My Christmas List

It’s getting close to that magical morning when I stumble out of bed, weave my way around the dogs, trip over some of the many throw rugs the wife likes to use to cover the wood floors and race into the living room to see what Santa left under the tree we have yet to put up.

The wife lately has been saying I’m a grump.

Of course that’s impossible, especially this time of year.
I am everything the Christmas spirit should be.

She’s just stressed out over shopping – something she usually lives for.

The wife says I’m too hard to buy for because I have everything.

That’s also not quite true.

She forgets new stuff is invented every year so that means I couldn’t have everything.

And I still have room in my garage.
That should be all the scientific proof necessary.

Nevertheless, I’m worried Santa may need some help when it comes to giving me the perfect gift under the tree.

There must be a bazillion new things out this year alone.

Not being one to leave things to chance, I’ve been putting my Christmas wish list together for Santa…

hula chair2There’s the Hula Chair.

A 2,800 rpm motor under the seat wiggles your rear end at multiple speeds so your butt is going crazy.

The idea is tone the muscles and have a perfect tush.

I would be proud to have one.
I promise to be careful my butt doesn’t fall off.

In case Santa doesn’t have time to get the elves to whip one up, I’d be pleased for a pair of Underwear Gloves.

Underpants for handsSanta knows it’s not cold here but the fashion statement would seriously make the wife cry with happiness.

She accuses me of having no sense of fashion, which we all know is not true.

This is sure to change her mind and make her proud to be seen with me about town.

And I’ll remember to tell Santa Claus in my letter about the plate of cookies left for him.

Chocolate chip, of course.
Which I might eat before going to bed.

This is such a great list I’m going to print it out and send it to Santa right away.

With a copy to the wife.

Then go out and make some room in the garage.

Stepping up in the world

The wife is a constant delightful surprise in some things and fairly standard in others.

For example, women like to move stuff around.

Once every couple of years she moves the furniture just so things look different.

I spend the next month walking into stuff in the middle of the night when I get up for a glass of water.

The price of wedded bliss.

Then a while back she was at Costco and decided to change the china.

We usually use a paper plate.
Don’t snicker – you probably do too.

It’s easy, nothing to wash and it’s not like the President is dropping by for dinner.

I wouldn’t invite him anyway.
I’m a bit upset with the guy these days.

I’m sure the NSA will pass this on and I’ll get a sharply worded letter from the White House soon.

I think if the guy ate off paper plates and bought his own gas we’d all be better off.

paper-tray-slzedAnyway, the wife comes back with these luau, school-lunch type paper plates.

It’s like the one’s Igge’s provides for funerals and such.

You can’t load them up because they start to bend in the middle and in my house the dogs are waiting below for anything that might drop to the floor.

One law of the universe is dogs own what hits the floor.

These things taste like exactly what they are – a paper plate.

Leave something soggy there long enough and it comes through the other side.

The old ones at least had a plastic coating, which tastes better than paper and don’t leak.

I suspect these were on sale and she cannot resist a sale, regardless of the product.

We got stuff all over the place that had a price that called to her frugal soul.

Some were used once before they broke or maybe never worked in the first place.

Some remain in the original container because I laughed so hard when she showed it to me.

I really have to stop doing that because it makes her angry.

Anyway, back to the paper plates…

Even she admitted this wasn’t up to her usual excellent choices.

We are back to the exquisite paper plates we have used for years.

We still won’t invite the President over.

He makes me grumpy.