Someone should have warned me I’d come home to a CHRISTMAS HORROR MOVIE IN MY HOUSE.
I walked in tonight to find those little guys chilling in my bathrobe, eating my snacks.
Step One was to vacuum up the ones I could find. I would have counted, but I wanted to keep my food in my belly, thankyouverymuch. I’m not sure I’m going to be able to sleep tonight.
You know where they’re most concentrated? UNDER THE MOTHERFUCKING CHRISTMAS TREE. I’m terrified to reach under to pull out the pieces to our village because I can see them all under there, lurking and waiting for me to be touched by them. That would make me piss myself, yo.
Have I ever mentioned I don’t do well with bugs in my house?
Step Two was to consult Google. Surprise, fucking, surprise, they’re some sort of conifer aphid, which apparently don’t do much aside from scaring the piss out of happy Christmas tree owners.
This is like when you learn that hot dogs are made of lips and assholes. I was near vomiting then and convinced I’d never so much as look at another hot dog without losing my cookies, but I have since filed that information away under “I love it too much to care.”
I cannot wait for Rob to come home because Step Three is GET THE MOTHERFUCKING TREE OUT OF MY HOUSE NOW. This is going to involve taking down ornaments, taking off lights and removing the *gulp* village from under the tree.
I’m pretty sure I’ll be doing my part accompanied by squeals and squeaks and hops. Rob will do his accompanied by grumbling and, “Chill the fuck out, Jen. They’re just bugs!”
No. I will not chill the fuck out. They are in my house, and I did not invite them.
OH MY GOD. WHAT IF THEY’RE UNDER MY PILLOW?
See those stripes? Those stripes are the dried marks left behind by the salt brine the North Carolina DOT treats our (major) roads with WHEN WE’RE EXPECTING WINTRY PRECIPITATION.
My various weather forecasts of choice are conflicted on whether or not we should, in fact, expect ice/snow/sleet/whatnot, but I don’t give a damn. The weather guesses are only right some of the time, and the stripey roads paired with the possible forecast have me FREAKING GIDDY.
p.s. Yes, brine. Like what you (if you’re smart) do with your turkeys. Weird, no? Having been in a four-car accident on an icy North Carolina road (plus, you know, logic), I question its reliability, but what do I know? I only grew up in the snow belt of Ohio. I can’t say I blame them too much, though. A cone building (technical term) full of rock salt would probably last a century here. *sob*
We’re Those People – the ones who leave Christmas decorations up for a borderline-ridiculously long time.
It’s probably a good thing we only buy real trees. I’m pretty sure you’d have to tie me down to remove the fake tree in a timely fashion without me putting up my dukes to defend the Christmas spirit.
I (somewhat) patiently wait until after Thanksgiving to decorate, but since there are no (major decorating) holidays for some time after Christmas, I see nothing wrong with a little bump and grind leaving our Christmas decorations up for a while.
I absolutely adore “Where The Wild Things Are,” by Maurice Sendak. I loved to roar my terrible roar and gnash my terrible teeth right along with Max, and “Let the wild rumpus start!” has been one of those quotes that has stuck with me all through my life.
It is quite useful.
I was thrilled when I first saw the trailer for Spike Jonze’s film adaptation of the book, but for one reason or another, I never made it to the theater to see it.
I’m glad I didn’t, though, because now I’ve read BOTH books before seeing the movie.
I’m just not sure if that’s a good thing.
My favorite thing about the picture book is Max. (Is a character a thing?) He embodies the spirit, innocence and pure joy of childhood. His imagination is inspiring, even if his naughty behavior is not. Max is fun. Max is the anti-adult.
Max in “The Wild Things” is different.
At first, we see the same old Max, causing trouble and having fun without thought to anyone around him. Max is pretty much what I’d classify as your typical boy (even though the book hints that he might have ADD or something). He is naughty, he is misunderstood, he is in his own world.
Then Max runs away and sets sail and lands in a faraway land where fun goes to die. In fact, fun is eaten by big, scary monsters. And goat boys.
Wild-Thing Max doesn’t escape to Imagination Land with wild rumpuses. Instead, he lands in Very Real Problems Land. The fun Max tries to have results in nothing but sad consequences.
This book was just OK. The cover was awesome and the beginning was fun. The middle and end – not so much.
I’ll probably watch the movie at home at some point, but I’m not itching to see it nearly as bad as I first was.
Up next: “I Am The Messenger,” by Markus Zusak
(New rules: I’m only including my star ratings on my “20## reads” pages from now on.)
Disclaimer: This entry contains information regarding our adventures with trouble trying to conceive. Feel free to skip over if you wish to avoid too much information regarding my reproductive parts. I won’t blame you. I’d rather skip this stuff, too.
