I Would Be Happy, The Rest Of My Life, With(out) A Cinnamon (broom), Girl
2005-12-13, 11:35 a.m.

How A Pomeranian Housetrains His Parents:

YAWN :::::stretch::::: Hmm, I think I need to pee. I�ll give Mommy the signal.

Blink blink

She�s not looking.

Blink

It�s been .02 seconds and she hasn�t noticed. I�ll give a little longer.

Blink blink

Another .0004 seconds. Geez, she�s slow.

Aw, hell.

PEE

Mommy�s saying my name REALLY REALLY loud. She loves me. Same time, same place tomorrow, then. I�m a good boy.

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This is the time of year for one of my favorite sports. Football? No. Hockey? No. Quidditch? Yes, but�um� No, this sport is so totally amazing, so mind-boggling, that it defies the imagination. What is it?

Rubbernecking in the layaway department at Maul Mart.

Because when you�ve spent three hours loading your buggy with a N@SCAR calendar in a wooden frame, a rubber racing-tire clock, and color-coordinating candles for that sophisticated touch, I really do find you�and your gift recipient� fascinating.

Please invite me to your home. I must see how you live.

This is the time of year when everybody has some sort of thing glowing in their living room, everybody has their shades up at night so the world can see their particular glowing thing, and therefore I can ride around being a milquetoast Peeping Tom, ignoring the festivities and seeing their basic home d�cor. I admit it, I�m a d�cor junkie. I love seeing other people�s homes, because the things they display and treasure is like a crack in the door, a peek to their real selves. I shoulda been a psych major back in the day.

Which brings me to:

D�COR BY MAMA, PART 793

Hubby and I have been married for 15 years, and for nearly every waking moment of it, my mother has been trying to decorate our home, in a style completely opposite and antagonistic to our sensibilities. Enter the latest debacle, The Battle Of The Cinnamon Broom.

My mother is a Cracker Barrel junkie. She could set up a cot in their gift shop and call it home. She loads up on all the latest Made In China items like they were gold dubloons and calls herself royalty. That�s great, it�s cute, in HER home, but she foists it off on us every chance she gets. And when Mama gifts us with something, she engraves it into her brain, asks about it, hunts for it, and pouts vociferously when we haven�t made a shrine to it in the middle of the living room floor. Her latest conquest? A sticky, stinky, sheddy Cinnamon Broom.

Hubby and I are retro fiends. Danish modern. Mid-century Jetson-esque, if you will, with a crapload of pop culture kitsch thrown in for good measure. What you will not find is Holly Hobbie cutesy country rustic-y stuff, not that there�s anything wrong with that, but it is completely not us. It is completely what a Cinnamon Broom IS. The thing is over a yard long, constructed of twigs that shed horrendously and have been soaked in essence of chemical cinnamon, for that spiced petroleum effect. Did I mention the thing sheds? And then there�s the disclaimer: DO NOT DISPLAY ON UPHOLSTERED FURNITURE OR WALLPAPER or, apparently, on anything in your home that you hold of value or don�t care to repaint 5,000,000 times because with that sort of notice, the damn thing must stain whatever it graces, too. Joy. But if I don�t display the thing proudly and publicly, I�d better sit my arse in a handbasket and head for heck because that will be more pleasant than yearfuls of earfuls of how great the thing is and why don�t I have a million of them all over the house because they�re the greatest thing EV-er?

So, yesterday afternoon, I held a hunting expedition to find a spot to concurrently display and disguise The Cinnamon Broom. And I�ve hit upon a moment of genius, if I do say so myself, provided I can find the right accountrements. :::::::::begging the gods of eBay::::::::::: It is on the wall here, in the office, next to the Battlestar Galactica lunchbox, amongst the other baby boomer goodies, and all I need to complete the composite are a few vintage Bewitched items. Behold: Ode to Endora. Sam�s great, but admit it, Endora totally rocks.

Now if I can just get the thing to smell less like cinn-oline. And don�t get me started about the plaid Victorian Santa spoon rest (every home should have a dozen) to give your Tiki kitchen that little touch of grandeur.

Mama�s heart is in the right place, if neither her body nor her wallet, when it comes to gifting. It�s the thought that counts. I just wish her thoughts weren�t cluttering up the place.

Hubby, however, after years of training, is no longer a Padawan, but a genuine Gift Jedi, for he has learned that frivolity is not the way to this girl�s heart.

Jewelry? Bah.

He�s ordered me a digital camera.

No more Kodack Craptomatic. We shall have a real camera. More than one pixel. Zooms in more than three extra inches towards the subject. I won�t know what to do with it, if the object shows up in the picture larger than a blackened speck.

But this morning, he topped even that.

I�m not one for fancy stuff. If I want something frivolous, and it�s cheap, I buy it for myself throughout the year, if it�s cheap, and also, if it�s cheap. If we need something, truly need it, and instead Hubby spends the money on something expensive and unnecessary, then I can�t enjoy it. I won�t use it. Instead, I will silently seethe that now we can�t use the money for that something which we truly need, but have been too tightfisted to buy any other time of the year.

So what is Hubby giving me?

NEW KITCHEN LINOLEUM.

::::::::::::::::doing Snoopy happy dance:::::::::::::::::::

Ditch your diamonds. Stuff your silver where the sun don�t shine. Wanna win my heart? Linoleum, baby.

And I will make absolutely certain it does not coordinate with Cinnamon Brooms.

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You Are Likely an Only Child

At your darkest moments, you feel frustrated. At work and school, you do best when you're organizing. When you love someone, you tend to worry about them. In friendship, you are emotional and sympathetic. Your ideal careers are: radio announcer, finance, teaching, ministry, and management. You will leave your mark on the world with organizational leadership, maybe as the author of self-help books.

Am I THAT easy to peg? Geez.

Your Daddy Is Patrick Stewart

What You Call Him: Papi Why You Love Him: He takes you to church

DAYUM! Holy Shades of Star Trek, Batman! This is getting right-on-target creepy.

With mucho props to joiedv for da fun.

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