Holy
crap in a Bundt pan...
Due to the
recent well-publicized shortage of
amateur websites produced by assholes who consider themselves to be
clever, I
have been called into action. My name is Jeff Kay, and I’m an
Ugly American living
on the cusp of a mid-life crisis, near Scranton, PA. And I’m here to
serve, baby.
The
State of My Fat Ass A journal of
sorts, updated every once in a while.
--
I've been away for a while, and I'm not going to apologize, even though
I'm feeling the urge. It was Christmas, it was chaos, and I refuse to
say I'm sorry. So there. I will, however, try to bring you partially
up-to-date....
The bottom chunk of Saturday was fairly uneventful. I didn't drag my
swollen carcass downstairs until almost 10 in the morning, and by that
time Toney was long gone. She told me the previous night she planned to
do the grocery shopping early. And when she says early, she means early.
Like 7 am, or some such wack.
By the time I got out of bed she'd already been to three different
stores, and spent a terrifying amount of money. As I was plucking a
nighttime wedgie from the dank, dark recesses out back, Toney was
somewhere contemplating the heated exchange she'd had with a seasoned
citizen at the Wegman's olive bar ninety minutes earlier. She'd already
logged a day's worth....
My assignment was to dust and vacuum the house, but it's necessary to eeeease
into a Saturday. I put on a pot of Eight O'Clock bean coffee (the stuff
she'd left was like something out of a 1970s tire store vending machine
by now) and flopped down with the newspaper. The Secrets were killing
off Krauts or Japs or whatever on PS2, and I decided it was a good
counter-balance to the pussified crapola they're taught every day in
public school. So I contentedly read about the latest house fires and
sinkholes in and around Scranton, and power-farted through thick
upholstery.
Toney came home, and nothing was accomplished. Nothing. I helped her
schlep in the groceries, hoping it would be enough to stave off an
argument. But she was in a good mood, and my half-assery wasn't even
brought up. Merry Christmas!
After some internet time and a shower, I started dusting the house. No
fun. I'm not really a fan of sashaying from room to room with a rag and
a spray can, rubbing wooden fixtures. It's a bit gay, isn't it? But I'd
agreed to do it, so what options did I have? After finishing the task, I
broke out the vacuum cleaner (promptly snapping off the power button in
an explosion of broken plastic) and sucked-up about a dog and a
half-worth of dog hair. The house was slowly taking shape.
In the afternoon we went to a few stores,
to finalize our Christmas shopping. There wasn't much remaining, so I
wasn't too concerned about it. I knew it would be a monster out there,
but there wasn't much pressure on us, and I was prepared to laugh right
in the beast's face.
Target was our first stop, and it looked like a war zone. At the time
there wasn't an inordinate number of people inside, but there clearly had
been. Many of the shelves were empty, a few were completely
collapsed, and at least one was bent in a giant V, as if someone had
karate-chopped it. I saw a sequined red sweater lying in the middle of
an aisle, with sneaker prints and shopping cart tracks running across
it. A woman in her mid-20s walked past with what appeared to be a large
ham hock, even though Target has no known meat department.
But. surprisingly enough, the place wasn't any more busy than on a normal day. We found our
items, walked right up to a zitster in a holiday-themed novelty-hat, and
paid without incident. It was shockingly easy. On our way to the car I
called a woman in a Ford Explorer, who almost ran us over, a "pig
woman." And the Secrets seemed to enjoy that immensely.
Drunk with success, I even indulged in another impulse purchase of a
York Peppermint Patty -- the official candy of homosexuality. Let 'em
talk, I don't care.
We drove past the mall on our way to Sam's (our exclusive club), and it
looked like full-on pandemonium. Cars were parked everywhere, including
atop the decorative landscaping. I wouldn't have agreed to submerge
myself in that mess, even if someone had pressed a gun to my temple. I
feared what we might find at Sam's. We'd dodged the bullet once, and
were obviously pushing our luck. I hoped the wheelchair-bound greeter
wasn't tipped over, his clothing shredded.
But there was nobody in the store, almost literally. We walked around
and it felt luxurious. Now this is an exclusive club! Toney
picked up the two or three items she needed, and we chose one of several
waiting cashiers, paid and left. Kick-ass. The roads were completely
clogged, but we were on a roll with our chosen destinations. A freakin'
roll.
Our shopping done, we headed for a bar/restaurant called Jim Dandy's,
where we planned to have our traditional Christmas Eve martini a day
early. Since visitors would be arriving at the Compound on Sunday, we
decided to recalibrate and go with Christmas Eve Eve this year.
None of us were very hungry, so we just got a few appetizers. And Toney
and I ordered our once-a-year drinks. "Two martinis up?" the
waitress asked. I had no idea what "up" meant, until I got
home and found an explanation on the internet. But I told her yes, of
course, it must be up. Why, you're not dealing with a common gang
of shit-kicking hillbillies here, madame.
We were served vodka martinis, which wasn't what we'd ordered. But
whatever. We nursed 'em slowly, scarfed down the 'tizers, and called it
a day. Our last sane day. Since it was now dark, somebody suggested we
drive around and look at Christmas lights before returning home. With
Russian booze still burning my sternum, I said that sounded like a fine
idea.
And that's when we got into a lengthy conversation that I need your help
with. It's my feeling that white lights only is a bit pretentious, and
kinda uptown. Colored lights are the lights of the common man, I
believe, and Toney surprised me by agreeing. Usually she shoots down my
"theories" with a theatrical roll of the eyes, but she
signed-on completely with my whites vs. coloreds observation.
Yeah, we've had white lights only in the past. And it corresponded
exactly with the period of our life when we were pretending to be
yuppies -- on a Dairy Queen clerk's income. But now that we're older and
more comfortable in our skin (ahem), we've returned to our roots. Our
Christmas tree is now covered in colored lights, and even our
"little tree" in the front yard has gone from blue-only to a
bastardized mix of blue, flashing white, and some kind of pale green.
It's not very Christmasy, but who cares? It's a tree in a yard.
What do you think about this? Are we way off, or on to something here?
Do white lights say one thing, and colored lights another? Tell me about
it in the comments, won't you? I need closure on this subject, straigh'
away.
And one more thing.... I shouldn't have skipped dinner Saturday
night, I really shouldn't have. When we got home I had a few Yuenglings
while watching TV, and before I knew what was going on, I was feeling
it.
I woke up the next morning with my first hangover in years. I
don't usually drink enough to generate hangovers, and don't think I
drank all that much on Saturday. But the lack of food did me in.... I
arose on Sunday, Christmas Eve, feeling like someone had snapped-off a
screwdriver in my cranium; I had the liqui-shits and the whole nine
yards. I tried not to be too obvious about it, but I was dragging ass all day long.
And so it
goes.
More of this stuff next time, whenever that might be. And yes dammit,
I'm sorry for the extended downtime. Happy now? Jesus.
--
I've been away for a while, and I'm not going to apologize, even though
I'm feeling the urge. It was Christmas, it was chaos, and I refuse to
say I'm sorry. So there. I will, however, try to bring you partially
up-to-date....