This Travesty Is What Passes For Justice?

Apologies to all, but there was a little kerfuffle around here that caused the whole 12 Days to go MIA.  I found it, so just remember that this installment is January 6.

I know that laws are to be obeyed.  Even the stupid ones.

I also know when I am being shined on, especially by an over-important prosecutor, masquerading as the answer to everyone's impression of their favorite star of CSI, NCIS, Law and Order, with overtones of Car 54 Where Are You? and the stellar deputy sheriff made famous by Don Knotts.  Throw in Monk, Columbo and my personal favorite, Rockford, and you have an idea of the results Snidely Whiplash, founder of Chicago's branch of Dewey, Cheatem and Howe, and you have the "expert" occupying the counsel and client room outside Billy Mitchell's courtroom.

The thing was, the Expert, who was going to show how the tracing had been done, and why there were 24 possible John Trueloves walking the planet, required the documents that were in the case he tried to bring into the courthouse.

The Expert had committed the crime of a sealed vial of piping hot coffee.  In hit briefcase.  Which should have gone through the metal detectors just fine, as it was a glass inside glass vacuum bottle, custom blown and filled with Expert's favorite blend of exclusive coffee.  These facts go a long way to explaining the fees that Expert was demanding.

Which is where the dumb laws came in.  As the Expert, the investigator was tracing the various bits and bobs of evidence to see if there was a way to identify the source of my holiday gifts, which were currently eating me literally out of house and home, he stumbled on some really revealing facts.  His investigation was supposed to get me damages for running the Chicago branch of MacDonald's Farm, the Christmas Edition, due to hungry animals and hungry maids, leaping lords, pipers, ladies and while the animals were, in conjunction with the people, turning house and home into a bio-hazard site, while I faced possible charges of operating a feed lot, chicken breeding site, goose haven, swan shelter and indoor pear orchard.  But, it seemed that none of the evidence had been tested for any information it might render after such tests, and the security idiots at the doors to the courthouse had confiscated the lot, because documents that had fingerprint detection junk on them, weren't packaged in the correct envelopes to be allowed entry into the building.  And, the gourmet coffee, in sealed glass, were liquids that violated the 'no liquids allowed' rule.

I guess someone might want to build an explosive device if this was the way important documents and things were treated.  However, the inclusion of French roast coffee was likely not part of the boom-boom.

For the life of me, I  couldn't figure out why coffee was banned.  And, I also knew that without the documents, the judge would never, ever believe the story about the multiple Trueloves, that would be whittled down to just one, if and only if, comparisons could be made to exclude the "not quite John Trueloves" that were served.   Then, just like in the comics, the light bulb over my head went all bright and lighted, and I realized it was my job to get rid of the coffee and convince the security geeks that the powder was just spilled eyeshadow.  You know, the powdery kind, not the creamy stuff.

I was only wearing Sleepless Night eyeshadow myself, and it was glaringly obvious all around my eyes that the dark circles now reached from chin to forehead.  I had to try.

I also ordered coffee from the coffee shop on the second floor to be delivered to the rent-a-cops in the lobby, plus donuts, brownies and cookies.

We needed the documents that I had gotten from Lakeside Livery surely needed testing for handwriting and for possible trace elements to determine the location where the animals originated.  Ditto the various trace bits taken from hooves, feet, webs and claws.  All that, and I needed to rule out the "not quite John Truelove" types.  And get every last penny from the real one, to pay the psychiatric bills that could amount to tens of thousands if the herding, swimming, milking, leaping, dancing, piping, egg collecting and listening to the incessant "Can you hear me now" of the calling birds, didn't stop immediately.

Like yesterday.  Which wasn't going to happen because yesterday was just another horrible memory, with Scotland the Brave thrown in for good measure.

Anyway, the hearing was pretty uneventful.  Irrational, sometimes off the wall idiotic, confused from the numbers confessing to be "John Truelove,"  or alternating with confessing to be "John Smith" if I'd be "Mrs. John Smith."  Those confessions, as they were, came from a group that was clearly sent in for their clowning ability, right down to Santa suits, boots and all. 

There was one defendant though that caught my eye.  I knew him.  I even knew the lawyer representing him.  Alas, I could not come up with his name.

The investigator that the promise of whatever number of sets of F-EYE-VE GOOOOOOOOOOOLD RINGS covered the bill, got his permission to complete the fingerprint, and other analysis.  That permission came when he explained that the powder coating the fingerprints on the various papers, and that seemed so sinister at the security checkpoint down in the lobby, and that I had insisted was likely eyeshadow, did turn out to be eyeshadow.  Who knew?

Anyway, after an hour of this, the hearing was dismissed and everyone got their stuff together to go home for the night.  Nothing would be finally settled until the next hearing.  Tomorrow. 

Nope, make that day after tomorrow.

By then, the Twelve Days of Christmas would be over.  Kaput.  Done and dusted.  I'd be financially ruined, homeless from the cost of damages to the building where I lived, but that was small change in the legal system of today.

As the elevator hit the bottom floor, there was a huge gathering in the lobby.  It seemed like there was a line of various groups for a performance.  Banners declared in huge letters, HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL -- NOT FOR TWELVE BUT ALL DAYS OF THE NEW YEAR!!!

And, Lillibet, this parade's for you.

Oh no, I thought.  This is it.  Find me a bed in Bedlam.

And then it started, the whole Magilla, the parade, dance, concert and my immediate psychological demise.

Twelve drummers drumming, then Eleven Pipers piping, Ten Lords Leaping (this time in full British 'livery' which was topped off with those odd hats and wigs, robes, and each with a leader type staff, making them look like overly prosperous judges mocking shepherds.)  Next, Nine ladies dancing, Eight maids and their milk pails, Seven swans, swimming in seven blow up pools that were atop Radio Flyer wagons. 

Then, the Six geese laying on a bed of straw, and Five GOH-OOO-OLD  RINGS that were really five papier mache' representations, Four calling birds -- this time on a little float like cart with the logos of every major cell phone ocmpany (giving me a possible source of funding of this disaster), and Three French hens, also in a bed of straw atop a very large Radio Flyer wagon.  Bringing up the rear were Two turtle doves in a large bird cage on wheels, and finally a Pear tree with a little partridge in a little cage hooked to the branches.

Then, the final coup de grace, very much without any grace whatsoever.

There was a sign, a large sign, carried by members of  the council of Russian Orthodox Reading Program members, a literacy program at the local Orthodox church in my part of town.

Behind them, another pear tree, and a sign.  January 7 is Christmas Day.  Merry Christmas to All!

Behind them, another sign. 

There are only eleven more days to Christmas.  Of course.  It is January 6, Christmas Eve.  Yikes!

I passed out.  Just hit the floor like a Civil War heroine wearing a too tight corset, or learning that neither Ashley nor Rhett gave a hoot.   Or a partridge, a pear tree, or piper, drummer, maid, hen or chicken.

To be continued....or not.

Elevenses Anyone???

That noble hour, somewhere between brekkies and luncheon, filled with possibility of a good snack, but not quite as good as tea.  Elevenses is the meal that tides one over between breakfast at or before the crack of dawn and high noon, which is never a good time to seek food in a Chicago restaurant anyway.  Elevenses are a sort of carryover of breakfast.  Toast and jam figure prominently.

Leaping Lords, on the other hand, expect Elevenses.  Suddenly, at precisely 4 am, there were twenty lords.  Leaping.  Along with another set of additions including another nine ladies dancing, eight more milking maids, with cows.  This time, it looked like the countrified gents also known as the Lords, leaping, would have to get their countrified gentleman farmer genes in high gear and milk the cows.  Lots of maids, lots of buckets and fewer and fewer knew the business of getting milk out of the poor cows that were getting truly distressed.

The yogurt batches were coming along well, and another was started up before 6 am, but I'm getting ahead of myself.  Teh delivery trucks arrived, depositing the cows into the back parking area, which was beginning to look like a feed lot.  After Lords, Ladies, Maids and such, there were another set of swans wanting for all they were worth, to swim.  But, no pool today.  This batch would have to share.

Have you ever thought of the difficulty there is in convincing an irritated swan that it had to share its swimming space?  If you haven't don't.  If you have, rethink it, because it is a recipe for disaster.

There were another half dozen geese laying a half dozen eggs.  There were four calling birds, this time with the Verizon guy, and the phones to match.  Lovely.

"Can you hear me now?"  Even the birds, and I swear this is true, had their own bird voices doing just that, in the Queen's English, no less.

Finally, there were another three French hens, with their own eggs, two turtle doves that had turtled enough to produce their own egg, and a beautiful pear tree, with pears.  And a partridge.

That was it.

Everything was off loaded and the truck pulled away.

I started running for the corner to intercept the behemoth that was becoming far too much of my own life.  There was something missing. 

I yelled for the driver to stop.  I screamed.  I heard windows opening above me and angry voices urged me in words that cannot be repeated on a device monitored by Homeland Security, the CIA, the FBI, or the Federal Comminications Commission, to shut up.  Well, it was more shut the XXXX up.  But, the semi-trailer truck just kept rolling on.

And on.

Suddenly, I was the proverbial deer in the headlights.  In front of me was another truck.  Sounds were coming from the truck, and there could be no doubt of what was inside.  Either it was a shipment from the Edinburgh Tattoo, or it was the Gordon Highlanders in person.

You guessed it.  Eleven pipers piping. 

Make that ELEVEN PIPERS PIPING!!!!

By the time they were off their truck, which did have all eleven of them in perfectly turned out Gordon Highlander gear, except the tartan was not Gordon at all, the sun was up.  The leader, who had the really fancy cords on his pipes, which were full sized Great Pipes, reached into his sporran and handed me a rather small box.  Inside, another collection of five, thank goodness, Five GOLLLLD Rings.

I pocketed the rings, and welcomed the pipers to the asylum.  The maids, with the help of the Lords, who really looked odd in today's getup of morning coats, ties and top hats, milked all the cows and the girls were happily munching on hay and feed. 

The entire mass of my 'gifts' carried everything that belonged upstairs, up to my flat.  It took five trips in the elevator, which got two of my neighbors irritated due to my hogging the lift.  Thanks to all that is good and fair, the damnable song didn't have  a hog in it, or I'd have been too easily lumped in with greedy porkers.  Or Congress-critters.

Anyway, I promised the neighbors a lovely assortment of cheeses and yogurt.  I even promised them I'd babysit if they would not let the landlord know what is going on where I live.  There were about seventy people crammed into my flat by this time, and with the additional birds, the building itself was probably in danger of total collapse from the additional weight alone.

In all, my head was splitting.  I asked the pipers to pipe down and get themselves some food.  One said he was chief cook for the regiment in Scotland, and so he was immediately in charge of the kitchen.  Another said he'd been in the quartermaster business, so he was put to work finding hotel rooms for all and sundry.  I told him to bill John Truelove, who'd been making every newscast for the past three days, and had been shown in shadow only, but could be found.  Later today, I knew justice demanded he pay for the rooms himself.

Finally, I put a third piper onto the task of arranging a large party and concert, with Leaping Lords, Dancing Ladies, Piping Pipers and a parade of animals to rival the entrance onto Noah's Ark.  Except my sets of animals were not two by two, but now had gotten in to tens by tens.

I went to get myself ready for court, which was at eleven am.

Elevenses. 

Crikey, I'd be missing elevenses again. 

The Leaping Lord that had the task of selling the cows was still in negotiations.  It seemed that I didn't have the proper ownership documents for my growing herd.  Another thing to settle in the courts.

It was going to be a long day. 

I also needed a new pair of shoes.  No matter how careful you are, geese can foul, or fowl the footpath in ways totally unimaginable for the city dweller.

Time to face the legal music.  As I left, I heard the pipers warming up.  The sounds of Scotland the Brave followed me all the way to the Elevated stop, a half mile from my apartment.  I needed brave.  I also needed the identity of Truelove. 

And a noose.  It was coming to that.  Enough guests, birds, more birds, cows, birds, trees, birds, leaping, milking or other persons, and more birds was not being properly compensated by a collection of gold rings.  And, I needed to get to the University of Chicago to get the rings translated, if they really did have runes on them.

Court first., then the ring translator, then a meeting with Truelove in a dark alley with a tree suitable for a lynching.  Face it, I was not in a good mood.

Someone greeted me warmly, and since I wasn't paying attention, I'll pass it on to you...

Happy Christmas -- and may your 12 Days be filled with Peace. 

Rustlers? Nah, They Just Look That Way in the Sunlight -- Or Darkness

Oh.  My.  Lord.  And.  Taylor.

Well, it used to work better closer to Christmas Day, when Lord & Taylor were int eh Christmas biz for real.  But these days, it could just be Oh.  My.  Lord.  And Lords.  Leaping.

Not Leaping Lounge Lizards.  Not Leaping Licorice.  Leaping Lords.

Honest.

They were waiting for me when I got back from court.  Along with another Nine Ladies dancing, eight maids a milking, seven swans -- with pool, six geese laying -- with eggs, five GOOOOO--LLLLLLD RIIINGS (Yippee!!!  Lawyers cost money), four calling birds--this time with I Phones, three French hens -- wearing little berets, two turtle doves, and a pear tree, with the partridge.  Of course.

These guys looked a little like they were coming out of an old Lord and Taylor catalog, circa 1955, complete with boots, jeans, checked shirts, various gallon sized hats, and a few even were chewing on a piece of straw from the impromptu corral set up in the building courtyard.

It seemed someone had broken the lock on the garage, and the cows were last seen on Lake Shore Drive. This was not good, as the one constructive piece of legal work done today was a permit from the court to sell the cows to a dairy company in the suburbs.  I couldn't very well do that without the cows.

I left four of the milking maids with the cows in the courtyard, and the ten leaping lords got their boots in gear as we headed to the lake.

Everyone probably remembers the clown at the circus that comes behind the elephants with a rolling garbage can and a shovel to clean up.  Well, I was that clown.  Wearing 3 inch heels.  But, if I didn't clean up, it was not going to take the intellect of Hansel and Gretel to figure out there were cows in my building that had ventured out toward Lake Michigan.  I picked up as much as I could, keeping the lords in their checkered shirts in sight.

We put the calling birds' I-Phones to good use, and used the walkie talkie feature to help us rustle the cows back to home.  It only took us an hour, and everyone was back at my  building, with I Phones playing Aaron Copeland's Rodeo, so the Lords could demonstrate their leaping abilities.  Martha Graham, eat your heart out. 

Anyway, that night we ordered in pizzas, got a few salads together, found the pears and two of the Milking Maids showed off their skills at making pear tarts.  It was a lovely evening.

Finally, around midnight, I gathered all the gold rings together, and stuck them into my wall safe in the bedroom closet.  They were amazing rings, and had what looked like runes on the edges.  One quick computer search later and I lined up an expert at the University of Chicago to help me translate them. 

The last thing I did before crawling into bed, exhausted, was to search the I Phones for the subscriber name.  I didn't have any luck, but the Nordic god process server had apparently fallen in love with a Milking Maid, and he told me he would check it out first thing before court in the morning.

Oh geez.  Morning. Court.  Again.

Maybe the delivery company would come through.  If not, I needed Columbo to find who's been buying cows at the rate of eight a day.  Or, maybe Miss Marple could figure out who had sent the milking maids, because none of them had a name for the guy that hired them.  The Lords, dressed though they were in full cattle with hat duds, also were like all Lords of the Manor.  Plummy voices and not an idea in their heads about who had sent them. From the UK, no less.  They were, in fact, real Lords, each a member of the allegedly nobler house of Parliament. 

I just hung my head in a whopping wave of tired and decided I couldn't do anything except go to sleep.  As I turned to head into my bedroom, I slipped in something.  At least, I couldn't get held in contempt for it, and I swore a few choice words about the abilities of farm animals to take the city right out of a person.

Good Night All, and Happy Christmas.

Day Nin---Day Nu----Day NineHunderThousandBillion, and One

Let's not and say they did.  As in, let's not talk about the whole 'served him on a platter' scene played out in the hallowed halls of best justice money can buy.

Oh yes, I was happy that the Leif Erickson doppleganger turned up with the little certificate of service, complete with scrawl in the important box, and the other proper boxes ticked, and that he was dressed in a well fitting suit, and looked like a Nordic God.  That part was good.

I was happy to see that my own legal muscle was pretty well toned and ready to rock and roll.

I was extremely glad to see the table across from the one where I was seated was bristling with lawyers, gray suits on all, every one with a more expensive looking tie than his next neighbor, the women wearing suits, one woman in what looked like a real honest Chanel.  It all looked good.

Then, the judge entered, the clerk called out the standard, "All rise.  This honorable court is now in session, Judge Billie Mitchell presiding.  Come to order, and prepare to present your matters.  God save the United States and those in this court."

I was fine with the coming to order.  I was peachy with the judge on the bench.  Billie Mitchell was known to be fair, and didn't seem too taken with game playing, considering the cases for which he'd gotten press, and every one of them involving a crooked Chicago politician.

What I also knew was that Judge Mitchell had heard a lot of the church and state cases, and had come down on the side of removing all things Christmas no matter the source.  And here I was, up past my pretty pearl earrings in chicken, goose, swan and now cow 'stuff.'  All of it redolent with the concept of Christmas.  I was also verging on the knife edge of insanity thanks to Christmas.  I also wasn't all that far off about the amount of crap in my apartment.  Except for the cows, that remained in the building's private garage, at least until the landlord returned, or someone complained about the smell, mooing or inability of sixteen, no make that twenty-four by nightfall, cows to provide cheese for the entire building.

There weren't enough to provide milk to all the kids in the building.  And, I liked homemade cheese from unpasteurized milk, so long as it was started within minutes of leaving the cow.  Goes double for homemade yogurt, which is wonderful when made immediately after milking.

But, I digress.  I've been doing that a lot, between geese escaping into my bedroom, milk maids asking to borrow cash for bus fare, a cat going positively schizoid with every honk from a swan, and partridges that seemed uncomfortable in their cage.  I was tired of pears dropping, or was that goose 'stuff'?  You have no idea how much goose 'stuff' gets produced in an average goose in 24 hours.  And, then there are the eggs.  The never ending, at least two per day breaking on the carpet, and then there is more goose crap.

Oops, I've done too much more digressing, so sorry. . .

Snidely Whiplash, the lawyer, who probably did really found Dewey, Cheatem and Howe, arose when the case was called.  All of a sudden, fifteen lawyers approached the bench, becasue when you file a case, the first appearance is to tell the judge what's going on, and then everyone comes back later in the day or the next week to actually start the legal work.

Like a covey of quail, and these lawyers kept on coming.  Not fifteen, but a full twenty four of them, all gave their names, and all represented different people that were named in teh com;plaint as "John Truelove/John Doe No's. 1-24"

This was my first glimpse of the complaint.  It was very long.  The punch line, or the demand at the end, was hefty money damages, and an injunction to stop the Twelve Days of Christmas in their tracks.  Or one.  Or the damages.  Or lots of damages. But, stopping the whole event was demanded.

The thing was, how did they know who John Truelove truly was, if there were twenty-four possible candidates for the job?  Did we need to ask Iowa to hold another primary to decide?  Draw straws?  (I had lots of straw, come to think of it, with the cows, geese, bird beds, and all. )

One extremely posh looking woman stood up and asked the whole thing be dismissed.  She got to about her third sentence and I sprung from my seat and screamed, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!  You can't dismiss this.  You have to make it stop.  It's making me crazy."

I didn't know the bailiffs could put handcuffs on so quickly.  I also didn't know that judges were allowed to duct tape a litigant's mouth shut.

Before the tape was firmly attached, I did apologize. Too late.  But, thanks to God, who was really watching over me during this penance for wrongs I couldn't think applied, I didn't get held in contempt.

The judge looked over the bench and glared at me.  "Lady, I don't know who you are, or what this case is about, but I can tell you this.  We're doing this by the book.  Now, be quiet, and I'll hear from the lawyers."

I mutely nodded.

I stood, and listened to every one of the twenty-four lawyers explain why their John Truelove wasn't the John Truelove of soon to be close to being a homicide.  His own.  Done by moi. 

None of them, not a single one of them, were at all close to having a good reason.  But, there was more.

The courtroom doors banged open and in came another lawyer.  That is, I think it was a lawyer.  He looked for all the world like a Santa Claus at Macy's.  He could have played the part in the movie.  His coat still on, he approached the bench and introduced himself as the lawyer for Lakeside Livery. 

Of course, they'd have to have the right name of the right John Truelove.  At least that was better than the three lawyers whose clients were really John Trueloves, all three of them.  All under the age of twelve.  The clients.  Not the lawyers.

So, the saga when ton.  Every one gets to come back tomorrow, when identities have to be confirmed for the named and served, Santa has to have his client cough up the client information regarding the shipments, and truck rentals and stuff, and I get to go home, await another delivery, and hope for the best as far as my sanity is concerned.

The judge though wasn't without his own sense of humor.

"Young lady, you realize that Russian Orthodox Christmas begins on January 6-7?  I wish you a very Happy Christmas."  And he left.

Hand over my heart, pinky swear and whatever else. he had a demented twinkle in his eye as he left the courtroom, black robe billowing behind him.

I went home to see what, if anything, had transpired in my absence.

When I got there, it was bad.  Very bad.  I don't have time to tell you all about it, but there was a leak in the Swan Swimming area, but it wasn't serious.  The serious part was with the cows. 

It turns out, we had ourselves a bit of cattle rustling going on.  I didn't know they rustled milk cows.  You all have to wait though, because today's gift was, well, just what the doctor. . .

Gotta Run.  Merry, Merry Christmas!

Well, the Eighth Day Gifts Caught Up With The Calendar

Finally.  Another hectic day.  The Milwaukee Maids, a precision dance and marching team, were settling in nicely.  They were also eating more than the livestock, monopolizing the bathroom, and totally unclear on the concept of milking cows.  I got to do that.  ALL of that.

By 12:01 AM on the Eighth Day, there arrived a great clamoring in the back area of the apartment building.

The missing milkmaid had been found.  She was in the bar over on Sheridan, proving once again that the wholesome girl next door, when packaged in a blonde, Nordic goddess body, can truly rule a crowd of men with a simple glance.  And, of course, liberal sharing of  a phone number, that turned out to be mine.  All eight of the maids were sent to the garages to distribute hay, and to make sure the cows got their feed and water.  And, of course, the girls needed milking.  I wasn't up for it, and after giving a short lesson, the maids went to work on the girls, and all was peaceful and quiet.

Snow had started falling, too late for Christmas day itself, but close enough.

At 12:17 AM, the bell rang.  Again, I found myself saying many curse like words, uttering oaths and wishes for bodily harm that would be brutal, nasty and expertly administered.  I kept thinking TSA.  Then I realized that the lawyer I'd met with during the prior day had promised a suit would be filed by morning.  Which it was.

Already.

Heaven help me, let there be a dozen rings and forget the rest of the gifts.

But no.  I found the hallway clogged with boxes.  And a delivery guy.

Two maids appeared at my shoulder, and assured me that Lisa, whoever that was, was in the kitchen making tea for me.  I just stood there shaking with anger.

Delivery guy handed the smallest box to me.  It was somewhat heavy, which made me wonder, where had the box that supposedly contained rings gotten to after the whole debacle with the cows.

The COWS!!!  Oh.  Geez.  Great. 

Eight more cows were somewhere in the vicinity, with another eight milk maids.

Yikes!

To top it off, there were nine, count 'em, NINE DANCING GIRLS.

With their own band/boombox.  Going full bore.  Lady GaGa.  I guess.  Lady GaGa for the dancing Ladies.

I shook the box in my hand and wondered if there were enough gold rings in there to fund a hotel room or twenty.  At least, one for me.

As I was contemplating this, the boxes and additional swimming area for swans were shoehorned into my about to explode apartment.  Goose eggs, French hen eggs, partridge eggs (who knew?), and a swan egg were all collected and put into the kitchen.  Milk pails began to arrive from the nether reaches of the building, along with a police sergeant, who was filling out an appearance form as he walked off the elevator.

"Ladies, clear out.  Who's responsible for the livestock?"  Barney Fife, this guy was not.  He looked like he coudl be the brother of the maids, with all that Nordic blonde thing.  Or, he was a body builder with a thing for blonde hair.

Or, on close inspection of his shoulder patch, which read "Christmas Copper", I knew that I was in for something more.  Heaven help me if he was a stripper sent to entertain the girls.  Err, maids.

But no, not a stripper.  Not a stripper at all.  He handed me a receipt from his tablet, and I read the words every litigant lives to read.

"Defendant has been served."

Colin Craven decided to send the message with a little class.  He used the same guys that work as strippers for bachelorette parties, but found their people skills were also great with serving reluctant opposition.  You know the types.  They get served about as often as the Sun rises, and duck every paper from any and every court.

I invited him in for some omelets, tea, fruit (pears), and assorted goodies the Maids had brought from home.  There were enough different types of Christmas cookies to make any party festive.  Someone found a CD of
Christmas carols, and after stuffing our faces, we all began singing.  Soon, the phone rang, and we invited the complaining neighbor to join in.  She said no, she'd be sending the police. 

We went silent.  As in Silent Night,

Well, that's it for now.  Dancing Ladies are sound asleep, as are the sixteen maids.  Clearly, there was no hope for showers in the morning, and it was my apartment.  I ducked in, dodging geese and swans, and had a very quick shower and shampoo.  By the time that was accomplished, it was about time to dress for court.

I grabbed a very severe looking black suit, opened the rings box, and like all the others, found five, heavy carved rings with symbols on them.  I had no idea what the symbols were, so I popped the lot, all twenty, into my briefcase, and headed to the kitchen to make coffee, slice some bread and put out some cheddar cheese for early risers.  There was a big bowl of fruit, a pitcher of juice, and three kinds of coffee.  Magic.  I hadn't been to the store in weeks, it seemed.

I guessed that milk maids were Girl Scouts.  Very prepared. The process serving hunk was in the corner with Lisa, or Laura, or Linda, or Inge, or whatever.  They were deep in conversation. 

Well, it was time to head to court.  I left a note to make sure the cows were all milked.  Then, I checked the water under the Christmas Tree, gave my extraordinarily patient cat a well deserved hug and headed to the El.

TrueLove deserved justice.  I still didn't know who it was, but he was certainly going to get justice. 

Hey, justice well administered ensures Peace on Earth.

Merry Merry!

Five, Six, Seven, Eight...

That's the usual count before the dance starts.  Tap, jazz, ballet, all of them.  Five, six, seven, eight...

Riiiiiiiiiight.

Not at all.

No dancing.  Nope.  Not yet at all.

The eighth, and so far the most horrific of days resulted in lots of stuff to slip in, but nothing to dance in, around, or near.

 The Eighth Day, like the Eighth Day of Creation, got a wee tad bit messy.

The bell rang, and a note was posted to my door.  There were no packages, no boxes, no containers.  Not even a Lakeside Livery delivery man standing there, looking for all the world like the most evil elf since the Friday the 13th movies, or Jason, or the other Hollywierd Frighteners. 

The note read, "Come down to the garages at the back of the building."

Ominous.  I grabbed my coat, gloves, extra warm hat and scarf and headed to the appointed location.  I also grabbed a flashlight, which was stupid as the entire area is lit like a Christmas tree, or should be.  No matter, the lens in the light was broken and the bulb was missing.  In short, I grabbed what could be a billy club, if billy wanted to swing a 5 inch club.

Useless in all possible ways.

I forgot to put my feet into the good boots.  The warm boots.  There I was, standing in a winter coat over my striped pajamas, wearing a bathrobe over the top of the pj's, with an overcoat over the entire mismatched ensemble.  My feet were in bunny slippers for Gawd's sake.  It was windy with a chill that bit around my bare ankles causing instant pain.  Snow was beginning to fly. 

In the garage/parking area there was a giant delivery truck.  Think U-Haul with an overactive thyroid.  Inside the truck, there were sounds of girls giggling, and the more ominous sound of cows mooing and making a sound that seemed to be the bovine version of "let me out of here, NOW!!!"

Oh.  And the smell.  The delivery guy had the ramp up to the truck box, and was offloading, with help from a group of young girls, some very upset cows.  One glance told me the cows should never have been out driving with so much milk in their udders.  The entire herd of seven looked (and no I will not apologize...), udderly distressed.

(Okay, I am a bit sorry.  Just a bit.  It was a cheesy pun.)

Anyway, the cows were only props.  The real gift, and one that I will never understand as a present for a city girl with no designs on maids, milking or otherwise. . . The real gift was SEVEN MAIDS, that weren't at the very moment of the gifting, milking.  They all looked a wee bit distressed themselves, after riding in the back end of the truck with cows demanding their morning milking.

I got the gals, country types from Wisconsin 4H it turned out, into the building and called my friend Frieda to get to my place fast with enough coffee for the First Army and enough donuts to make the coffee worth drinking.  Frieda is a psychiatrist, and she's been receiving all sorts of calls this week, so I'm pretty sure she'd never heard of cows in Chicago that weren't branded "Mrs. O'Leary's,  but was good humored anyway.

The other boxes were off loaded and sent upstairs with the help of delivery guy, two of the maids that had lost their milk pails in the shuffling of cows into the garages under the building.  No matter what, this was all happening at 5:30 AM.  And, there was nothing indicating the sun would ever arrive nor would the cows find a good place to hang out before I had to meet with the lawyer I hired over the weekend.

I needed a good, sharp, works for pennies, mean as a junkyard dog, hungry lawyer.  I could guarantee that there would be great publicity for the case.  It seems that there is always good publicity when the Twelve Days of Christmas are involved.  It's the FIIIIIIIII-IIIII-IIIIIVE GOLLLLL-D RIINGS!!!

No one ever remembers the swans, the cows, the whole malicious flocking of birds, gatherings of feathers or truly amazing amounts of processed bird food that tends to get ground into the carpets.

By the time I was upstairs, the other gifts were all unpacked, and everything was orderly.  I had yet another 'pool' for the swans, this time one of those automatic swimming things with a jet of water at one end, that makes swimming laps possible in a pool that's only two body lengths in width. 

There was a milk pail filled with eggs.  Then there were another five milk pails filled with milk.  I got out a large vat, poured the milk in, and started making cheese.  There was yogurt culture in the fridge, and I was hankering for some whole milk, herb seasoned cheese.  Don't tell the FDA, they'll shut me down and take away the animals.

On second thought. . .

Happy Christmas All!

Why Can't There Be Fewer Days to Christmas?

Think about it.

There are 40 days before Christmas that are preparation, a sort of Lenten type preparation, called Advent for Orthodox Christians.  And the Orthodox hearken back to the very same Apostles that hung out with Jesus back in the day.  That would be the First Century Day.  Half of Christians, at least, are Orthodox Christians, even if their presence is more likely associated with the country of origin for those Orthodox in the US.  We tend to think geographically about them, never considering that the entire lot of them have no national church as such, and are only identified as Greek or Russian or Serbian, or Antiocian or American (think Alaska as the mother church, so to speak), becasue that reflects the language those churches might have spoken during their founding in the US.

The Antiochian branch still has its HQ on a street called Straight in Damascus.  Kid you not.

But these are a serious group of preparers, and they go the full 40 days before Christmas, and the full 12 days after, to celebrate the birthday of Jesus.

The Roman church, once a part of the Orthodox communion had a bit of a split over several issues, not the least of which was the hankering of the Bishop of Rome, AKA Pope, to be the Head of the Heads of ALL Orthodox churches.  So far, the ecumenism of Rome, the Holy Spirit proceeding form the Father and the Son, and a few other side issues have kept the groups separate.  They have conferences, talk about getting back together, hand out lovely briefcases and portfolios to the attendees, and then all go back to being what they are the other days of the year.

That said, the Roman branch begat, in a way, the English or Anglican Catholics, which are the originators of protestant, err protesters in religion, here in the US.  Today, there are over 2300 different denominations of Christianity in the US.

Now, all that information is taken from that infallible (snark) source of wisdom, Wikipedia.  Plus, a few videos and books by Kallistos Ware, a thoroughly charming and disarming bishop over in Oxfordshire, England.

And, not a bit of the foregoing matters one whit, except to say that now that I've reached the midpoint of the 12 LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONGEST DAYS OF CHRISTMAS, which could also be known as one of the best inducements to insanity, has made me yearn for a shorter way to celebrate the fowl (ahem, foul???) largesse, known as the Twelve Days of Christmas, brought to you by whatever True Love Gives To You.

If your True Love is gifting you with all the gifts known as the full Twelve Days, tell them that only in the song need the gifts be repeated for the rest of the duration, or song.  Except, of course, for the FFFIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE GOOO-LLLLD RRIIIIINNNGGS.  Keep those rings coming.  Make them big, solid, hefty, weighty, really weighty, and sized to fit thumbs.  Of giants.  The gold weight alone makes up for the other expenses foisted upon the recipient due to the other gifts, that require feed, housing, hay, feed, water, feed, cages, feed, ventilation, feed, minding, feed, and feed.   Did I mention that birds do not eat like birds?

They eat like freaking Hoovers, sucking up every grain, morsel, bit of veg, or succulent imaginable, also known as grubs, worms, and other icky things, yet they share their eggs with generosity that really does make them a sort of double gift.  If you like eggs.  And don't mind the cleaning up, or buying the feed that makes cleaning up an almost 24 hour a day job in a small bedroom/office.

We, and I use that term loosely, are now facing Day 7.  The just past the midpoint of Bird Overloaded Armageddon, brought to  you by TrueLove.

I've spent the entire day searching on teh Google Machine, the Yahoo Machine, the FaceBook, the Tweet Thing, and entirely too many chat groups in a vain attempt to locate the elusive TrueLove.  When was the last time you got to page 187 of a Google Search?  Never, right?

Well, I've been at least to page 188 of not less than three dozen searches and my eyes are spinning in my head in opposite directions. I've eaten eggs.  Lots of eggs.

I made poached eggs over spinach, scrambled eggs, hard boiled eggs, soft boiled eggs, egg drop soup, poached pears with poached eggs, and to finish it off, two chocolate souffles.  That last was comfort food, and they were wonderful, though I do need to make myself a new pair of post-Christmas pants, because I've gaind at least Twelve Pounds of Christmas as I seek simple survival of the Twelve Days of Christmas.  Bests are being taken in Las Vegas, and truth to tell, the odds are not in my favor.

I've called a private detective, three legal eagles also known as lawyers, and not one wanted to sue TrueLove.  It seems that no one in the legal profession thinks that this is a problem, giving someone all these lovely presents of Birds, Birds with Pear Trees, More Dovey-Lovey Birds, More Loudly Screaming/Calling Birds, or Honking Spiteful Nasty Goosing Birds that know all the spots that hurt the most, and then bite you right in those spots.

I've called protective services, and they are only interested in sending me to the Looney Bin.  They didn't believe I had any problem with birds at all, until I opened the spare bedroom door, and the sound was deafening, and then they were going to send out animal control to cite me, ME!!!, for harboring livestock within the city limits of Chicago.  The fine would be about $2000.

Per day.  By the time this was over, I could be shelling out the amount needed for a down payment on a really swank townhouse, just in fines. The words, not bloody likely came to mind.

I hung up.  I don't have that money.  Not at all.

I spent all my Christmas gift money on feed.  And a new larger cage for the calling birds and a really imaginative wire thing that had six sections for the partridges and turtle doves.  That way, they could be inside the same superstructure, but not really in the same cage.  I borrowed six dog crates for the geese.  I could put two in each, and stacked up, they covered one wall, floor to ceiling.

I also dug three air filters out of the basement storage area, put in new filters, and managed to get them going so as to keep the entire flat from smelling of feathers, chicken stuff, and processed poultry feed. . . if you catch my drift.

Finally, I got myself a nap, which is to say, I turned on the Mystery Marathon that plays every New Year's Eve on WYCC in Chicago, and the last thing I remembered was Poirot complimenting himself on being the very best detective in the world.  Which of course, he was.

I woke with a start.  That was it!  I needed the little Belgian and his gray matter.

But first, I needed to open the door.  I dreaded it, but it was time to face the Lakeside Livery Delivery.  This time, I was prepared.  I had caught on.  I was going to be receiving an additional delivery of every gift for every day for the duration of the interminable Twelve Days of Absolute Horror.  Cages were ready, feed was laid out in anticipation.  Water bowls and bottles were filled.  The cat was almost catatonic, but was gradually adjusting to the smells, noise and more smells.  He also liked omelets with peas, Swiss cheese and a side of rice.  Go figure.

I opened the door.  But, I was truly not prepared.  Right in front of the Lakeside Livery was a large container filled to the brim with water, in which was swimming a gaggle of swans.

No wait.  That's not right.  It's a gaggle of geese, which obviously form the honking noises coming from one large container were also there, but a group of swans in something else.  It's a murder of crows, a congress of baboons, but a group of swans is a What??

Oh well, time was wasting.  I had to clear the hallway.  people were going to be heading out for new Year's Eve, and I needed to keep the evidence from being too obvious.  (My neighbors were either deaf, blind or totally unfazed by anything.  It was obvious, my flat was becoming Bird Farm by Lake Michigan.)

How was I going to get all the water, and the tank, into my flat?

Not to worry, all I needed was Superman.

And, just as the elevator door opened, there he was.  Well, there were a total of five Supermen.  They lived opposite me, or rather two of them did.  The other three were on the same basketball team over at Loyola Park.  In their spare time, they mentored kids, played basketball, hung out in the corner bar down the way on Sheridan, and were as close as brothers.  They were also, as a group, not less than 6 foot 5 inches of muscle.

They also saw my predicament, and started laughing.  One of them said he knew where he had a set of buckets and large pans, and they'd corral the swans (A chorus of swans??? A collective of swans???), and then move the pool into my living room. 

It took me about a minute, and I realized a swimming pool would not work for the swans.  Not in the living room.  I decided the dining room was out.  Too close to food for livestock.  The bathroom was large, and I coudl give them free run of the bathtub, so long as I could fence them off during my own shower.  We managed to get the tub into the bathroom, set up a hose and ran water in.  The operation took about an hour.

By the time everything was done, at least for the swans, I had ordered pizza for everyone, and then managed to open the other containers.  I had another six geese, which were promptly put into the dog cages.  Five more (Yippee!), gold rings, four more loudmouthed fowl-mouthed calling birds, three more French hens, with fresh eggs, two more turtle doves, and another pear tree, with pears and partridge, were all stashed in their proper places.

The sad thing was, I was running out of proper places for anything.  But, my Super Men had done yeoman's work, and each got all the pears from the pear trees.  At least, they got the close to ripening ones.  It turns out, if you let pears ripen on the tree, they go rotten before they are picked.  Pluck them down before they are ripe, and put them in the kitchen to ripen, and a few days later you've got perfect pears. 

I had lots of perfect pears.  And lots more perfect pears on the way.  The harvest was bountiful.

The guys said they'd happily come in to help change the water, as the bucket was the only way to drain the pool until hoses could be properly hooked up.  I thanked them, gave them the remaining beers to carry home, and wished them a very Merry Day SEVEN, of the Twelve Longest Days in Recorded History that Pertain to, are Related to, or Mention Christmas.

Clearly, my sanity was, and is slipping.  I needed rest.  I needed a flat free of fowl.  I needed a foul free, fowl free flat. I needed better onomatopoeia. 

I wnet to the dining room, found the brandy that an old client had given me about fifteen years earlier, and poured myself a drink.  It tasted awful, but three sips did the trick.  I turned the tube on, and settled in to watch Case Histories on the Mystery Marathon.  It was delightful.  I realized that Jackson Brodie's life was only a hair less dysfunctional than mine.  I thought what would Jackson Brodie do to find TrueLove, other than not look in Edinburgh, where he's located.

With that thought, I bade the world a Happy Christmas, and drifted off to dreamland, where I hoped I'd find either a shorter way to the end of these Twelve Days, or just a shorter Christmas season, a way to locate TrueLove, or a way to find sufficient funds to face the impending bankruptcy that could result from livestock fines in Chicago. Or, I'd just find myself in some lovely new location altogether, and life would be happily ever after.

Nighty-night all.  I've got a cat curled up next to me and that dream is coming in with lovely Technicolor and nary a peep, croak, chirp, cheep, caw, honk or other foul, or fowl, bird sound.  Nice.