Bah Humbug

December 31, 2009


Christmas is different now. In the days before The Baby, I got left alone with a catnip treat for most of the morning whilst The Mushroom and my Dad drank bubbly alcoholic beverages after opening presents of ridiculous decadence (“What do you want for Christmas, darling?” “Myrrh.”, “Right you are!”), then I got a meaty treat whilst they cooked, slurred and ate dinner, and then I went to bed whilst they fell asleep on the sofa, alcoholic steam oozing off their bodies, watching ‘True Romance’ on DVD. Or something like that.

Not now.

“What do you want for Christmas, honey?”, my Dad asked some weeks ago.

“Creme de la Mer.”

He looked at her.

“Doesn’t that cost about a thousand dollars?”

“Yes.”

“Seriously, that’s what you want? ”

“Yes. Yes, that’s what I want. ”

“Even though I couldn’t afford to get you anything other than that?”

“Yes. Yes, that is what I want”, she repeated, in a disturbingly android fashion.

“It’s not magical, you know.”

Oh. Oh dear. Now, I’m a cat, but even I know what an utterly wrong thing that was to say. It is a sentence that shows the staggering difference between man humans and lady humans.

What my Dad meant by, ‘It’s not magical, you know’  is, ‘This cream is a rip off. And anyway, your face is fine.’.

What The Mushroom heard was, ‘There is no point buying this cream, because your crone like features are beyond repair. Whilst I think about it, you actually bear a startling resemblance to my Gran.’

The Mushroom’s eyes began to fill with tears. Her face contorted in a ‘do I cry, do I knee you really hard in the gonads?’ way.

“No, no, no, I meant, oh, bollocks, I didn’t mean, okay, yes, absolutely, if that’s what you want, of course. Of course. I just think it’s a rip off. And that you’re beautiful. I think you’re very beautiful. You’re very beautiful to me.”

Mistake number two. Never, ever say to a lady human that they are beautiful ‘to you’. The implication there is that to everyone else, they look like Yoda. However, The Mushroom let it fly, cos she was getting her 0.5 ounce pot of battered sea weed or whatever it is, and she was thus happy.

So, Christmas came, and The Mushroom got her box of magical cream, my Dad got some things The Mushroom ordered three months ago off the internet in a moment of foresight based on the abject lack of shops within a 100 mile radius, unless you count ‘Walmart’, ‘Canadian Tire’ (which sells more than tires, apparently) and ‘Scrapbook Cottage’, none of which would have supplied gifts my Dad would have appreciated (‘Happy Christmas! Have some bathroom scrubbers, a decorative letter ‘D’ made out of felt, and a hose!’), and The Baby got all the brightly coloured, battery-operated, noise making, singing bits of plastic left in Saskatoon. One of these is a dancing marigold, which seems to have been designed based loosely on someone’s rather dodgy acid trip.

What did you get, Mr Zeebling? Some catnip, perchance? Well, I got two things.  I got a lovely toy mouse from my lovely friend Brian. And I got some tartar control ‘treats’ from my Dad.

TARTAR CONTROL? What the frig is ‘tartar’? And maybe I don’t need my tartar controlling. Maybe I like my tartar. Maybe I am a tartar. It sounds like some kind of warrior.  Does my Dad think I’m a warrior who needs controlling?  Cos seriously, it’s me who’s getting beaten up in this house, what with Fluffy McAnti-Christ hurling himself, claws spread, at my neck. The last thing I want is to control my tartar, then, I want to build my tartar up like a prize pig.

Anyhoo, Christmas revolves a lot less around bubbly booze and much more around plastic. I think this is called evolution. Some traditions, however, stay the same. Christmas dinner. The pulling of crackers. The donning of Christmas hats from aforementioned crackers. The reading of Christmas cracker jokes.

“What does your joke say?”, asked The Mushroom.

My Dad studied it. “Oiste el cuento del perro que se fue al circo de pulgas?”

The Mushroom stared at him, fork hovering above a potato. My Dad continued to look at his joke.

“No, que paso? Se llevo todos los artistas.”

The Mushroom took a bite of potato. “Excellent. Love, why is there pink fluid dripping down your face?”

My Dad looked in the mirror. “It appears my party hat is leaking.”

“Where in the name of arse did you get these crackers?”

My Dad looked sheepish. “Walmart.”

“I think next year, get them from M&S and ship them over. What’s your toy?”

My Dad studied a cardboard square. “A mystery calculator. Yours?”

“A plastic deer.”

So, did the small number of gifts for The Mushroom and my Dad, the lack of booze, the shite and perhaps toxic crackers ruin Christmas? Oddly, they seemed to have a great time. The Baby squealed and clapped and ran and did all sorts of things which continue to prove her status as the Messiah, and my Dad and The Mushroom just kind of stared and cuddled and smiled and muttered things about her being the Messiah.

My Christmas treat, even better than the toy mouse, was Fluffy Usurper’s little mishap. If you’re going to jump around the bathroom, little fur ball, check the toilet lid is down. He spent the day trying to lick the pine fresh smell off his fur. This was an absolute result. If I could laugh, I think I might have had a little mishap. As it is, I spent the day reclining and accidentally nibbling the tartar control treats left on the edge of the sofa for me.

These tartar control things are delicious. Maybe I can allow my tartar to be controlled a little bit then.

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2 Responses to “Bah Humbug”

  1. Faye said

    Please remind me not to read these while eating. Laughter swiftly followed by choking….again!

  2. jo hawkins said

    fab – I love Zeebling

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