Sorry, guys. Oh, you people are so nice by asking where the hell I’ve been and everything, and then I sit down and simply cannot write ANYTHING, and it makes me sad. So writer’s block or no writer’s block, here I am.

Hey, it’s National Delurking Week according to Papernapkin, and I don’t mean to guilt-trip you or anything, but it would be mighty encouraging if you’d pony up and comment the fuck out of the entries I write this week. Assuming I write more than one. Sigh.

Anyway, the point is to make your presence known on the blogs and diaries you read, regardless of whether or not you've ever commented before. Just say hello! It's nice.

Hi! How were your holidays? Mine were lovely.

Proof:

HO!

What you can’t see is that my hair is bright red and all post-coitally frizzy, my eyes are piercing blue like the sea from the view of the hills of Ire, and my lips are sensuous cherry puddings of love. You’re left with the black and white. Let’s just say I had a Very Noir Christmas. Please ignore the fact that I somehow look twenty years older than usual.

That’s a strategically wrapped present I’m holding, from my mom of all people. My future brother-in-law took the photo on Christmas morning when we were still all fancy and nary an egg had been nogged.

My sister told me she’d be very disappointed if I didn’t use the photo on my 2006 Christmas cards, which may be her subtle way of saying “Kelly, send some goddamned Christmas cards next year.”

Possible captions:

· Mug shot from the dungeon of the toy factory. SEND BAIL! THE ELVES HAVE POINTY SHOES!
· Christmas is time for family, so blame everything on your mother.
· Sucky presents make me pout.
· See? Even sinners get stuff.
· Let’s you and me celebrate the shades of grey between “Nice” and “Naughty.”

I could cheese it up by changing it to “Let’s you and me celebrate [blablablabla] ‘Naughty’ … under the mistletoe,” and then engineer the card to play a tinny version of “Santa Baby” upon opening, but I think hearing that song one more time would cause me to ram my head repeatedly into the fireplace until the stockings came loose.

Now, listen. I’m no grinch; in fact, I love Christmas. But as a recovering musical theatre brat who spent hours of her formative years rehearsing for and performing trite ensemble medleys of all kinds, I have been in enough musical holiday revues to know more Christmas songs than anyone in rest of the Judeo-Christian world. I’m burned out. I still remember all of the words, along with much of the elaborate choreography, for what was our “Sleigh Ride” number.

That’s the song with the horse whinnying at the end, and most people don’t even know it has lyrics. Oh yes, that song has lyrics. Lots of lyrics. I and my reluctant moppet buddies sang them in VFW halls and nursing homes and gazebos, oh my.

While I was visiting Massachusetts, my dad drove me around playing a radio station that aired only holiday music for the entire week leading up to Christmas. Every song that came on, he’d look at me expectantly until I said, “Yup. Sang this one, too.” I don’t think I was stumped once. My troupe even sang the hated “Mary’s Little Boy Child,” for Christ’s sake. No pun intended.

Anyway, Christmas came, Christmas went. I got and gave lots of good loot, and had a great time. Trees were trimmed, brandy was drunk, turkey was stuffed, and so were we. As it should be. The savior’s birthday is a time for gluttony and excess.

Ooh, I think I’ve found the caption for next year’s Christmas card.

TRIVIA: For as long as I can remember, roast beef has been referred to as “roast Santa bum” by me and my family. My dad used to tell us that it was harvested after a poorly executed descent of St. Nick down the chimney and into the fire.

TRIVIA: My parents’ old car recently died, and they replaced it with one of those amped-up fuel efficient automobiles. It’s not a hybrid vehicle, but the engine turns on electronically, thus saving the extra burst of gasoline necessary to start a car after its ignition is turned. So they get a million miles per gallon, which is good, but the vehicle takes about 15 full seconds to start up as the electricity creeps its way to the battery, and the battery starts the engine. As my mother said, “This car doesn’t really peal out.” My immediate thought was, “This would make a terrible getaway car. If zombies attacked the house, they’d be all over this fucker before it even left the garage.” So here’s hoping that smalltown Massachusetts doesn’t have a zombie infestation anytime soon. Unless of course the car is hermetically sealed so that zombies can’t smell human flesh from the outside, in which case they’d just drone on by.

Delurk, please.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Smoke Break - 03.22.06

My Harrowing Hike from Rite Aid - 03.19.06

Right.
Write.
Whatever.
I have a paper due. - 03.16.06

Tomorrow - 02.18.06

Bad Movies, Good Holidays, and Humu-humu-nuku-nuku-apua'a - 02.05.06

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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