Friday, November 24, 2006

Day 7 of 9, Merry Christmas

I really haven't got much to write about today, but my fans (well, Fat Moother) are clamoring for a post. I'm going to warn you ahead of time that this is going to be a CJ-quality post, not the normal CherkyB-quality.

BTW, did you people catch that shot CJ took at my wife in his Thanksgiving post?
We probably will stick around town in the next few days and maybe go to Rocky Mountain park on Saturday. Usually we wait for our guest(s) to adjust to the altitude before taking them to higher grounds.
Just for your information, you little bastard, it wasn't the elevation that did in Fat Moother. And don't think you can make fun of The Mrs. without consequences. That's my job.

While I'm at it, I'd also like to address a comment made by the inscrutable Navie-B,
I wonder how come you are all C's (including FreddieC), and Dave is suddenly a T.
Interesting twist.
Uh, Navie hon, check up there at the top of the page. Does it say "CherkyC," or does it say "CherkyB". Yeah. I thought so. And Dave is a T because he's a m'f'ing teapot. Duh. ™

Today was a faux-Christmas with Fat Moother. It started out just like a real Christmas, with MaxieC cranky as all hell. See, he wasn't sick anymore, and he was starving from having barfed up everything he ate or drank for 24 hours. But he was also terrified of eating anything for fear of barfing. So he just lay there on the floor and wailed. I mean really wailed. Good God Almighty, but was that annoying as all get-out.

Then something even worse happened. He decided he only wanted Daddy, not Mommy. Every time The Mrs. went near him, he hollered like he had just been set on a creepy department store Santa's lap, and the whiskey breath was burning his eyes. Ingratiating to Daddy, i.e., Me, CherkyB, but all in all I prefer when The Childrens are overbonded to their mother. It gives me more time for my second income-producing job.

The Mrs. tried to feed him a little chicken soup, but again it was Santa-roll-of-quarters. I had to take him down into the basement to sit at the bar and watch me play bubble shooter. A game that, oddly enough, I first saw when The JohnnyB was playing it during boring meetings at work many years ago. It just about the only thing I ever learned from the JohnnyB at work, though I must say he learned an awful lot from me. Now that may be because I know a lot more than The JohnnyB, or it may be because I'm a lot more dense than he is and thus incapable of learning. I'll let you folks hold the two blogs up side-by-side and decide for yourselves. But this I say with certainty: I'm clearly better-looking. That's why almost all my readers are womens, and well, almost all The JohnnyB's readers are his wife.

Though if you were sitting there at work towards the end of the day and going, "Man, I'm thirsty," and you had to choose between The JohnnyB and Me, CherkyB to go have a beers with, it'd be a tough choice. If you were in it for the long haul, I'd be the obvious choice, as I'm a much better conversationalist. Hell, I can conversationalist with myself for hours without any outside intervention as long as there is beer. However, if you're in it for the short term, The JohnnyB is an excellent beer invite because nearly all after-work beer engagements with The JohnnyB go like this:
The JohnnyB: Let me get the first pitcher.
You: OK. I'll get the next one.
[pause for beer to arrive - The JohnnyB's allure that you read about on his wife's blog is powerless against cocktail waitresses.]
[beer arrives]
You: {guzzle guzzle guzzle}
The JohnnyB: {guzzle} {smoke smoke smoke}
{ring ring, ring ring, ring ring}
The JohnnyB (into phone): Yeah?...
The JohnnyB: Oh crap...
The JohnnyB: OK, I'll be right there... No. I'm not doing anything. OK... Yeah... Be right there... I don't know, like 20 minutes... I'm at work... Well, next to work... At SC-13... Yeah, that's why I said I'll be right there... OK... OK... Can we talk about it in 20 minutes when I'm there?... OK... I'm sorry, it's just... Yeah... OK...
The JohnnyB: I gotta go. Navie-B did {something non-flattering, and she needs me to fix it right now.
You: {guzzle} You're going to finish your beer, at least, right?
The JohnnyB: {gulp} OK gotta go. Bye.
But I digress.

After a little while of watching me play bubble shooter, MaxieC decided he wanted some soup. So we went back upstairs, and he ate exactly 4 spoonfuls that I fed him. Then back downstairs for more bubble shooter. Then he said he wanted to go eat the rest of the soup, but he was going to feed it to himself. And he did.


One little bowl of soup did not heal the lad, however, of his propensity to howl. We got plenty of little, angry, two-year-old howling most of the morning and into the afternoon.

We went and cut down a Christmas tree in the early afternoon, as is our day-after-Thanksgiving tradition. We had to drive all the way out to the far side of Greeley to get one. Actually, we ended up having to cut down two. We found the prefect tree and cut it down, but then when they put it on the needle shaker (something I've never seen before - an electric platform that you stand the tree on, and it shakes it until all the loose needles fall off), the top broke off. It turned out to have some latent rot damage up there. So they sent us back out for a new tree.

The new one we got is big and fat, and slightly bent. Hey, it's what you look for in a girlfriend, why not in a Christmas tree?

Nearly all the rest of the day was spent setting it up and decorating it, and then opening up all the presents Fat Moother had brought. I got two forstner drill bits, a tongue-and-groove router bit, a Pepsi hat, and bathroom reading book. Woo-Hoo!

We should have Christmas every day.


Nava said...

Inscrutable? ME???
(Took me a while to get insulted, as I had to open the dictionary on that one... but wait, before you gloatingly rush to have a shot at my English, let me tell you in advance that it would be a very low and way too easy one.
At least I speak two languages!)

Your next generation is all C's (as in HannieC, MaxieC and FreddieC).

Whereas you, Me, CherkyB, are - as we all learned from your highly reliable and frequent testimonies - above the rest of us mortals, and thus are blessed with a B.

(I have my own interpretation, but it's in Hebrew, so only The JohnnyB understands and appreciates it.
Highly appreciates, if I may say so).

So: No, Duh! (yeah, yeah, TM CherkyB), to you.

CherkyB said...

So, if you're going to be insulted, at least try to be insulted over the right thing. I'm not commenting on your English. I'm commenting on the underlying logic of your thought process.

Sheesh. It's like, for instance, if I were to call The JohnnyB a big, dumb f'k, and he were to respond, "Are you calling me fat?"

Which I think has actually happened.

Anonymous said...

Gotta give it to you CherkyB, you're an artist.

You take a real story, leave just enough truth behind to keep it sounding real, but change all the who's who around!

First, the whole short-term vs. long-term happy hour around (Who had the 7pm curfew? Who left first most of the time?).

Then, once you made it me who always has to leave first, it has to be my wife on the phone who's the reason. (Do I need to go HP on you, and get the cell phone logs to show who's wife called *every* happy hour, sometimes more than once?)

But, you kept the truth that you're a much funnier conversationalist.

Just enough truth to make it sound real, but in general, a pack of lies. Must be a Republican BKM.

CherkyB said...

Who left first most of the time? The JohnnyB, who regularly had a 5:30 curfew. He just didn't like to think of it as a curfew. He liked to think of it as "my wife and I have plans". Even if he didn't know about the plans until the phone call.

Now, maybe, just maybe, newlyweds like the JohnnyB fambily actualy have plans with one another every damned day. But I doubt it.

The JohnnyB, I am sad to say, is now and has always been a bit delusional. It's not that he's a liar. It's that he sees reality different from the way it is.

Nava said...

Or, on the other hand, he does have plans.

"5:30 curfew?"
Interesting - as never his mincing footsteps entered the house before 7pm or so.

But then, perhaps it's the underlying logic(?) of my thought(??) process(???), working - yet again - in mysterious ways.
Which is a bit questionable altogether, as The JohnnyB will assure you that I have no such thing as underlying logic nor thought process.
I've donated them both.

I am a woman, y'see.
We do not use those.
It's not like they help us make tea or sit in the drawing room with our embroidery on our fragile knees as dinner is cooking on the stove, expectantly looking at the door, awaiting the arrival of our master.