Une Noel Nouvelle Americaine December 22, 2009

Mary sat on a hay bale, examining her nails over swollen belly.  “Joseph, what are we doing in this shitty barn.”

“Babe, you got money for a hotel room?”  Joseph, seated on a hay bale looked like Sonny Bono.  He wore a gold and blue dashiki and a headband over stringy hair.

“We passed a Rodeway Inn half a mile up the road.”

“I asked the clerk, they said there’s no room at the Inn.”

Mary kicked the hay with her boot.  ” Listen Joe, I am not having my baby in a BARN.”

“I gave all my dough to the bloody tax collector.  What do you want me to do?  This is better than nothing.”

“What do we do when the baby comes? Call an ambulance?  Take the Harley?”

“God was supposed to handle the details.”

“He’s the one who wanted this,” Mary spat.

“When our son is born, the wise dudes will bring expensive gifts that we can exchange for cash.  And I’ve got a couple of ounces of dope that I can sell.”

“Our son?  How do you know that it will be a boy?”

“God told me, Mary shall bear a son who will be the world’s savior.”  Joseph pulled out a pipe and began to fill it with sensimillia buds.

Mary folded her arms over her belly.  “Huh.  That’s not what I heard from God.”

Joseph dropped a bud, and got on all fours to search for it among the hay.  “Shit!  What are you talking about?  I got it straight from God, it’s gonna be a boy and he’s the savior.  End of story.”

Pulling the Yucatan blanket tighter around her, Mary said, “I don’t think so Joe.  Our child’s gonna be a girl.”

Joseph, lighting up a bowl, coughed a plume of smoke into the dusty air.  “No way, not true.  Can’t be.  Haven’t you read the Bible?  Dang, woman.”

“Maybe if you hadn’t smoked so much dope this year, things would be different.  But I’m telling you it’s gonna be a girl, and she’s gonna save the world!”  A smile lit Mary’s face for the first time.

Joseph offered the pipe to Mary, who scowled and shook her head.

“You’re a loser, Joe and that’s why I have to have this baby in a shed instead of a clean decent place.  I’ve lost all respect for you.”  Mary laid down on the hay bale.

“I’m hungry.  I want pizza,” Joseph said.

“Do you think the pizza place will deliver to a barn?  Where the hell are we, anyway?”

“I dunno, I think we’re out on Highway 61.”

“It’s a girl.  Wanna bet?”

“I dunno babe, if it’s a girl then it must be God’s will and shit.  Where’s the cell?  I’m calling the pizza place, I’ll take the bike and pick it up.”

“Mmph,” Mary murmured, falling asleep under the rainbow blanket.

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The Brat Does Christmas December 20, 2009

The Brat and her Mother are inside the department store, waiting in line to see Santa Claus.

Brat: Mommy, my pantyhose are sagging.

Mother: Wha–where?

Brat: Look, they’re falling down, Mommy! (Pulls dress up over face).

Mother: Honey put your dress down. Your pantyho–tights will stay up long enough to see Santa.

Brat: But Mommy, they’re falling down.

Mother: (Grabs her daughter’s white tights by the waistband and yanks, pulling Brat off her feet). Is that better?

Brat: (Giggling) Can we do that again, Mommy?

Mother: The line is moving, let’s go.

Brat: Do I have to sit on Santa’s lap?

Mother: Yes, why do you ask?

Brat: Mommy, Santa is a pervert and I don’t wanna! (Hurls red plastic purse onto the floor).

Mother: Shhhh! What’s gotten into you? (Kneels and straightens her daughter’s red and green coat, picks up purse and hands it to daughter).

Brat: (Yelling). Last year Santa tried to feel me up!

Mother: Hush! Use your indoor voice. Santa did — he what? Wait, don’t tell me. Did it happen here, at Sibley’s?

Brat: Yes! It was the same Santa, I can tell, Mommy, let’s go home. (Pointing to Santa Claus).

Mother: Honey, we’re almost to the front of the line, are you sure you don’t want to sit on Santa’s lap and —.

Brat: Noooooooo! I don’t wanna, don’t wanna.

Mother: Are you sure you didn’t dream this honey, or make it up?

Brat: Noooooooo! I hate Santa Claus, I hate him!  I don’t believe in him, either!

Mother: Don’t believe in Santa? Why?

Brat: My friends at school told me, there’s no Santa. They told me, Mommy, he’s not even real! Let’s go!

Mother: (Shoulders slumped). I need a drink, let’s get out of here. (Taking her daughter’s hand they exit Sibley’s and enter a restaurant where Mother orders a bloody mary.)

Brat: Mommy?

Mother: Yes?

Brat: If Santa’s not real, are elves not real too? (Sips Coke through a straw).

Mother: I don’t know, honey.

Brat: Do you believe in Santa Claus, Mommy?

Mother: (Sighs). I don’t know, honey. Drink your soda, your sandwich will be here soon.

Brat: Mommy, are you mad because I didn’t sit on Santa’s lap like you wanted?

Mother: I love you honey, even if you don’t like Santa. Merry Christmas!

Mother raises her glass and clinks her daughter’s glass.

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Ten Scenes Cut from The Nutcracker Ballet December 16, 2009

1. 1. Cookie Dough March (didn’t hang together)
2. 2. Candy Cane Pole Dance (it’s a children’s ballet)
3. 3. Rum Fruitcake sway (left over from last year)
4. 4. Fig Newton solo (product placement)
5. 5. Waltz of the Prunes (too slow)
6. 6. Kwaanza Be-Bop (too p.c.)
7. 7. Waltz of the Potato Latkes (grease on-stage)
8. 8. March of the Lolitas (too literal)
9. 9. March of the Salacious Uncles (nearly made it in)
10. 10. Pas-de-deux by Splenda and Nutrasweet (eew).

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Meno Claus December 14, 2009

“Where is my list, have you seen it?”

“What list, Mom.”

“My list of the children who are naughty and nice. Don’t give me that face, I know which one you are already.”

“Haven’t seen it, Mom.”

“What is that noise? Are you playing one of your rap CDs again?”

“No, it’s not me.”

“Bells, buzzing or whooshing….Hey, put my Celtic Woman CD back on, wouldja? Oh my aching head, this will never work, I’m getting too old. Honey, what day is it?”

“It’s Christmas Eve, Mom.”

“That’s what I thought, oof what is crawling on my skin?” She examined her forearm under a lamp and scratched vigorously. “The reindeer have the year off, I’m taking the SUV.”

Meno Claus mopped her brow. “Melissa did you turn up the thermostat? I’m burning hot.”

“No, Mom.”

Meno Claus muttered, “There are 35 symptoms of menopause and I’ve had ‘em all. Last week I had a phantom period!”

“Are you talking to me, Mom?”

She wiped her eyes on her loud Christmas sweater. “I don’t know anymore, Melissa, it’s too much being Single-mom Santa. Nobody knows how hard I work, keeping it going, and menopause is making it impossible!”

Melissa approached and regarded her mother. “Mom, you’re feeling sorry for yourself. Menopause is normal, you can do this.”

Meno Claus embraced her daughter. “You’re pretty smart for an eighteen year old, ya little shit!”

Feeling energized, Meno Claus slung an enormous toy sack over her shoulder and toted it to the SUV outside. Suddenly she raced through the house into the bathroom and slammed the door.

Several minutes passed. “Melissa, do you have any pads? I can’t believe this, I’m getting my period. I haven’t had it for three months!”

“Just a minute, I’ll get them.” Melissa retrieved a box of pads from upstairs and handed them around the bathroom door.

Meno Claus emerged and resumed stuffing her sack with toys. She packed the SUV and used the bathroom. Gazing at her reflection, she rubbed a finger on her upper lip.

“Melissa, I have a mustache! I never had a mustache before. God, I can’t do this. Single-mom Santa doesn’t have a mustache. It’s all over.” Meno Claus sagged against the sink.

“Mom, you’re going to get into the SUV and drive into the night, and it’ll be magic, just like always. The magic will happen, Mom, I believe in you. I still believe in Santa Claus, and you should, too.”

Meno Claus took a last look in the mirror and shook her head before sailing into the blackness.

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The Twelve Trends of Christmas December 11, 2009

The Twelve Trends of Christmas

On the first day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
An eye lift in a pear tree.

On the second day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Two jeweled cuffs,
And an eye lift in a pear tree.

On the third day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Three Spanx shapers,
Two jeweled cuffs,
And an eye lift in a pear tree.

On the fourth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Four boyfriend jeans,
Three Spanx shapers,
Two jeweled cuffs,
And an eye lift in a pear tree.

On the fifth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Five hobo bags,
Four boyfriend jeans,
Three Spanx shapers,
Two jeweled cuffs,
And an eye lift in a pear tree.

On the sixth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Six shrunken blazers,
Five hobo bags,
Four boyfriend jeans,
Three Spanx shapers,
Two jeweled cuffs,
And an eye lift in a pear tree.

On the seventh day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Seven self-tanners,
Six shrunken blazers,
Five hobo bags,
Four boyfriend jeans,
Three Spanx shapers,
Two jeweled cuffs,
And an eye lift in a pear tree.

On the eighth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Eight models starving,
Seven self-tanners,
Six shrunken blazers,
Five hobo bags,
Four boyfriend jeans,
Three Spanx shapers,
Two jeweled cuffs,
And an eye lift in a pear tree.

On the ninth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Nine croco clutches,
Eight models starving,
Seven self-tanners,
Six shrunken blazers,
Five hobo bags,
Four boyfriend jeans,
Three Spanx shapers,
Two jeweled cuffs,
And an eye lift in a pear tree.

On the tenth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Ten leopard wedges,
Nine croco clutches,
Eight models starving,
Seven self-tanners,
Six shrunken blazers,
Five hobo bags,
Four boyfriend jeans,
Three Spanx shapers,
Two jeweled cuffs,
And an eye lift in a pear tree.

On the eleventh day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Eleven matte red lipsticks,
Ten leopard wedges,
Nine croco clutches,
Eight models starving,
Seven self-tanners,
Six shrunken blazers,
Five hobo bags,
Four boyfriend jeans,
Three Spanx shapers,
Two jeweled cuffs,
And an eye lift in a pear tree.

On the twelfth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Twelve dermabrasions,
Eleven matte red lipsticks,
Ten leopard wedges,
Nine croco clutches,
Eight models starving,
Seven self-tanners,
Six shrunken blazers,
Five hobo bags,
Four boyfriend jeans,
Three Spanx shapers,
Two jeweled cuffs,
And an eye lift in a pear tree!

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Santa Dyke December 8, 2009

Santa Dyke drives a Subaru Forester instead of a sleigh.  She is vegetarian and believes that reindeer pulling the sled is cruel.  She owns a chocolate Lab. Santa Dyke would never land on someone’s roof, making a big commotion.  She saves drama for her partner.

Santa Dyke pulls the Subaru to the curb and makes her gay boyfriend climb down the chimney to deliver the gifts, while she calls her ex on the cell phone.  When he returns, she hands him a rag and tells him not to mess up her fleece seat covers.

Santa Dyke’s gay boyfriend dresses as an elf, not because she makes him but because he likes it.  Together they travel the globe delivering dolls to gay boys, and G.I. Joes to baby dykes.  They make queer children the happiest kids on Christmas morning.  Someone heard their secret wish.

Mrs. Santa Dyke bakes cookies wearing 6-inch stilettos and an apron with nothing underneath.  She buys healthy fruits and vegetables which Santa Dyke ignores.  S.D. prefers to devour a bag of chips in front of the TV in a wife-beater and black Santa boots.  Mr. and Mrs. Santa Dyke are not married because it’s illegal, but they have larger concerns.

Santa Dyke has no health insurance, for instance.  Her partner works full time as a secretary.  Santa Dyke spends all year writing grant applications to buy appropriate toys for queer girls and boys.  Her gift is to know which children are gay and lesbian, because their parents are totally clueless.

She doesn’t care who’s naughty and nice; Santa Dyke has been around the block and it’s all the same to her.   For Christmas, Santa Dyke wants a shiny new pair of Santa boots, and a new exhaust system for the Lezbaru.  The salted roads of Northern climes rusted it out.

At four a.m. Santa Dyke and gay boyfriend straggle into a gay bar and throw themselves on the worn leatherette of the back booth.   Gay boyfriend, blackened with soot, has Courvoisier while Santa Dyke orders  Budweiser.  She changes her order to Bud Lite, thinking of her partner’s admonitions about love handles.  They sip in satisfied silence.

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My Visit with Santa Daddy December 6, 2009

We sat on Santa Daddy’s lap for a chat.

Santa Daddy:  Ho-ho-ho!  Little girl, have you been naughty or nice?

Loosefemme:  Both, Santa Daddy.

SD:  Ho-ho-ho!  Still my lascivious little girl.  What would you like for Christmas this year?

LF:  Fidgeting. Santa Daddy, I would like to spend more time with you.

SD:  Glances at reindeer watch. How long is this going to take, little girl?  I have relationships with millions of girls and boys, they’re all expecting to sit on my lap tonight.

LF:  You see, that’s just the problem.  I don’t get to spend much time with you.  I only see you once a year.

SD:  Spreads hands. Little girl, I told you when we started that I had many, many partners.  Is it fair to give you more time than them?

LF:  You don’t understand, Santa, I want to discuss our relationship boundaries.  I know you’ve gotta go, so when can we talk on the phone?

SD:  My time with you is just about up.  I’m afraid we’re going to have to talk about this next year.

LF:  That’s what you said last Christmas!

SD:  Dasher!  Dancer!  C’mon boys, time to fly outta here.

LF:  Santa, wait!

SD:  Sighs. Is there anything else you’d like for Christmas this year, little girl?

LF:  Hesitates. Uh…Hitachi Magic Wand?

SD:  Ho-ho-ho!  You got it!  Steps into sleigh. Away, team!  Until next year, be a good little girl!!

Santa Daddy swirls into the night, spraying me with fake snow.

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Bad Holiday Music, Do You Hear What I Fear December 3, 2009

The Ministry of Cheer subjects me to bad holiday music this time of year.  From rap to country and Frosty the Snowman, it’s there.  It’s rotten.  And I’ve heard it one-million trillion times.

In pop culture corner, there’s Dasher and Dancer and – my fingers won’t type the rest.  Rudolph, thanks buddy I’ll find my own way home tonight — I have a penlight.

Let’s dump holiday music that is associated with muppets,  claymation and TV specials.  No more dentally-inclined elves, no more ‘There’s Always Tomorrow.’  Heatmiser and Snowmiser, though can stay.  I’ll make an exception for the fat snowman singing ‘Holly Jolly Christmas,’ rapping about the scary storm.

In the traditional vein, there’s ‘Partidge in a Pear Tree.’  Can we all agree that we have enough versions to hold us til Armageddon?   Some favorites have been covered to death, like ‘White Christmas’ and “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”  It seems unpatriotic to detest them.

Less-popular Christmas songs, such as ‘My Favorite Things’ from ‘The Sound of Music’ provide respite.  I recall my joy upon discovering ”Mele Kalikimaka’ years ago. ‘A Charlie Brown Christmas,’ when not overplayed is nice.  But David Bowie and Bing Crosby’s version of ‘Little Drummer Boy’ grates:  ‘pa rum pum pum pum’ my bum.

Pandora Radio offers a hip hop holiday station.  Holiday rap music is popular, including lyrics like “Dashing through the snow in my stolen Chevrolet.”  Also, ‘Whose Kid Is This, Bitch?!?’

Not to pick on Faith Hill, but her 2008 Christmas album includes the track, ‘A Baby Changes Everything’ — except its own diapers.  Next year, we need a song about Baby Jesus’s dirty diaper.  The only country I want to hear is Johnny Cash’s three holiday albums.  A lovely song by Dolly Parton, ‘Hard Candy Christmas’  is from ‘The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.’

Holiday music makes me Grinch-y.  Somewhere inside there’s a Who going, “Fah who for-aze!  Dah who dor-aze!  Welcome Christmas, Come This Way!”  For anyone who might have a Blue Christmas — I like that one too.

Sources:

http://www.topfive.com/arcs/pk121903.shtml

http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/2243327/top_10_rap_hip_hop_christmas_songs_pg2_pg2.html?cat=33

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The Messed-Up Skies November 28, 2009

Air travel used to be fun, or at least tolerable. Friendly Skies and all that. Now it’s confusing, to say the least.

First we encounter security bullies who make passengers go through the x-ray multiple times, exposing you to three times the normal radiation. They pull out a scanning wand as if to violate you with it.

Nothing beats the strip-search before you go through the machine.  Forced burlesque, men and women stiffly remove coats, hats, shoes, belts.  We shuffle like chain-gang inmates, hands protecting our pitifully exposed selves. The shame is palpable.

Those automated faucets are helpful, except when the water won’t go on.  You squint to locate the electric eye. Move your hands in different rhythms, fast and slow as if playing the bongos.  No dice, you move to another faucet, dragging your baggage behind you.

On United Airlines’ safety video, actors demonstrate how to don the orange flotation vest as jazzy ”Rhapsody in Blue” plays  in the background.  ”When using the escape slide, make sure to jump with your legs in front of you.”  I picture the results if you don’t, rolling and tumbling end over end, right into the drink.

When taking off, the pilot informs us that there are three planes waiting ahead of us for take off, when I can clearly see five planes from my seat.  They must think that we can’t count.

Some flight attendants resemble second-grade teachers, treating passengers like unruly students.  ”Turn off cell phones, or anything with an on-off button.”  Oh, I get it.  The English skills of some flight attendants sounds like drunkeness:  ”Eef you shesh gifreus a frew mirrets ofyourtime.”

When not cranked up LOUD, the sound system cuts out, making it impossible to hear announcements.  ”We have coke, sprite, !@#$%^, coffee, tea, cranberry *&^%$#, beer and wine $&^%@#.  We are now a cash-free cabin, so !@#$%^%.”

Everyone knows that there’s no food on most flights anymore, so I bring a snack.  When I do this, nearby passengers have a tendency to watch me eat. They stare gimlet-eyed at my food as if that will make me give them some. Such passengers need to plan ahead more.

Have you tried to insert a tampon in an airplane lavatory?  Good night!  You can’t bend over far enough to get it up there.

I never used to fear landing the plane until I witnessed several one-wheeled taxis to the terminal.  You know it’s hairy when passengers clap after the Captain grounds the airship.  Thanks for not flipping the plane, Cap’n, yo.

Passengers know what we want, why can’t we get it?  I suggest we form an air passengers’ union, like the flight attendants.  I’m through with flying on Disheveled Air.

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My Lil’ Gratitude List November 23, 2009

My lil’ list of stuff that I’m grateful for this Thanksgiving.

• Those pink donut boxes.  Every time I see one, I salivate like a Pavlov hound.
• San Francisco streetcars, they’re…that…adorable.
• Garlic, it really has many uses, don’t you think?
• Condoleeza Rice, no wait — Hilary Clinton.
• Vaginal metaphors.  Everywhere you wanna be.
• BART.  Why so expensive dude?
• Shoes, clothes, accessories:  mainline please.
• Never thought I’d say it:  Berkeley Bowl.
• Concept 2 rowing machine:  waaay better’n sex.
• Cultural appropriation:  Exhibit A good, cheap Asian food.
• Trains in the night, nails in the bedroom.
• Pandora:  the pre-ad version
• Breastfeeding.  Thanks for the formula.  Thanks for gypping me out of a key experience. I’ll have a glass of milk now.
• Blogging:  the most fun you can have legally.

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