Tread Dread

With Cupcake’s birthday looming, I have been wracking my last remaining brain cells still in captivity as to what to get her as a gift. I have already used up the best ideas as Christmas presents such a short time ago and have no idea how to observe her XXth birthday. (Editor’s note, number removed to protect the idiot columnist.)

Then, the other night, I was on my half of the loveseat (loveseat... more like a “keep your filthy hands to yourself seat”) reading while Cupcake was watching her favourite show, Criminal Law and Order Mind Scene Investigators or some such. Suddenly my attention was drawn to an ad for a treadmill that was inexpensive, fold awayable, easy to set up and, did I mention, inexpensive?

I know Cupcake is always concerned about her health and thought the treadmill would be just the thing to help her keep fit and so, be a mighty fine birthday surprise. However, just to be sure, I talked to my buddy, Pete, about it. He’s quite a bit older than me and wise in many ways.

“You’re buying Cupcake a treadmill as a gift?” he snorted beer out his nose in astonishment. “To put it delicately, old chum, are you out of your freaking mind? That would be about as popular as a wicker toilet.”

“I was only thinking of her health, I swear!” I defended myself. “I’m sure she would see it in that light. She was thrilled when I got her all that Oil of Oo-lala anti-aging goop at Christmas. She better have, at that price. The point is, she didn’t think I got it for her because I think she’s old looking... ”

“Face cream is something she’s been putting on for decades. She hasn’t had much to do with exercise equipment since that incident with the mini trampoline. Frankly, I’m sure she’d see a treadmill the same way as if you bought her a case of Slim-Fast,” he warned. “Would she buy you a carton of beer withdrawal patches? Look, if you really want to be certain the treadmill will be well received, maybe think of a way to bring it up without committing to it. Nonchalantly, you know?”

That night after Cupcake had gone to bed, I fired up the internet and found a page showing all the details of this fine piece of exercise equipment. I knew she’d see it when she would do her morning online Sudoku. I congratulated myself on my subtly.

“That’s a pretty good deal,” Cupcake enthused as she read it, while I mentally applauded my cleverness. “But you’re not thinking about this as my birthday present, I hope. It would be for all of us, not just me.”

“Well, there’s no way I’m going to unload that kind of dough on an impulse purchase AND buy you a present, too!” I protested.

The next day found me still in a quandary about what to buy her while lugging the huge treadmill box into the house. With sweat pouring down my face I wondered briefly if they included a set of weights with the machine. At least I’m getting exercise from wrestling the stupid box, I thought grimly. Unpacking the unit proved as equally arduous as it was manoeuvring it into the dining room. Carefully cutting up the mass of cardboard, polyfoam and Styrofoam had me foaming at the mouth. It yielded an enormous pile of stuff to get rid of; two huge recycling bags worth and those suckers don’t grow on trees. Finally, it was all set up and had run the requisite hour to recalibrate the tread belt. I was ready to climb aboard. I estimate the unit had cost me about $500.00, including incidentals; new runners, a pair of gym shorts and a bottle of extra strength ibuprofen. This figure was important because I planned to motivate myself by keeping track of the cost per hour of the machine. The first hour may cost $500.00/hour but the second hour will halve that to $250.00/hour. My goal was to get the cost per hour lower than a gym membership. (Not that I’ve ever actually set foot in one since graduating from High School. I’ve always associated the word “gym” with humiliation, emasculation, and the only C’s ever on my report cards and have since avoided them religiously.)

My first trip on the journey to nowhere was exciting. I felt relief the lowest setting was too slow for me at one km/hr. Apparently it only had a top speed of 6 km/hr which was a problem for some people who had commented on it in the “consumer reviews”. When I fired it up to Warp Six, however, I knew it wouldn’t be of concern as I would never need it to go that fast. If I tried it on that speed, there’d be a perfect impression of me in the drywalled wall behind the thing.

Epilogue: We’ve had the thing for two full days and three evenings. So far, the cost per hour is $1500.00. But, hey, I’ve been busy!

My Resolve

The zombie appeared out of nowhere and advanced quickly.... menacingly. Its bulging, bloodshot eyes moved independently of one another as its slackened jaw allowed drool to trickle down its rotting chin. It reminded me of a girl I dated in high school. A pull of the triggers on my double-barrelled shotgun took care of the problem quickly. The blast left my attacker with less head than a stale glass of draught beer. Suddenly, an even more terrifying spectre appeared. This one, however, wasn’t cannon fodder in a video game like the zombie but my conjugal colleague Cupcake. “Honey...” Cupcake began. I instantly put full shields up and mentally sounded ‘red alert’ for the conversation to come. “I thought of a great New Year’s resolution for you!” she enthused, as if it were good news.“I thought you loved me just the way I am.” I protested. “Besides, it’s half-past January already. Your resolution window of opportunity has closed. We must move forward.” “Don’t give me that ‘move forward’ malarkey! If you would move in ANY direction, I’d be happy.”

“I’ve been waiting for you to come up with a resolution like you promised for almost two weeks. Forgive me if I think you could use some.... encouragement.” “Is that what you call it now?” I put in courageously. “We used to call it...” I was going to use the “n” word but Cupcake HATES the term ‘nagging’.

“...a er... uh... pleasant reminder,” I finished lamely.
Cupcake didn’t rise to the bait but continued to plough forward with her agenda.

“I was just going to suggest you resolve to stop constantly putting things off,” she continued relentlessly. “I mean, you put the ‘pro’ in procrastination. Your slogan should be ‘Procrastinators of the world, UNITE... TOMORROW!” “Very funny,”  I grunted.  “With gags that clever, you could write for the CBC.” “Well you do tend to delay doing things,” she ignored my jab. “We painted the hall two years ago and I’m still waiting for you to put the switch-covers back on.” “I’ve been busy!” I protested weakly. “You don’t just rush into highly dangerous and difficult tasks. You wait for the right moment. Besides, I’m curious to know what YOUR resolution was. You certainly didn’t share it with me. It obviously didn’t involve quitting nnn... going on about the stupid switch-covers. And if you get to choose my resolution, I get to choose yours and I’m making it that you resolve to double our nookie output!” “Over my dead body,” she snorted. My mind leaped at the comedic possibilities of her response; however a quick-witted retort died on my lips. Apparently, my survival instinct had kicked in.
          
I decided to continue to press her on her own resolution-appropriate shortcomings. Although the strategy was more dangerous than any zombie attack, I figured a good offense would be the best defence; an approach apparently lost on the Edmonton Oilers.
          
“Okay, how about something more realistic?” I prodded. “I made a little list for you.” I pretended to feed a lengthy stream of paper through my fingers. Most situations are improved by jocularity. It seemed this wasn’t one of them.
          
 “Look here, Mr. Perfect...” Cupcake can take a lot but there is always that point... like the one she’d just reached. “I have gone without chocolate for over 288 hours and.... 27 minutes... and if you think I’ll deny myself any longer, when you’re not willing to make changes in your life, you’re nuts.”
With that she strode to the cupboard and took out a bag of Russell Stover chocolates. I’d never seen them kept in the spaghetti canister on the top shelf before.
          
“You gave up chocolate?” I was astounded. That’s like Linus giving up his blanket. “Oh, honey, please don’t give up chocolate. I beg of you. Remember what happened last time? Besides, your Hershey habit isn’t out of control or anything. It’s not like I was going to sign you up for an intervention.” “I know,” she muttered unhappily; a mouthful of the brown confection slurring her words. Her eyes had taken on a glaze a TimBit would be envious of. “It’s just that they are my weakness and I’ve tried to just cut down and that worked about as well as your old pickup lines. I thought maybe if I tried to go cold turkey, I could handle it but chewy granola bars just don’t cut it.”
      
 I hugged her closely, trying not to think of the chocolatey fingers on my new sweater.
      
“There, there, my sweet,” I said soothingly in her ear. “Let’s just forget all this silly resolution stuff. It’s never ever changed us one iota in all the years we’ve tried. The fact that I have flaws makes it okay for you to have flaws, too. Love can only exist between two people who can tolerate each other’s faults.” “So, your solution is to never try and improve yourself or attempt to become a better person? Accept your failings rather than fight them?” she frowned. “What’s the use of getting married if you can’t ‘let yourself go’?” I grinned. “Works for me!” she giggled, stuffing another chocolate in her mouth.”

Bucket List

There is an air of excitement as people across the planet embark on our collective voyage aboard The Good Ship 2010. The excitement stems from the hope the journey will be better than The Kind of Sucky Ship 2009. At this auspicious time, it is required by law that all editorialists, columnists, bloggers and  hack writers of every stripe must create more lists than a busload of seniors on Shopping Day. These lists are mostly comprised of the best and worst of this and that; from economics to electronics, from pandemics to preparation for the Olympics. 2009 will be analyzed more closely than a scoring play in the Superbowl.
      
Being sadly ill-equipped to discuss political culture, pop culture or even a bacterial culture, my list contribution is a review my own 2010 personal “bucket list”. A bucket list is an inventory of all the things I’d like to do before I “kick the bucket”.  (Gulp!) The term was popularized by a movie starring Jack Whats-His-Name and that other guy. (I told you pop culture wasn’t my strong suit.)
        
To begin with, let’s review the items I have already checked off in 49 years on the planet.
        
Graduate High School: CHECK. Go to college: CHECK. Get a decent job: CHECK. Get lucky: Not so far this year but I’m hoping.
      
Granted it’s a rather meagre list, however, it is nothing like what I plan to do! Here is my own personal bucket list and the progress I’ve made towards attaining them.

Go hang gliding. Perhaps the closest thing to flying there is (other than drinking the 190 proof Everclear I bought at the liquor store for the eggnog. The high-test hooch had numerous warning labels; one regarding blindness and four others concerned with catching yourself on fire with it. Wow.) My hang gliding preparation, so far, consists mainly of watching the occasional video. I realize I’d probably have to wear some kind of adult under-garment but I can dream, can’t I?

Go into space. So far the Canadian Space Agency has yet to call (I can’t believe it, either.) but Cupcake still insists that even at my age, I qualify as a space cadet. In fact, she has even said I’ve had space in my head for as long as she’s known me. Then she giggled.

Lose weight permanently. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Yeah. Right.

Get my finances in order. My current system involves writing cheques on payday until I get nervous. Then I wait until next payday to write some more. Okay, so maybe “system” is too strong a word for it.
Go on “The Daily Show With Jon Stewart” to flog my book. one: write book.

Meet celebrities. So far, the most famous person I’ve ever met was Leduc Mayor, Greg Krischke. Well.... it’s a start. I’ll never forget His Worship’s parting words to me the last time I saw him. He said, “Get off my lawn, you weirdo or I’ll call the cops.”

Figuring out Cupcake. Nothing concrete so far, as it’s kind of a moving target. The only facets of her complex character I have uncovered that I can be 100% certain of, 100% of the time, are that she likes chocolate and jewellery.

Understanding my sons. If I wore my hair like that as a kid, I’d have been beaten up. It is kind of tragic, I think, that nowadays, no matter what you do to your hair, nobody gives it a second glance. Kind of defeats the purpose of having a pink and purple Mohawk. I may as well go back to my brush-cut.
Spend a week at the Smithsonian Institute. Am I boring or what?

Go snorkelling at a coral reef. Of course I’d want armed guards, a shark cage and numerous applications of shark repellent. I saw the movie “Jaws” back when it didn’t look so hokey.
Do something spontaneous. This one is so difficult to plan.

Watch the Oilers win the Stanley Cup. Cupcake bought me socks for Christmas with Oiler logos on the ankles. They were really good for a while but then they just sucked. Then they were okay for a little bit then they had a really bad run...

Sample beer from every country. Not all in one night, of course.
Win the Stephen Leacock award for humour. Okay... any award for humour. Any award, actually. Something. Jeez.

Watch all the greatest movies of all time. Important, ground-breaking masterpieces like “Citizen Kane”,

“Gone with the Wind”, “Debbie Does Dallas”...
        
 I have others but space prohibits my ability to share them. Plus, I don’t want Cupcake to read a couple of choice ones. (Woohoo!) Whatever your own bucket list consists of, however, I hope you check off a few in 2010. Just remember the wise words of George Bernard Shaw, “There are two tragedies in life; one is to lose your heart’s desire. The other is to gain it.”

HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE!

Christmas Checklist

Some people like to do it at night. Others enjoy it in the morning. Yet others do a little the night before and finish off when they wake up the next day. I am talking about the tradition of opening Christmas presents, of course, and the time of day when your family has their gift-opening, is just one tradition in an endless series of traditional choices every family makes to create their version of “the perfect Christmas”. One of the most enjoyable aspects of Christmas is the time-honoured traditions we, as a family have developed over the decades and we, as a culture, developed over centuries. I find it fascinating how that each family forges their own set of traditions which are as unique as the individuals that spawned them, as they create their idea of the Ideal Yule.

Here, then, is a collection of my own Christmas checklist; traditions that must be observed for me to feel I have had the complete Yuletide experience.

Forwarding Christmas jokes via email is a relatively new tradition, given the age of the medium, but one already entrenched in our culture. They start about the same time as the Christmas sales and are almost as plentiful. My favourite so far: Did you hear about the dyslexic devil worshipper? He sold his soul to Santa.

Watching Christmas movies is a centuries old tradition that dates back to times before electricity when they had to watch their portable DVD's by torchlight. However, in my books, you can keep your “Jingle All The Way” and “The Santa Clause”. I'm an old-school kind of guy (What a surprise).”It's A Wonderful Life”, “Miracle on 34 St.”, and of course, the most classic of them all, “Charlie Brown's Christmas” are my style. I even like Rudolph and Frosty although I find “Little Drummer Boy” a bit disturbing. It's not often, after all, you see a cartoon where the protagonist's parents die at the beginning of the show unless the protagonist becomes a super hero.

On Christmas Eve, driving around the town looking at all the gorgeous Christmas lights is one of my favourite customs. Who cares that the carbon footprint of this activity is the size of the tar sands (sorry we call them the “oil sands” now), Cupcake and I have been making the annual pilgrimage around the town since the boys were just wee lads. Luckily, Calmar is so small you can actually drive down every street and still be back home in time for “A Christmas Carol” with Alastair Sim.

Letting the kids open just one gift on Christmas Eve is another of our traditions that began when the kids were still young enough to intimidate. Ah, the good old days. In our household, Cupcake invariably selects the Christmas Eve gift and her annual choice is always, without fail, pyjamas. Kind of takes the fun out of it but, hey, Cupcake needs her little traditions, too.

Opening stockings on our bed is a tradition in our house I've never agreed with. When I was an anklebiter, the whole point of the stocking was to keep us kids busy for an extra half an hour or so for my folks to get a little bit more sleep. Our kids always demanded that we open our stockings together, however, and our big, comfy bed appeared to be the best place. So much for extra sleep.

There's another tradition I've come to expect, happens annually, as sure as Boxing Day sales follow Christmas. That tradition is having Cupcake fret over whether this dish or that didn't turn out the way she'd hoped. It cracks me up. This is a centuries-old phenomenon, considering Dickens took great pains to include the fact that Mrs. Cratchit was concerned about the amount of flour in the pudding. It is amusing to see Cupcake in a flap over over-done glazed carrots or dry stuffing, despite the fact the whole tableful will be attacked with such gusto, afterward, it would appear a plague of locusts had joined in the meal.

Baking Christmas treats is another wonderful Christmas tradition. The goal is to create desserts and snacks with the most amount of calories per square millimetere. Take the traditional Christmas fruit cake. A 1.5 ounce piece, which, given the substantial weight of the cake, is about the size of an Icy Square, contains 139 calories. Given that the portions doled out by elderly female relatives, a major source of the delicacy, are many times the 1.5 ounce serving means every slice is worth about the average person's 2000 calorie/day limit.

Last but certainly not least is our tradition of making home-made Irish cream, with the following recipe:
1 bottle cheap rye whiskey
4 tablespoons of chocolate syrup
4 tsp instant coffee dissolved in
1 cup of water
1 egg well whipped
2 cans Eagle Brand condensed milk
1 500 ml container of whipping cream

Okay, I've got my checklist ready. Bring on the holidays! Merry Christmas Everyone!

Tree for the show

“Honey....” Cupcake's voice dripped more sweetness than a Lindor chocolate dipped in maple syrup. Years of experience has taught me that when she uses that particular voice, the next thing out of her mouth will be as unpleasant as a shot of Buckley's Mixture with a Brussels sprout juice chaser.

“It's time for you know what!” she said with guarded excitement.

“Oh boy!” I enthused, tongue firmly in cheek. “I'll get the scented massage oil!”

“Not for that, you know what, the other one,” her frustration-drenched response prefaced her patented eye-roll. “It's time to bring the Christmas tree down from the attic so we can decorate it! Are you sure you still fit through the trap door? Are you saying I'm bigger around than our tree?” I tried to sound as hurt as possible.

“All I'm saying is that when you press the tree limbs against the trunk, the tree gets smaller. However, when you press YOUR limbs against the trunk of YOUR body.....”

“I get it, already..” I interupted her drivel. “Let me say how much I appreciate you monitoring my girth.”

“It's my job,” she snickered. “And not a pleasant one, either!”

After a quick trip into the attic, quick, that is, apart from the time spent stuck in the entryway into the ceiling (apparently the hole had gotten smaller since the previous year) I retrieved our festive fake foliage.

As I wrestled with the gigantic decoration, I could smell the artificial pine scent on the artificial tree. Cupcake sprays it on to make it smell more natural, oblivious to the irony of it.

“We should have got some eggnog to drink while we decorate,” I said, trying to get into the spirit of it. “I had some at Jeff's that was just awesome!”

“Eggnog? Gross.” her face contorted in remembered digust. “It's like a super-sweet barium smoothie. There's a reason you don't see it all year round. The stuff Jeff served up was probably half rum.”

“It did appear thinner than most eggnog,” I admited. “I just thought it was eggnog lite. Okay, then how about a Christmas movie while we decorate? That sounds great!” she responded joyously. “How about 'Die Hard'? It starts out with a great rendition of “Let It Snow”.

“I was thinking of something along the lines of  'Miracle on 34th Street'. 'Die Hard' as a Christmas movie? You're just hung up on Bruce Willis,” I observed.

“Heh heh... let's just forget the movie,” Cupcake defensively changed the subject. “We'll just put on the Christmas Tree channel. Can we put on the Fireplace Channel instead?” I enquired innocently. “I find it less repetitive than the carols on the tree channel. I'm sure that celebrity Christmas albums outnumber available Christmas songs by at least a thousand to one. In fact, the only Christmas album I can listen to all the way through anymore is Boney M's. Their rendition of 'When a Child is Born' always chokes me up.”

“Honey,” Cupcake snorted in amusement, “Even Lego commercials choke you up. You are such a sap you could be a donor if a tree needed a transfusion.”

As Cupcake opened the box of ornaments our banter trailed off. Looking at the collection of memories in that box was like a visit from the Ghost of Christmas Past. I found Junior's special “Baby's First Christmas” hand painted bauble and smiled at the recollection of the first time it had graced our tree.

Out came more decorations. There was the paper angel Matt had made in Kindergarten. Its halo has been taped back into place a mite crookedly and it's once-white dress now looks bedraggled like the angel had rolled a homeless woman to get it. Matt was so proud of it at the time. Now he says it just looks tacky and doesn't understand why we don't just toss it. Yeah. Right. He doesn't understand that each one of those decorations, particularly the ones the boys made as they grew up, are vital to our whole Christmas experience. They are sacred pieces of the elaborate mosaic we call “Christmas Spirit” and evoke as many memories as an old family photo album.

“What about this cheapie reindeer ornament?” I held out the item in question. Thin felt once covered all of the brown plastic. Coverage was now more spotty in some areas and there was evidence of teeth marks, although not sure if it was child or dog . One eye was missing. “Surely this doesn't have sentimental value.”

We looked at it briefly and then said in unison, “We'll put it in the back of the tree.”

As we talked about our favourite holiday moments from yules gone by, I was struck by an odd thought. It occured to me that remembrances of the past seasons is rarely about the gifts we received, yet that is what we spend the most time and effort on. Humans are an odd bunch.

Hotel Hell

Remember last Friday? The snow was flaking unreal! We got so much shovel-ready precipitation, my Nova Scotian neighbour, Cec, was almost impressed. To her, anything under a meter is a mere skiff. Mind you, as I'm typing this, it's her hubby, Cam, I see shovelling their 50 meter driveway. I'd help but I have this column to write, eh.

As it happened, the blizzard struck on the same day the company I'm employed by was taking inventory. Not only were we to work far into the night (at my age, 9:30 is far into the night) but also had to return early the following day for the computing part of the counting festival. No exceptions. The only way to be excused from the process was if you had a note from your mortician.

As I watched out the store window at the wind-blown blast, I debated my options. Cupcake, aware of the scheduled conditions, had insisted I pack some essentials in case I chose to hotel it close to the office. I'd complied grudgingly. I've braved some pretty hairy driving conditions just to sleep in my own bed. I was resolute a little snow would not stop me.

Until I looked outside, that is. It was snowing sideways. I watched as a sanding truck skidded out of control and did a three-sixty. Maybe the hotel idea wasn't so bad after all.

Phoning around for decent, discount accommodation went poorly. The least pricey place I found was $126.00, including tax which, given my late arrival and early departure, worked out to almost $16.00/hour. There are darned few things I would willingly pay that kind of dough for.

However, eyeing the crotch-deep snow (stupid 29 inch inseam) I finally deemed it my most prudent alternative. Picturing the perils of Devon Hill, once tonight and again the following day, chilled my blood colder than the Frosty the Snowman's knickers (Oh wait, he didn't wear clothes... hmmm..)

As soon as the last stock bin  was counted, I fired up my trusty Kia, and followed the ruts down 184 Street to my temporary digs. For legal reasons I can't name the place but it rhymes with Gravelodge; a snot-nosed-kid-friendly hotel chain. It featured an arcade room, waterslide pool and the sound of little feet running up and down the hallways at all hours of the night with parental-sounding voices yelling at them to be quiet.

Inside the room I did the time-honoured routine of all hotel guests and turned on the lights, sampled the softness of the bed and checked the bathroom for thugs, miscreants and terrorists. I assured myself I was the only undesirable in the room and called Cupcake to tell her I was safely sheltered

“I know!” I told her excitedly, “how about you drive into town and join me? Drive slowly, of course. Safety first!”

Amazingly, she declined.

When I hung up from our too-short conversation, the silence in the room was deafening. Other than the thundering little footfalls outside my room from over-sugared yard-apes.

I switched on the TV.

Not being a TV person, none of the scrolling choices appealed to me and I switched it off in disgust. It didn't even have the Christmas Tree Channel.

I noticed a video game controller on the TV stand and fumbled with the remote to fire it up. Finally  decent entertainment! I gulped in shock and disappointmnt that the selection of games available dated back to the months of Kim Campbell's short-lived government and the start of another disaster; the first Iraq War. Worse yet, the vultures at the hotel's pricing department wanted $6.95 plus tax per hour to play the creaky games. $6.95 an hour! Factoring in my previous computations, that would make an hour of Super Mario 3 cost over $23.00!  I went back to my $16.00/hour TV hoping desperately the shows had gotten better since the last time I checked. I surfed briefly, ultimately settling on Howie Mandel's “Howie Do It”. Five minutes of that was all I could take before I turned it off again. Watching the blizzard was better than that.

I rummaged though my hastily thrown together overnight bag. I recalled packing a book and my hand-held Sudoku. I grabbed the book and headed for the bath. Nothing beats reading in the tub. I wondered on the way, however, how many other people had been in that tub and just how diligent the cleaning staff may of may not be.

I decided to skip the bath.

The bed, too presented some concern about it's previous occupants. I'd been reading articles about how bed bugs have become a problem. I decided to sit in the faux-leather chair by the desk to read. I hoped nothing icky could live in Naugahyde. I looked at the title of my fiction selection and sighed mightily. I'd began reading a three book sci-fi potboiler and noticed I'd inadvertently grabbed Book Two by mistake. I tossed it aside in frustration and played Sudoku til the battery died. I went to bed to escape the oppressive boredom.

Sleep eluded me amid the strange sounds in my lonely environment. I mulled over my new knowledge. Hotel rooms are way less fun without Cupcake.

Wish List

Last week I went through an annual experience that is as unpleasant as it is inevitable. No, it wasn't my yearly prostate exam, but something almost as much a pain in the butt. What transpired was Cupcake bearing down on me with intent in her eyes and The Dreaded Question on her lips.

“What do you want for Christmas?” she asked, her tone more pointed than a poppy pin. She offered a blank piece of paper and a pen for my list of “wondrous Christmas wishes” or some similar Christmas ad-inspired festive claptrap.

I sighed mightily before responding. As I have explained to my dear, sweet bride, for eons, I neither need nor want a bunch of store-bought stuff. It isn't trying to be noble or anything. I am not greed-free. No one is. However, if I want something through the year, I go get it. I'm worth it, I say, and even Cupcake may one day be convinced.

Admittedly, it's rare for me to actually buy something for myself anyway. The things I enjoy doing don't lend themselves to accessorizing. Whether it is acting, writing, surfing the net, or even playing darts, I am involved in activities that don't require anything in the way of Christmas gifts to make them better. I don't for example, need special “typing gloves” or a “keyboarding helmet” for when I'm  computing. Nothing I can think of would enhance the experience, other than maybe Cupcake waving palm fronds over me as I surfed; something she has indicated she would rather not do. Actually “violently opposed to the idea” was how she worded it.

You see, when I enjoy computer time, I mostly check out news sites and read the moronic comments of the armchair analysts that often follow the news and opinion pieces. When I am fed up with all the doom, gloom and negativity (and that's just from the Oilers reports) I need a guffaw break and check out www.failblog.org and feel superior for a while. I don't do a lot of “gaming” unless you count the countless hours I've spent playing solitaire or FreeCell while talking on the phone or while waiting for a page to load. (I can't remember the last time I've played solitaire with a real deck. Dealing all those cards would take forever now. We just can't spare that kind of time while we're relaxing. Computers for all their speed have not made us more patient people.)
(But I digress.)

As I was saying, darts, too, don't require a great deal of accessories. There's the occasional need for shafts and flights but they are cheap like borsht and last a fair amount of time. Mine, in particular, last for months since my darts rarely go near one another in the board. The only dart accessory needing replacing on a steady basis is dart lubricant, which comes in brown bottles and goes great with clamato.  There's also a high-end extra-strength lubricant formula which comes with a worm at the bottom of the clear glass container. Cupcake sneers at these sports aids claiming they're inappropriate Christmas gifts, however, she thinks they aren't in keeping with the spirit of the season. I pointed out the first thing monks did when setting up monasteries throughout history was to grow grapes and make wine. Unfortunately, Cupcake always fails to grasp the significance of my historical examples to legitimize my behaviour. “Does it have to be booze?” Cupcake snapped, a bit sharply, I thought, given the subject matter being discussed was my personal happiness. “You like food too.”She pointedly eyed my midriff area. Well, not all at once, obviously.“Exactly!” I tried to keep the 'I got you now' sound from my voice and failed. “I get a bunch of yummy, rare treats at Christmas and then you make me go on a diet at New Years! How cruel is that?”

I explained to her another issue I have with producing a list of things I covet is that writing it out makes me feel crass and greedy. To quote Cupcake on a different topic, “It doesn't mean as much if I have to ask for it.”  I would much prefer one single gift with a lot of thought behind it as opposed to a plethora of presents available at your average mega-mart. Choosing a gift because you really know and understand that person is so much more valuable than simply more stuff.

I then pointed out to my Extremely Significant Other that whatever stuff she buys, she also has to come up with a place to store it. Our tiny abode is already jam-packed with years of accumulated other stuff and finding places for new stuff is nearly impossible. The stuff of dreams becomes a nightmare.

When I tried to explain my position, however, Cupcake withdrew the pen and paper in full huff with a snit chaser.

“Fine! You... you... Scrooge you!” she raged.

“Thanks, honey!” I beamed in glee.“What do you mean?” she squinted in suspicion.

“Well, the whole point of the book, “A Christmas Carol” was that Scrooge became as, as Old Chuck Dickins put it, 'and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge'. What a wonderful compliment!”