Because I pledge to Blog. Every. Single. Day.

Doesn't it make you feel good to be alive?

I know I said I wouldn't post until New Years, but Double Post needs cheering up:

And not post again until 2008.

Happy New Year, Everybody!

This picture encapsulates the stark terror I am feeling as Christmas approaches. Christmas must be "perfect" or a larger-than-life judgmental figure will show up to peer into your window and take notes. And tell all the other moms, especially your own, about your shortcomings and general lack of organization skills. No, Santa, no! I beg of you! Don't do it! Meanwhile that ultra-loud, ultra-deep voice that characters get when they become oversized bellows out a resounding, pitiless, mocking laughter. "Naughty!" I hear Santa say. "I see papers strewn about! Your laundry room should be condemned! Your office is a pigsty! You still don't have all your decorations out! Santa is displeased!"

See, Dilf's travel has gone so horribly that I want everything to be perfect, a model of domestic harmony, and oozing with Christmas spirit. Songs like "There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays" fill me with anxiety that I will never get everything in place to give my loved ones the Christmas they deserve. Will Dilf be happy to be home, or want to turn around and go back on the road? And, I am responsible for both girls' school holiday parties next week.

I'll do it. I'll get over my paralysis-by-analysis and everything will be fine.

Right? Right.

If this is a veiled reference of some sort, please don't tell me. But by all means, listen to his story.
song courtesy of April Winchell, of course.

ÜberYounger likes to sing when she's on the toilet ... specifically when she's... eliminating ... solids.

So today, as I walked past the bathroom, I heard her belting out, "It's the Final Countdown" at the top of her voice.

It cheered me up.

Dilf, come home soon.

Here.

Is Charles Dickens "A Christmas Carol" an unfair attack on the virtues of Capitalism, as this guy contends, or was it actually a disguised, stealth attack on socialism, as this guy contends?

If you need a story refresher to help with your debate, here you go:



I may be scarce this week. Dilf is out all week traveling.

I have a public service announcement to make which will hopefully save lives. Sadly, I learned through experience what the rest of you can avoid by reading my story.

If this man:



approaches you with a bottle of liquor with a homemade label slapped on it, do not accept a drink from it. Don't be a statistic.

You may wonder why I, an exceedingly intelligent and clever young lady, would have fallen victim to his cruel ploy. Read on. If it can happen to me, it can happen to anyone.

You see, I've met Mr. Importantness on several occasions prior to his attempt to kill and/or maim me with his vile concoction, which by my best guess contained a mixture of vintage 1970's Sweet Honesty perfume, gasoline and cat urine, and each time, he engaged in what crime experts call "grooming."

With his gentle humor and gentlemanly manners, he tricked me into believing he was a decent human being, kind and considerate, and generally concerned with the well-being of others.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Foisting his poison on the unsuspecting with a gleefully murderous gleam in his eye, Mr. Importantness is as evil as they come.

I am lucky to have escaped with my eyesight, my uvula, and my sanity intact. Not to mention my virtue! I had to take a shot of Honey Jagermeister just to cleanse my palate!

So take my advice: if you ever see Mr. Importantness lurking around a social event with a mystery bottle, run the other direction. Do not be fooled by his southern charm and rugged good looks. He does not have your best interests at heart.

Illness adds piles of laundry, dishes and fatigue. Plus... Christmas season...

Florence Henderson should get her scrawny ass over here and help.

We have a Very Brady Staircase in our house, which is open above and below in a very contemporary mid-century modern way. While a realtor might describe such a structure in glowing terms, she's not the one cleaning semi-digested hot dogs off the floors and walls when her youngest projectile vomits a cascading stream of lava-like puke down the stairs.

Yes, an open staircase means vomit can flow to areas that would otherwise have been protected on a more traditional one. Everything below it could be spattered with a little bit of this, a smidgen of that. Ah, and at the very bottom is a cramped space beneath the stairs -- very difficult to get into, yet oh-so-necessary that I do.

I love scrubbing and disinfecting and doing laundry in the middle of the night with the man I love. It's so romantic.

It's not Christmas, it's Chanukkah Hanukkah.

Happy Hanukkah to all my friends of the Jewish faith, courtesy of April Winchell:

click here; enjoy

Men, these boxers are not sexy. Please don't wear them if you want to impress anyone:









For more regrettable underwear, click here.

Also, it appears I am on sale. I feel so cheap.

Dear Darth Roker:

As a Weatherman of the Sith, I hope you are able to answer my question.

I heard a local jewelry store advertise that they will refund the price of any jewelry purchased between the dates of November 23, 2007 and December 24, 2007 if it snows a foot or more on Christmas Day this year.

I would like to know what the odds of getting free jewelry actually are. Could you please tabulate the possibility that it will snow a foot or more in the Chicago area on Christmas Day?

Thank you in advance for your answer.

Also, if anyone else has a question for Darth Roker, please post it in the comment section and he will get to it as soon as his busy Jedi-thwarting schedule allows.

ÜberYounger and I were snuggled on the couch watching "Finding Nemo," when I received a call from my next door neighbor informing me that the police had the house on the corner surrounded, and the guys who live there on the ground with guns to their heads.

My loyal watchdog was asleep in her crate; had a plastic bag blown down the street or my neighbor across the street inflated his inflatable holiday décor, she'd be sure to tell me.

Anyways, Dilf was at the grocery store. I called him and told him not to come back until danger had been averted. He came home anyways, only to find the street blocked and an FBI cruiser at the ready.

When he was allowed to proceed and the cop cars started heading away, he handed me the groceries and talked to one of the policemen on duty. Was it drugs? Gun-running? Pirated DVDs? No....

One of them is a film student and was filming a video. Some neighbor saw "black men" running around a house with guns, and called the cops.

Of course, if I had seen someone running up to a house with what appeared to be a gun, I would've called, too. So, my "Gladys Kravitz" assessment is a bit harsh.

But it's interesting to note that the college-aged boys on the street behind routinely play paint-ball with realistic-looking and sounding guns -- but they're white. I'd like to think it's because they've lived here longer and people know who they are, but ...

I think I'll go bake some Santa cupcakes for the boys on the corner.

This time, I'm ready.

Gentlemen, start your fryers.

Someone else is will need to pick up your holiday entertainment needs. Like this guy:



Slovak Christmas albums found here.