No Mo' Snow

Despite the wet sheen upon my pasty face and the similarity in color and density to my ashen white hammy hocks, I don’t love snow anywhere on or near my cozy toes and holey socks. While some insane folks DO enjoy seasonal greetings to strut their trendy form-fitting fashion-first clothing, despite my girth, I am the LAST one interested in gearing up for heavy weather. I already have trouble enough with the one overcoat zipper that God and Walmart gave me so why would I ever want to wade through a half-dozen or more layers to bundle the bulk up for inclement weather.

Part of the problem is as a usually wet n’ sweaty yeti I will profusely perspire even if I have to merely look-up on-line to find down and Merino wooly winter clothing. I am not sure if it is all that sanitary anyway to wear tufted muffs fluffed with stuff sneaked from the fleece of geese. Usually it is my policy to avoid getting goosed regardless if it is to my feet in the street or when donning a parka in the darka.

I admit I also get a little jealous of all school-age ‘nit-Inuits’ around here since they usually get time off from class when the white stuff starts to float and fly from the sky. No adults I know are that lucky and instead are forced to do the REAL homework just trying to dig out a footpath to the front door. Oh sure we oldsters do some frequent sledding down the driveway too, but usually it’s in sheer terror like an out-of-control car wearer instead of care-free glee as an American Flyer bearer.

So save your iciest stares and cubed precip drips for those over-blown chum-bucket challenges and porky pink polar bear plungers. I don’t care where you shave that irritating icy Olaf or sugar coat your snowy cones as long as you do ‘em somewhere far north of Santa’s pole and preferably my pen. Because no matter the season or weather, I’ll never endeavor for the cold-shouldered pleasure of ANY powder covered lump - except maybe a doughnut and a HOT cup o’ joe!

Frame n’ Complain

Though many would class me as a square by nature I have never been fond of foyers or family rooms full of framed photographs featuring my offsprang and extended hillbilly relatives. I have precious little hanging space as it is in this canary cage so why would I want to mess up my cell’s perfect white padding with a bunch of nail holes to show off moles, trolls, and lost souls? Anyway it is important not to scare away unprepared guests with sickening crime scene photos of cracks ON the wall before they are juiced with a jug of Visine and at least a sleeve or three of Dramamine.

As a matter of fact I hate oval frames or memorialized montage photo collections too especially if they are of ME, captured and preserved under glass mounted conspicuously for all to see. Who needs hallways filled with unrealistic representations of their kids when they smelled almost good and their faces were crease-less and mostly grease-free. No outsider really wants to suffer through anyone’s shrine to a perfect wedding where all of your friends look thin and the only crows feet to be found were actually on the rows of crows in the background as a Hitchcock omen of things to come.

I don’t think it’s that I am camera shy since even now as a graying ghost, I’m still willing to mug freely and be even more transparent and unappealing than I already am. Yes I admit it, I purposely tousle my tresses with intentions to impress-less, and cleverly forever-ly, never look my best-est. It’s probably just my subconscious defenses fending off the photogenically insane, from infecting me with desire for dull glossies to frame of irrelevant relatives and faces mundane.

So stuff your soft-filtered Lifetouch and uppity Olan Mills, ‘cause grouchy gazers of my ilk have had all their frames filled. Keep portraits hidden under fat flaps and between covers of books; cram them in locked albums, dark recesses, crannies and nooks. And please . . . extra caution from fast slaps is well advised; as an indignity penalty for any lasting, nasty snap framing, of pink baby backsides!

Dried-Up Dude

While it’s true, similar to a snail, I always used to leave some kind of wet trail behind me particularly when I traverse the hallowed and much traveled ground between kitchen and latrine. But recently I have noticed as I age my skin is less malleable, my remaining hair’s less greasy, and I only break out in a real sweat when the candy dish runs low. Dried Prune analogies aside, I am concerned that all that dust in this dump is coming from the sands of time which seem to be tending toward gale force rather than a gentle breeze.

A case in point is once per annum I do a self-administered blood test to show the health insurance overlords that I am worthy of another year of earth time as long as I pay their insane policy ransom. I dread this test of the red not because I have to drain a vein for a plasma big screening, but mostly due to the fact that I can’t pump enough iron no matter what I do. I shake my hands, soak them in hot water, jump and run to get my jumbo juices flowing yet you guessed it - another year, another bloodless coup! 

Yes, after I exhaust the hygienic lances to pop a droplet of vampire vintage, I end up resorting to whatever dull paint-scraping X-acto blade I have laying around to keep the trickle tap leaking weakly. Despite my daily disguise as a big SAP, sadly if Mrs. Butterworth ever called me out for inspection she’d know I’m at least a quart low of sweet sanguine syrup and label me incapable as a maple tree. The good news is that usually only my pride suffers wounding, so rarely am I in need of first-aid staples like Band-Aids n’ gauze to shut-up my flaws, and tax my lack of liquidity.

When penning ‘In Cold Blood’ clearly white-clad n’ pasty faced Capote was referring to the missing Elmer’s glue-goo that spewed through his veins and the powdered rust of my own feckless circulatory system. Ahh that probably explains why I break for the buffet so often since all that grabbing n’ chewing keeps me warm, my platelets full, and If nothing else a chance to slather up in the butter trough to moisturize my dry hide. Who knows maybe at the dessert bar both Ben and Jerry can shun traditional dairy, and try to rehydrate my essence from top to Phlebotomist to transfUSE me as inspiration for their next flavor sensation - ‘Macabre Clotted Cream-o-globin’!

Real Turkey Stuffing

Despite my body shape resembling that big buttered namesake bird itself and that Thanksgiving happens to be one of my favorite holidays, I still approach the traditional fam-feasting with a little consternation.  Sure the travel is a pain and all bets are off as to my belt’s last lonely sole hole will be able to cinch up the collateral damage after a 5000 calorie snack, but that too is not my biggest worry. No I sweat bullets over the really frightening reality which make stuffed ‘carUncle TOMS’ like me weak in the wattle and that’s ‘who left da’ lumps in the taters n’ gravers?’

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about the occasional stray spud that missed the mixer and didn’t win the race through the ricer. I guess I can also forgive the bold, brave n’ bready chunk of gunk that stows away from the stuffing and inadvertently into my brown gravy boat of pureed pleasure.  But please don’t try to sneak in and fool me with a flotilla of stringy beans or slip in globs of greasy giblets to test my zest and goad my gag-reflex.

You see I have to always be on guard for the unexpected lascivious lump should an errant somethin’-chunk cozy up too closely to my uvula bump. Believe me nobody, not even a food sci-fi-entist wants to see a giant fat-cat sitting at the kiddy table reversing a cup of gravy’s smooth n’ true course in mid-stream. Why is it so hard to understand, like my groin I prefer my gravy strained, the jello  junk-less n’ stripped clean, and my mashies uniformly smashied, then whipped into a sublime-grind cream.  

Considering I am just lucky to be uncaged and temporarily free from the torch-waving townies, it is odd for such a persnickety and moody rude dude-y to have so many rules about delicious snood foodies. Yes I know as a bulky beggar there are definite politeness conventions to follow especially on a day where giving thanks is spelled out right in the name. So never fear, even a mouthy Meleagris like me won’t look a gift gobbler in the beak and will take my lumps quietly. After all imitation is the sincerest form of ‘Plattery’ so my turkey-neck and I will honor my big bird brethren, and all who prepare him with an appreciative 21 ‘done-button’ salute!

BEE-curious

Despite my craggy crusty white bread exterior, on occasion I have been known to be ‘sweet’ and melted butter soft. Since I’m happily married I do my best to hide my warm and yeasty dough-boy self and usually don’t share my best nectar with those who I don’t know from friend or foe. That fact apparently did not resonate with a random bulky bee who just so happened to seek a patch of hand-shaped shade as I inadvertently brought my paw to bear briefly upon his fuzzy bumble-bum.

Like most folks I’m no perfect Pope, so translating Latin, pig or otherwise from flapping flags and pretentious diplomas is not my strongest of suits. However while my eyes were turned to the skies engaged mightily in that very task, the bossy bee interrupted me by rubbing his furry figure violently under my pinkie before pricking me with his pointy stick.  Oh don’t worry about my barbless benefactor and his electric kiss since he flew away fine with barely a ‘thank you’; just a bit jumpy n’ grumpy from my unfortunate fondle of his itty-bitty bee-hind rumpy. 

Gee who asked ‘Buzz LightREAR’ out on a date anyway – surely not me since I don’t need more complications in my life? Even my wife only gets near my dust covered dump of a truck when it’s absolutely necessary so why would I be expected to engage in a ‘homo-insectual’ relationship with some tush-pushy buttinsky bee? All I know is that for a brief moment my brain was receiving mixed messages as my finger tingled and that hairy manicurist was getting a little too enthusiastic showing off his needlepoint and ample emery board. 

Other than the lingering itch in my littlest of digits and since I’m a Pollen-anna by nature, I have to say my shameless Queeny bee encounter was more of a pleasant surprise than a painful one. Yes I’m positive and not dense (I know because my glass is always at least half full of fat) so there is something to be learned here about my own inner nature. Yes I clearly have to do a better job of suppressing the beast piece of my personality – since obviously I possess an abundance of Anmalia magnetism and I don’t want to BEE too desirable to the opposite species.