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2006-11-25 - 11:51 a.m.

I told you so…

Thanksgiving dawned bright and beautiful in Missouri, even if I didn’t!

I woke up a little fogged and clogged, but went about my morning rituals and arrived at Sainted One’s—my dear Sainted mother--early. Diva came along shortly after I did. Sainted One had the table set, and the turkey dinner was almost ready. I stirred the gravy and noodles, Sainted One mashed the potatoes, diva chatted, and we finally gathered round the table to eat.

And then—just like I knew it would--it happened.

Sainted One: “Alright, you two, I have paper and pencils ready.”

A puzzled frown clouded diva’s face.

I knew what was up.

I looked at diva, laughed, and said: “Gawdammit, I told you she’d pull this.”

Diva was still confused.

Sainted One cleared up the confusion, “I want you both to write out your Christmas lists when we’re done eating. The paper and pencils are on the hutch, Billee Jean.”

Diva looked at me and laughed, and we both answered in unison: “I don’t want anything.”

Sainted One glared her frustration at us. “Well, I don’t want anything either. So don’t ask me for a list!”

“Oh, hell, I wouldn’t think of it,” I growled.

And the fight was on!!

Later that day I came home, pulled up my list of what I never wanted under the tree and added to it.

• Golf clubs. With the exception of Dixie, diva and I, the Brew Crew members are golfers, and they have a very foolish idea I should also be a golfer. I.Do.Not.Want.To.Be.A.Golfer! Smacking a little white ball around a pasture—albeit a well groomed and oft times beautiful pasture—then chasing after the ball in a chic little buggy isn’t my idea of fun. And besides, it’s expensive. Golf clubs are just the beginning. There’s membership in the club and that gawdam little chic buggy to be considered.
  
• A stray cat. I already have Pretty Boy Floyd who I bought home from the pound, and I now have Dutch Schultz—a stray dumped on me by my buddie Dixie. A stray who has already cost me upwards of three hundred dollars. Two gray pussies are enough.
  
• Snow Skis will never be on my list. Years ago, when I was old enough to know slamming into frozen ground would hurt like hell, I tried snow skiing. At the end of my first run down the slope I was wrapped around the automatic snow maker, and the machine was working quite well that day—blowing a steady stream of frozen pellets in my face as I tried desperately to untangle myself from the blower. By the end of the day, I was black and blue, and limping along on frozen feet. I’ll stick to the lodge and roaring fire and bar, thanks all the same.
  
• Even though my wildest dream as a kid was to have a hot-to-trot, red sports convertible, I’ve since grown up and realized the danger of those little traps. A friend has a sporty little Benz convertible, and every time I ride in it I’m white knuckled and feel as though I’m skittering along the highway on my ass. I’ll stay in my adult SUV, secure in the knowledge that I’m at least partially safe on the highways.
  

My list making was interrupted by a phone call from Sainted One. She had gleaned an idea for gifts for diva and I and wanted to know if we’d like those gifts.

And so it goes…

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