Scene overheard through the bedroom door (no, I was the one in the bedroom):

Mr. Polly: I don’t know about wine—

Mama-san: Here, I’ll write it out for you. When do they close?

Mr. Polly:  I don’t know, I don’t buy wine—

Mama-san: Well, you’d better hurry then.

Uh-oh. Looks like no presents for us:

Naughty:
Former friends who are / were blind and stupid in 08
blogstalkers
my neighbors
The entire Congress
That One
All the appointed shills, looters, and misogynists in DC
Stupid paid-off apologist pundits in all forms of media
The great vampire squid
phony people in general

Well it’s Christmas Day here.  Had a fun filled morning with the children, made pancakes (crepes, whatever) for breakfast, we went for a walk in the boiling hot sun to make up for it and then played badminton until their father whisked them away for a week.

I keep forgetting where I put my wine glass, I’ve only drunk half a glass of it so far so that doesn’t bode well, and my thighs hurt from the aforementioned badminton.

Merry Christmas!

I’m calling it badminton from now on too!

Out for a desperate last run at finding the PERFECT thing for two people at the local drugstore, and a figgy pudding at the Korean deli!

Note: when newly bought wine is too cold, you can warm it up by placing the bottle directly in front of the space heater!

Sorry about the thigh-strain, Rebecca. But speaking on behalf of most of North America, chasing a glass of wine on a hot, sunny New Zealand day looks like Heaven from here.

Merry Christmas back atcha!

Polly, how did I know you’d be the one who had to suit-up and dog-sled into town for wine?

PS, at the Korean deli, make sure you enunciate “figgy” slowly and clearly, lest you be forced to dine on a misunderstanding.

It’s too hot here to figgy pudding, so figgy for me, Mrs Polly!

btw, I thought I’d spelt badminton wrong ‘cos of you and I was going to disown my glass of wine once I found it again.

Strange, once I top myself up I’m drinking for YOU!  I draw the line at going back out in the sun though, I’ll just wave at it on your behalf. :-)

Note: when newly bought wine is too cold, you can warm it up by placing the bottle directly in front of the space heater!

What? Don’t you have a microwave?

Just made rum balls and peanut butter fudge. Now to finish wrapping presents. Oh, and I also have a little essay to finish for one of my editors, but she’ll be lenient if I don’t get it in til tomorrow. My own fault—I’ve been in heavy-duty procrastination mode. I just hate having to follow these artificial deadlines—that’s how we get sell-out corporatist holidays in the first place. Perhaps I should put forth a motion to scrap this Christmas and start all over again so it can be done correctly.

No festivities per se at the ever-secular House of Mann, but everybody gets extra treats, and Silent Night, Deadly Night is given its annual watching. Man, there’s a musical-interludey montage in this thing where they play the. Whole. Song. And the song’s both catchy and terrible, so I can hardly believe thirtysomething assholes haven’t co-opted it ironically for their Pabst-fueled holiday hoedowns.

Tomorrow I’m gonna rollerblade out to the Holland Tunnel—shoot for the moon, right? But no, it’s super fun to be out on major roadways when everybody’s home. You guys don’t know what you’re missing, sitting there sipping brandy by the fire with loved ones.

I’m calling it badminton from now on too!

That is, like, the bonnest mot.

No brandy, but we’ll raise a tumbler of space-heater-warmed Gallo Hearty Burgundy (yes, that’s what Mr. Polly was sent out for, and he managed to find a bottle for only seventeen bucks!) to you, gil, as you blade your way beneath billions and billions of gallons of brackish water, which ought to be a natural for you, come to think of it.

Strange, thank you for your concern, but Mama-san inveigled Mr. Polly into the wine-run, which cut into his last-minute Christmas scrum-time at Lots for Less.

There goes that combination Harley-Davidson boombox and karaoke machine I was afraid he’d get! I owe you, Ernest and Julio!

Is that Naughty list something “Dr.” Violet Socks (or somebody similar) wrote, or just a parody?

What is wrong with Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer?

“It’s a potboiler par excellence.”

—Mama-san.

BTW, what do you call a ten-pound trifle? I’m thinking “Gigantorte.”

Christmas Eve open thread for cheer-challenged ‘Roasters who don’t believe in miracles and know damn well that nobody gives you something for nothing.

Au contraire, mon frer, et tu sait, n’est ce pas?