Christmas 2020: the grinchening

Santa had a terrible realization and went skidding into the living room to chug milk and stuff cookies into pockets at 4:47am. Leif came bursting into the bedroom and whisper-yelled “IT’S CHRISTMAS” at 4:59am, causing me to leap 3 inches straight off the bed.

Close call there.

Last week I accidentally destroyed the vacuum, crushing and snapping off the top half of it. 

“I hulk-smashed the vacuum!” I bragged. 

“That is what you get for buying a vacuum from the thrift store,” my family said. No appreciation for my appliance-crushing abilities. 

“Well, I also broke the food processor.” Still no applause. These people.

So I was very happy when my mother gave me a robot vacuum for Christmas. I am gets-excited-about-vacuum-cleaners years old. Oh no.

After the house was destroyed, my mother packed up her overnight bag and went back home to feed her cats, and I chased the kids around with the robot vacuum while they scrambled to get legos out of its path. 

In the afternoon we packed up the leftovers and puff pastry and went over for meat pie and flaming figgy pudding.

Except it turns out that the horrible jet-fuel rum I had gotten in my eyeball the day before and tipped down the kitchen sink had been the flaming pudding rum. I have no idea how that bottle of poison ended up at my house when it usually lives safely at the back of my mother’s liquor shelf collecting dust until we set it on fire, but we must have been trying to light the grill with it or something, because there it was. Gone. 

We had to light the pudding with the good booze, instead, and it barely gave a flicker before burning out. No ring of fire for us this year.

It tasted way better drenched with $60 cognac, though. 

It’s all soup and painting for the rest of the weekend. The rain looks like snow, keeping the neighborhood quiet and off their new hoverboards. Almost feels like Christmas over here or something.