• Irish Woman asked me today what I wanted for Christmas. I told her I just wanted a hot meal and the love of a good woman.
  • This may be my last transmission. Tell my children I died well.
• I got an email that one of Irish Woman’s presents won’t be here for Christmas because apparently the camel train from Outer Mongolia was intercepted by Hmong raiders or something.
  • When I told Irish Woman that she had to come up with something else, she said we could just buy a new dishwasher instead.
  • I told her to pull the other leg. It’s got bells attached to it.
• In other news, our dishwasher has died and our microwave appears to be on the downhill slide toward recycling.
  • The dishwasher was manufactured in 2009, the microwave in 2008, so I’d say that both we and the former owners of the house got good value out of them.
  • Have y’all priced out appliances lately? Sweet Jebus, but they’ve gotten pricy. My first three cars didn’t cost as much as a new dishwasher and an in-the-wall microwave do now.
• We’ve reached that wonderful time of year here in IndiUcky where it’s too warm to snow, but cold enough that the rain just sucks the life right out of you.
  • Luckily, I have an ample supply of Vitamin D and corn liquor to see me through.
• Question for y’all – Have you just about given up on going to the theater to watch a movie? We went a few months ago, and I really didn’t enjoy it anymore. Unless the movie has special effects or cinematography that absolutely requires the big screen to appreciate it, I’d rather just stay home and rent a film. And since I’m about done with Star Wars, Harry Potter, the MCU, and the DCU, I don’t see me dishing out $70 or more for the family to enjoy a matinee.

Well, it’s that time of year again. That wonderful season where those of us who just want to get through it without felony charges plaster a fake smile on our face and avoid human contact unless absolutely necessary.

I returned from a Scout campout on Sunday to find that the infection of holiday herpes, AKA Christmas decorations, had begun its inexorable infestation of my home. The old dining room has an artificial arboreal zombie, complete with seizure-inducing twinkling lights.

The liquor cabinet had been cleared off and the Holy Family, complete with resin Baby Jesus, has been planted in a bed of fake garland. Apparently, Our Lord and Savior has to be born inches from my stash of corn liquor.

So now, when I go to get a bottle of demon rum out of the cabinet in order to quell the voices in my head, I have to look our Lord and Savior in the eye as I decide if this is a nice, mellow Jim Beam evening or a howl-at-the-moon cask strength Wild Turkey kind of night. So, I’ve got that going for me, which is nice.

Just remember kids, if you mix top shelf hooch with Coca Cola, you will make the Baby Jesus cry.

The draping of my abode in Christmas dreck will only get worse as we approach the 25th. It will be a gradual ramp up over the next couple of weeks, followed by a frenzy of midwinter decoration starting two days before Christmas.

The discussion of when I will find time to drive around Louisville to find a bourbon-soaked fruitcake made by Trappist monks (not a joke) has already started. Last year, it took two evenings, a tank of gas, and stops at 8, count them, 8 purveyors of holiday horror to find one and bring it home.

I will admit, it was tasty when served with a cup of hot coffee laced with a little Kentucky blessing.

At least my shopping is almost done. I may have overstepped when I told my wife that if she didn’t tell me exactly what she wanted and send me links to make the purchase, she was getting steak knives. She acquiesced when she noticed I wasn’t laughing along with her.

The boy is getting a couple of small things from me and a gift card. This is how things will go until the final Christmas before his 18th birthday. He will then get one of the biggest gifts I’ve ever given him – luggage.

Girlie Bear already got her present – cash. She was quite pleased with it, as expected.

So, for my fellow prisoners of Christmas conscience, keep your chin up. Good luck, and I’ll see you on the other side when we will be spending the first week of January helping our friends and family who are really too old to drink like that.

• It’s a good feeling when the puppy wants to get playful at 9:30 PM. It’s a good stress reliever playing fetch in the living room/kitchen for an hour.
• It’s not so good for the stress when you discover that the reason the puppy is so energetic that late at night is because she got into the basement storage room and ATE AN ENTIRE MRE, INCLUDING THE VANILLA CAPPUCCINO POWDER.
  • That explains the athletic prowess, including sprints, both high and long jumps, and the ability to move faster than the human eye can see.
• Remember those cute signs about how an unattended child will be given an espresso and a puppy? Well, last night, we had both of those in one package.
• She’s fine, and no, she didn’t get into the chewing gum. I monitored her all night long, and no gastrointestinal or cardiac issues noted.
• In other news, I am going to be spending some time replacing the lock on that door. Either it’s faulty, or my puppy has advanced infiltration skills.

Gentlemen, “When are you going to learn to not touch the hot stove again?” is not the response your wife is looking for when she needs to ‘talk’ about her frustrations with her latest volunteer effort.

Repeating that question several times in the course of a discussion does not improve it, either.

Just nod, grunt approvingly, and agree with her at appropriate intervals. In the long run, it’s the best course of action for both of you.

Remember, ‘tis better to be happy than to be right.