Tis the Season

So the Monday after Thanksgiving is now Cyber Monday. So now we’ve got what, Thanksgiving Thursday, Black Friday, Local Saturday, Weeping Sunday, Cyber Monday, and then what? Total Bankrupt Tuesday?  This year we’re putting the Commercial in Christmas and saving the economy one credit card at a time. 

I know the Queen and I are doing our part.  I mean we’re not buying presents or anything, but we are spending money. 

You’d think a writer and his Queen wouldn’t need much, right? How expensive can a pad of paper and a pen be? You’d be surprised.  It’s all the little stuff. It’s the Starbucks coffee, it’s the cable subscription (to keep my writing topical and my Walking Dead current. Speaking of which, what do you think Glen’s getting Hershel for Christmas? What about Rick? In Zombie Apocalypse world, how does he return Lori’s gifts? Did he have keep the receipts? Looks like Darryl is getting a brother for Christmas; is it one he’s really gonna want? How much gift can Rob give between a set of parentheses? ).

This Walking Dead Christmas season The Queen and I are throwing a party.  That’s how we give. Yeah, it’s this Friday; you’re invited if you want to come. Just mention my blog and the super-secret password, and we’ll let you in.

The super secret password? Fat Batman. But you gotta say it like Michael Keaton in the first Batman, or you ain’t getting’ in.

Party spending is like Christmas spending. First you think “Oh, we’re just gonna get a few small things. Invite a few friends.” Next thing you know, you’ve got a Macy’s parade with the Detroit Lions in your living room and Kid Rock trying to assemble a bicycle in the bedroom.

“Bawitda-WTF? Where the hell is flange ‘B’?”

Yeah, that kind of humor is what you can expect going into the Holiday season. Why? Cuz I’m planning a party. I’m too busy and broke to be funny. This party started as four friends and a trough of punch.  Now we’re having a cookie baking party with friends, family, egg nog, beer, fireworks, snow castles and Rob whine. I’m watching the Christmas budget explode and I’m trying not to say anything rude.

“Ho! Ho! Ho! What..? Yes, honey. I’m practicing my Santa.”

Of course I say that like the PQ is to blame. She’s completely to blame: she invited me. I’m a partyfectionist. I’m Martha Stewart with Dennis Kozlowski’s Tyco party budget. Everything has to look cool.  Throwing a party, that’s the Pirate Queen’s fault. Making it an event, that’s my bad.

This weekend while driving home from her parent’s house, we discussed our beverage list.

She says, “What about the egg nog?”

I say, “What about it?”

“Do we need it?”

Egg Nog...

I turn to her. My face, the blown tire of distress, gapes, winded at  the common street urchin who’s replaced my Party Queen.

“What?” She says feeling her face for boils.

“Party without egg nog?” freakin’ weirdo. I scoot closer to the car door hoping it’s not contagious. This may be how the REAL zombie apocalypse starts: not with a party but a half-assed gathering.

“Nobody likes egg nog, do they?”

“Well I do.”

“But does that justify spending over fifty dollars in alcohol?”

“I like egg nog.” I repeat, emphasizing the import.

“But you’re a writer, you’ll drink anything, so long as you can feel bad about yourself while you do it.”

“And?”

“Why not beer and wine? People like beer and wine and it’s cheaper.”

Now you’ve read the start of this blog. I’m complaining about spending money. And yet  here I am arguing with my beloved wife because I think that beer sounds cheap. Egg nog represents options. I say some festive words. She regale’s Yule tidings of yore…

So we’re serving beer.

But I’m still fighting.

And that’s what Christmas means to me.  While you are all out there spending lots of money on lots of gifts, I’ll be home planning to spend lots of money on very few gifts, because my gifts are cooler.

I might have to rethink the Lions though, it’s probably a little overboard, especially if I’m gonna sneak in the vat of egg nog. That’s alright, cuz I don’t care what it costs, Kid Rock is still putting together that freakin’ bicycle.

“Git back in there Kid!”