pigs. Granted, not all men are pigs, and most certainly not any of the few men who come to visit and comment on my site, but the men in my visible, three dimensional life, are big, fat oinkers.

And I wouldn't trade their curly tailed, snuffling snoutish ways for anything.

So after I posed my brilliant and highly scientific poll to all four of my regular readers I was a little surprised by the results. First off, more than four people actually chose to share their opinions! (Thank you, thank you, thank you.)

Secondly, I was RIGHT!

Boo-YAH! Ha, ha, Boo. Sorry, darlin'. But it turns out the world is full of enlightened people, nowadays.

For those who are keenly interested in the results, they were something like this:

(Keep in mind this was a highly scientific poll with a statistical accuracy of, oh, say +/- 50 percent...)

The Yes voters (or the highly enlightened, wonderful, Boo-Yah! loving friends of mine) weighed in at a whopping 56%.

The No voters (or the probably more realistic people, my husband would argue) countered at 18%.

The Women Yes, But Men No voters (fence sitters, as I like to call them) rallied at 18%, as well.

And my personal favorites; Only if One is Gay or Ugly voters (I love you all for your refreshing honesty) came in at 3%.

And so, my hubs is picking the crow out of his teeth, so sure was he that the whole damn world thinks his way.

I'm not naive, (shut up, dear brother-in law) I do realize not all women and men can be friends. And not every married couple can handle outside non-romantic friendships of the opposite sex. But then, not everyone is me, and not everyone has the fabulous good fortune of being married to the sexiest, sweetest (albeit, slightly archaic thinking) husband like mine.

So until the hubs pulls the plug on my man friends, or until his lady friends start tossing their panties at his head (and let's face it, I'm sure more than a few want to,) I think I'm just going to keep my man buddies.

Because at the very least, they make me realize over and over again, how very lucky I am to have my Boo.

And if Boo secretly fantasizes about his lady friends, well that's okay too. Because at the end of the day, it's me he is wrapping his arms around, while letting me shove my icy toes between his butt crack. (Canadian foreplay, didn't you know?)

Besides, we all know who wears the pants around here.

Boo-YAH!!

Pass the Puns, Please

I went and gave away the keys to the kingdom. I told my brother in-law and his wife about my blog. But I'm not overly worried about it. After all, this is the same brother in-law who taught me how to drive and his wife is the same lady who got very, very intoxicated with me, one blurry Christmas eve. We share a lot of history, and I have enough dirt on the two of them to make their lives very uncomfortable, if you know what I'm saying...

So to the Great White Hunter, and his wife, Martha Freakin' Stewart, welcome to my blog!

And to all of you out there, dear internet, on this cold winter day, have some cheese on me. It helps keep you warm on these cold Canadian days...


For many years a certain white whale and a tiny herring had been inseparable friends. Wherever the white whale roamed in search of food, the herring was sure to be swimming right along beside him.

One fine spring day the herring turned up off the coast of Norway without his companion. Naturally all the other fish were curious, and an octopus finally asked the herring what happened to his whale friend.

"How should I know?" the herring replied. "Am I my blubber's kipper?"


***My husband would like it on the record that he had nothing to do with this particular piece of cheese, and the pansy is thereby distancing himself from said joke and any particular wife who may have thought it funny....***

******EDIT: If you haven't weighed in on the debate whether men and women can be friends and nothing more, please give me an opinion. My BOO-YAH! dance depends on it...******